What He Never Said ✔️

chapter three • the waiting room

"How to kill yourself without hurting anyone:
Don't."
- Neil Hilborn

Unlike most college-aged men, I consider myself a morning person. Ten a.m. is an appropriate time to do most things—get breakfast, buy groceries, study in the library, even go to class—despite what most night owls seem to think.

However, ten a.m. is not, nor will it ever be, a good time to sit in the waiting room of an overcrowded hospital.

The light blue wall paint and hideous paisley cushions on the rickety wooden chairs are painful to look at. Are they supposed to make people feel comfortable? Am I supposed to feel at home while I wait for bad news?

It doesn't matter. I already received bad news. Probably the worst news I've ever heard in my entire life.

"Raelyn... Raelyn overdosed on sleeping pills late last night, honey," my mom told me as we drove to the hospital. "Her landlady found her earlier this morning. It seems like... like a suicide attempt."

"But she's gonna be okay, right?" I needed her to be okay. I needed her to make it. "Tell me she'll be alright."

"I don't know, baby." Mom's dark eyes were cloudy with tears. "It doesn't look good."

By the time we arrived, Raelyn Porter had already been declared dead.

As Mom and I sit and wait for the rest of our family to show up, I bury my face in my hands. I don't cry. I think I'm in shock. I can't believe this happened. How could this have happened?

A malicious voice inside my head repeats the same five words over and over again: It's all your fault, Bowie.

Dad arrives with Benson in tow. Seeing my older brother snaps me back to reality. He's crying real tears. What a performance. Someone should give him a fucking award.

"I... I tried calling Gemma, but my phone died in the car," my dad says. He holds up his dead phone as proof. I notice his hands are shaking. "I should... I should go find a payphone."

"Geoff, just use mine," Mom insists, but he's already halfway down the hall.

Time slows down. Around me, I hear people talking. I see nurses and doctors strut past me. I feel my mom's gentle hand on my kneecap. I can even smell burnt coffee from the vending machine. I'm here for all of it, but not really. Not in a way that matters. The world turns to a blur of sound and light and chaos. This seems like a lucid dream. It doesn't feel real.

It can't be real.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I don't even know. I hear the click-clack of high-heeled shoes. Out of the corner or my eye, I see my sister sauntering toward us. Her face is the portrait of concern, but also curiosity. She's still in reporter mode. She's not ready to hear this.

"Hi," I hear her whisper.

"Hey, sweetheart," Mom replies. As soon as she opens her mouth, a fresh onslaught of tears rushes down her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" Gemma inquires.

"You... might want to sit," Benson says. He's still showing off his ability to fake-cry.

"No, I don't want to sit," Gemma retorts. "I want to know why we're here."

"Gemma, honey, something... something happened," Dad voices. "Something happened to Raelyn."

"Raelyn?" The shock on my sister's face is genuine. "Is she... is she okay?"

I want to scream at Gemma. She's so fucking stupid sometimes. Of course Raelyn's not okay. We wouldn't be here if she was okay.

"God, it's not Evangeline, is it?" she adds, her mouth agape in horror.

"Evangeline's okay," my mom assures her.

"Then what is it? Where's Raelyn?" Gemma demands.

I can't take it anymore. I rise to my feet, look my older sister in the eye, and say, "Raelyn's dead. She killed herself last night."

I shove past her and run outside as fast as my legs can carry me.

<>*<>*<>*<>*<>

"It's all my fault," I whisper into the phone. Saying the words aloud makes my stomach churn. "Fuck, it's all my fault!"

"Bowie, stop. No. It's. Not," Winter replies. In the background, I hear the hustle and bustle of O'Hare International Airport. "I am so sorry this happened, but you can't blame yourself. She made a choice."

"I drove her to make that choice. If I didn't show up at her place, if I didn't hide under the covers like a child while my fuckface brother hurt her, maybe then she... maybe then—"

"Bo, you were a child. You were thirteen. You can't fault yourself for that."

"She's dead, Win," I say softly. My entire body is trembling. I can barely hold my cell phone. "She's gone, and someway, somehow, I'm responsible."

"Honey...." Even Winter is at a loss for words. She must know I'm right. "Look, I hate to leave you hanging, but we're about to board the plane. Can I call you in a couple hours?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Bowie. Don't do anything reckless, alright? I love you."

I hang up and shove the device into my pocket. It takes all my self-control not to chuck it across the room.

Raelyn's been dead for twenty-seven hours. It still feels like a bad dream.

She didn't leave behind any family except for little Evangeline. When she was eight, her mom lost custody of her—her dad bailed when she was a baby—so her Grandma Harriet raised her. The old lady, who lived a few houses down from us, passed away from lung cancer a few years back. Since no other Porters are stepping in to plan a funeral, my parents agreed to take on the responsibility.

"She spent so much time here growing up. It makes sense," my dad explained.

"She was like a fourth child to us," my mom muttered. Then she started crying again.

Over the next few days, my parents work tirelessly to plan the perfect memorial service for Rae. They find a quaint little chapel on the outskirts of the city, select flowers—red roses and purple carnations, because those were Raelyn's favorites—and purchase new suits for my dad and myself.

"Every man needs a nice black suit," my dad declares, handing me a plastic-wrapped tuxedo. "That navy blue number you wore to your senior prom is nothing in comparison to this."

I roll my eyes. I know he's trying to help, but I don't want to hear it. "I had fun in that suit. I doubt I'll have much fun in this one."

I change into the new clothes. Dad was right; I do look nice. It's too bad this suit is making its debut at a fucking funeral.

We finish getting ready and pack into my dad's BMW. As he drives, no one speaks. We're about to say goodbye to a twenty-three year-old woman who was like family to us. Small talk would be senseless right now.

I clench my fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands. I'm not ready for this. I don't ever think I will be.