Permanent Scars

Cat Therapy

September 20, Saturday. 4:47 p.m.

Puddles. Lots of puddles. Hard to traipse down the sidewalk without getting one's shoes wet. There's a sense of urgency—not to mention high velocity winds—speeding me home from school this late afternoon. We had torrential rain this morning, and I fear it might start up again before I reach my destination.

Adam is not okay. He was fine on Monday, yes. But he hasn't shown up for school since then. Dylan has gone to see him every night, and every day he's walked me to school in Adam's place. Every time he learns something new, he tells me. I appreciate that.

Apparently, it was a bigger mistake than I realized to ask Adam about the whole "pinky-promise" thing. Initially I thought maybe the fact that I didn't understand annoyed him. Dylan denied this as the reason, instead saying that Adam recently was overthinking the fact that his band has gained such traction, doesn't know how to handle the recognition, and he's still trying to deal with the repercussions of that meeting with his caseworker. Apparently he's due for another meeting soon. That can't be a good thing. Will Adam ever go back to his usual self? That is, the version of himself I was introduced to when we first met? The version of himself I like best? The version I'm sure everyone likes best?

A strong desire to help—to heal—spurs me further, first detouring to my house to drop off my school backpack and grab Mackerel's carrier. Putting the kitten inside, slinging the carrier onto my back, I lock the front door and turn back down the sidewalk, ducking into the hollow toward Adam's. Dylan would have joined me, but he had homework to catch up on and he really didn't have any other option because he's very behind.

   The dark trees, once eerie and daunting, have taken on the appeal of a fantasy respite—homey and intriguing. Tall, twisting oaks. Bushy pines. Sweet, red-leafed sugar maples. Upon some fleeting impulse, I dance a few steps through the leaves, kicking them up in small, sweet-smelling tornadoes. Part of me feels a tinge of guilt, enjoying myself while Adam is suffering, but I tell myself that it's okay to stay positive like this because it helps you avoid getting sucked into someone else's quicksand.

   Adam's house is not far ahead, but I'm not sure if that's where I should look for him. Maybe I should check the old depot. That is his sulking place, after all.

Inside the carrier on my back, Mackerel squeaks out an impatient meow. She doesn't like to be stationary in the carrier for long—it makes her restless. "Okay, baby, we'll get going," I croon softly, feeling awkward hearing my voice amid the stillness of the deep woods. Moving forward, I spot a dark shape huddled on the front porch of Adam's house. Having seen this shape often enough, I know who I am looking at. A slight thrill of relief trails through me, and I quicken my pace to climb the porch, standing beside him. He didn't go far today. Perhaps he's too exhausted.

   "Hey," I set a hand on his shoulder and gently remove Mackerel's carrier. "You okay?"

   Lifting his head a little, he turns his face. He looks horrible—utterly sleep deprived, pale, half-alive. "Do I look okay?" He rasps, dropping his head into his arms again.

   "You look like death," I reply pointedly, a bit frustrated with myself for feeling slight impatience.

   "Death can have me," he pouts. Suddenly it occurs to me that maybe he's worse off than anyone is aware of.

   "You don't mean that," I mutter disapprovingly, sitting beside him. He stiffens.

   "Yeah I do. Don't tell me that I don't mean it. You're not me. You don't effing know."

   "But Adam, your life is so full of potential—"

   "Life is a bitch," he growls, grabbing my wrist tightly and throwing my hand off of his shoulder. It's not exactly fair to say it's a growl, it's more of a gritty whine since his voice is so high-pitched. A snarl, that's more like it.