Garen is admitted to the Lakewood Rehabilitation Center the following day. I am sitting next to him in the waiting room as he fills out one of the entry forms; on the line designated “reason for admittance,” he carefully prints cocaine addiction, alcoholism. There’s a brief pause during which his hand shakes so much that he needs to put the pen down and shake out the tension. Then he picks it up again and adds nervous breakdown to the list.
“I don’t get why I have to write all this down,” he says, twisting to look at his father, who is seated on his other side. “You told them everything over the phone.”
“I told them that my son needed treatment for drug and alcohol dependency, and possibly some psychological issues. I didn’t tell them the details. That’s up to you,” Bill says simply. Garen scowls and slouches down in his seat, scribbling out the rest of the information the form requires.
When an attendant comes to collect him, he asks if Bill and I are allowed to go with him for the rest of his preliminary evaluation. I don’t want to go, but the attendant ushers us into the office after him. The three of us sit down on one side of the table, and the attendant takes the completed form, gives it a quick once-over, and says, “My name is Cheryl, I’m going to be handling your entry to LRC today. Garen, I have to commend you for making the decision to enter treatment for your problems. A lot of people never do that. You should be very proud of yourself for having the self-awareness to realize you need help.”
“Yeah. Proudest moment of my life,” Garen murmurs.
“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me more about your problems with drugs and alcohol. Not all of the details, of course, that will be covered during your therapy sessions. But if you could tell me more about what specifically made you realize that you’d reached the point where you needed to enter treatment for addiction.”
Garen is silent for a long moment. When I glance over at him, he is rigid in his chair and staring at the floor. Apparently, he hadn’t expected a real interview about this. I reach over and hook my pinky finger around his, just to remind him that I’m here. He clears his throat. “I kind of need to tell you some of the background so the story makes sense. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” Cheryl obliges.
“Alright.” Garen takes a deep, shaky breath. “I used to experiment with drugs a lot when I was at boarding school in New York. When I moved to Lakewood in October, I decided to stop, and I was fine until about two months ago. See, um… my dad – this is my dad— kicked me out of the house in January, because he found out that I was dating Travis—this is Travis. And um, my dad was engaged to Travis’ mom, we were all living together. Dad had some problems with the idea of me being with the guy who was supposed to be my stepbrother, so he told me to get out. I went to stay in New York, with my best friend. After Dad married Ev – that’s Travis’ mom—I came back, because I found out Travis had started dating my friend, Ben. We had a party, and one of my old friends from boarding school brought me some coke.”
“This was in April?” Cheryl confirms.
Garen nods. “Yeah, April seventeenth. So, I started using casually after that, and at the end of that same week, I started dating this guy, uh… this guy, Dave. We had dated when I was in boarding school, but we stopped because—well, see, our relationship was really messed up. Like, he used to beat the shit out of me, or whatever. A lot. He put me in the hospital once, but we kept dating. And, I dunno, whatever. But we started dating again in April, and I kept… I don’t know how to phrase it.” He laughs a little.
“You started provoking him,” I supply.
Cheryl frowns. “Travis, it’s important to know that abuse is—”
“—never the victim’s fault, yeah, we all know,” Garen interrupts. “But, see, it was. At least, it was for me. I wanted him to hit me. I kept pushing all of his buttons, doing everything I could to get him to just fight me, because it’s easier to handle someone punching you in the fact than it is to handle someone breaking your heart.”
A lump is forming in my throat, but I just keep staring at the floor, trying to ignore it.
“Anyway, one night, Dave and I got into a big fight. And I start shoving him, smacking him, nothing that’d really hurt, just enough to get him to hit me. So, he did. I ended up in the hospital, with a couple fractured ribs, a couple broken fingers.”
“A broken leg,” Cheryl supplies, gesturing to the cast on Garen’s leg.
He smiles ruefully. “Yeah. The doctor put me on all these painkillers, and I, of course, started abusing them. And, you know, that plus the coke, plus the drinking… it was a bad combination.”
“He started doing some crazy shit,” I add, still trying to focus on the floor, even though I can feel everyone turn to look at me. “H-He came to pick me up at school one day, even though his leg’s in a cast, even though he was high. And then when we got home that same day, he cut off half his hair and dyed it black—”
“It’s mostly faded now,” Garen says, dragging a self-conscious hand through his short, unruly curls. “And I, uh—”
“—the lip rings,” I finish. “He did them himself, right in front of me.”
“Early Saturday morning, Garen ran away,” Bill interjects. “He’s only back now because Travis’ boyfriend, Ben—”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I mutter.
“—drove to Ohio to pick Garen up at the bus station. Last night, Travis prevented Garen from shooting himself.”
“I pulled the gun on Travis first,” Garen murmurs. Next to him, Bill jolts, and I suddenly realize that no one but Garen and I had been in the study for that part. This is the first anyone else is hearing of it.
“It’s not like that,” I say quickly. “When I saw that he had it in his hand, I ran forward to take it from him. He wouldn’t have shot me.”
“I wouldn’t have shot you,” Garen agrees, “but I still held a gun to your head. You can’t honestly tell me you’re going to just forget about all that!”
“I feel like this is the type of thing that you’ll need to work through on your own, Garen,” Cheryl says, not unkindly. “For now, I think we should get you settled in one of the rooms. LRC is a small enough establishment that you won’t be required to have a roommate, but staff reserves the right to enter your room at any point, with or without your permission. None of the rooms in this building have locks, except for the doctors’ offices. There are security cameras in all of the hallways, all open areas such as the cafeteria, the group therapy rooms, and the common room.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Garen says stiffly.
Cheryl smiles slightly. “Now, based on what you have told me and what I discussed on the phone with your father, it’s been decided that you should stay with us for a minimum of sixty days. If you have an issue with this, please let me know.”
Garen is silent for a long moment before he finally says, “No, sixty days is fine, I guess.”
“Wonderful! You will also be required to adhere to a specific schedule, and a certain code of conduct. You will be attending group and individual therapy sessions every day. Some chores will be assigned to you, such as washing dishes, cleaning common areas, things like that. Fridays are Visitor Days; your friends and family will be permitted to come see how you’re doing, what sort of progress you’re making. Whoever joins you on those days will be attending group therapy with you. I feel that I should also tell you that all of your visitors will be searched upon arrival. We’ve had instances in the past of patients attempting drug deliveries within the building, so I’m sure you understand why we must take such precautions. Also, I feel that I should warn you that we do not permit physical contact between patients. This spans everything from fighting to sexual relations. There are also rules about physical contact with your visitors. You will be allowed to shake hands, hold hands, or kiss each other on the cheek or mouth, provided the kiss is chaste. Hugging and open-mouthed kissing are not permitted—”
“I’m totally having a middle-school flashback right now,” Garen says. “Did you have my mom help you make these rules?”
Cheryl laughs. “We’ve had incidents of visitors attempting to pass drugs to patients while hugging them or kissing passionately. Besides, some of our patients are not emotionally stable, and seeing displays of affection like that upsets them.” She stands and straightens the few sheets of paper on her desk. “Now, it’s time for us to get you settled in your room. All of your belongings will be searched, including the clothes you’re wearing now. If it would make you uncomfortable to have your father and boyfriend here—”
“Ex-boyfriend,” Garen and I say in unison.
“Of course. If it makes you uncomfortable to have them here for this process, you can say goodbye now.”
Garen shrugs and stands. “Nah, they can come along.”
Once I have stood up as well, he gives my hand a quick squeeze before stuffing his hands in his pockets and following Cheryl out of the office. Bill gives me a knowing look, and I duck out of the room, blushing. Shut up, Bill. There’s nothing to know.
We are led down the hall to room with white walls, grey carpet, one long table, and a line of five chairs against one wall. Garen’s suitcase is sitting on the table, and a man in a truly disgusting Hawaiian-print shirt is standing next to it, smiling. He thrusts his hand out at each of us in turn. “Hey, guys! My name’s Allen. It’s nice to meet you all!”
“Allen is another one of the attendants here at LRC,” Cheryl informs us. “We’re going to be processing your check-in today, Garen. After you’re settled in your room, your care will be turned over to Gabe, one of our counselors.”
Bill and I take a seat on two of the chairs against the wall, and Garen leans against the edge of the table. “Sounds fine with me.”
“Excellent!” Allen beams. Without further ceremony, he unzips Garen’s suitcase and dumps the contents out on the table. The suitcase itself is searched thoroughly, every pocket checked, every compartment unzipped. When Allen comes up empty, Cheryl sets up the suitcase further down the table. Allen separates all of the jeans from the pile and digs through the pockets of each one. When he finds a lighter in one of the pockets, Garen is given a brief diatribe about why lighters aren’t allowed.
“I forgot I had it,” Garen protests. “I’m used to carrying them around because I used to smoke. It’s just a habit. And anyway, I was never addicted to smoking anything, so it’s not like it’s going to give me all these thoughts about drugs. You wanna remove temptation, cut off my nose.”
I laugh a little at that, until Bill glares at me.
“Regardless, Garen, lighters are not permitted,” Cheryl says.
“Can you just give it to my dad or something, then? My best friend gave it to me for my birthday a few years ago, and it’s engraved. I’d rather not have it thrown out,” Garen says. Cheryl wordlessly holds out the lighter in Bill’s direction, but I’m the one who takes it. Garen glances at me, and I shrug.
“I’ll hold onto it until you get out. Or, if you’d rather, I can just put it in your room back at the house,” I offer. He shrugs back, and I take that as a yes; I stuff the Zippo in my pocket.
The bag of toiletries poses a problem, too. While his toothbrush passes inspection, his toothpaste, mouthwash, shampoo, conditioner, and hair products are all confiscated. “Standard procedure,” Allen chirps at us. “Everything will be provided to you.”
Garen’s flat-iron is added to the stack of things that must be sent home, as is his razor. That really seems to irritate him. “I’m in this place for two months! I’m going to have a fucking beard by the time I get out.”
“On Saturdays, students from the local cosmetology school come to assist patients with personal upkeep. It gives women the chance to maintain their hair color, and men who wish to shave can get a trim from one of the students studying to be a barber,” Cheryl says. “We can’t allow patients to keep their own razors, because it’s possible to use one as a weapon.”
“Yeah, I know,” Garen says. This is followed by a too-long silence. I glance up at him, but he is watching Cheryl, who is eyeing his combat boots with a frown. Garen clear his throat. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, actually,” Allen supplies. “We’re going to need to remove the laces on your boots for now, which might make them difficult to walk in. Do you have any other shoes you could wear?”
“The hell do you need to remove the laces for?” Garen frowns. “I mean, okay, I know I said I’d snort anything, but like, I meant drugs. Not footwear.”
“Because of the incident you and Travis described involving the gun, we’re going to have to place you on twenty-four hour suicide watch. Not for the entire time you’re a patient here, but for at least another week. Part of this involves keep all items such as shoelaces, belts, and ties away from you.”
“Do you really think I’m going to try to hang myself with a shoelace?” Garen asks doubtfully.
“Yes,” is the simple reply.
A few beats of silence pass, then Garen shrugs and removes his belt. “Guess you’ll need this, too, then.”
“You’ll also need to hand over both lip rings, as I assume they have sharpened points for piercing. Any other jewelry you’re wearing, too.”
It’s a little painful to watch Garen remove the snakebites – he winces a little, so I assume he hadn’t thought through the removal when he shoved them through his lip a few weeks ago. He tosses them onto the table, then reaches under his shirt to remove a long gold chain. I expect him to toss it on the table, too, but he crosses the room and dangles it in front of me. I blink at the pendant, a small Star of David. “You mind holding onto this? Kind of a family heirloom thing. My mom would kill me if I lost it.”
I glance sideways at Bill, but he doesn’t seem to intend to accept it on my behalf. I’ve got no choice but to take it. There’s a flash of surprise across Garen’s face when I slip the chain over my head and tuck it under the front of my t-shirt, rather than stuff it into my pocket with the lighter, but he takes it in stride.
“We all set now?”
“Not quite.” Allen pushes a pair of the already-searched jeans and a t-shirt down the table. “You’ll need to change into that so that we can examine the clothes you’re wearing now.”
Garen snorts. “And I assume I’ll need to do that here?”
A brief nod from both of the counselors. “Yes. You can keep your undergarments on, but once you have removed your jacket, shirt, and pants, Allen will need to give you a quick pat-down.”
“Good thing I’m not the kind of person who’ll make a man buy me dinner before he gets to cop a feel.” Garen shrugs out of his black leather jacket and holds it out. Allen pats it down, examines the pockets – nothing but a pen and a pack of gum, both of which are examined, then replaced. When he shucks off his t-shirt and exposes the pale, slightly-bruised skin of his too-thin chest, I close my eyes and let my head drop a little. It doesn’t feel right to see him like this. I hear him pop open the button on his jeans, hear the scratch of the zipper, then the shifting of fabric on skin. There’s a brief pause, during which I assume Allen is giving him the aforementioned pat-down. Suddenly, Garen laughs. “Travis, you do realize you’ve seen me naked like, a dozen times before, right? I really don’t think you’re fooling anyone with the ‘blushing virgin’ routine.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, my face burning and my eyes still determinedly shut. “Just finish getting felt up, and put your clothes back on.”
A few moments later, a hand ruffles my hair, and Garen says quietly, “I’m dressed now.”
“Excellent,” Cheryl says. “Well, I think it’s about time we got you set up in one of the rooms, yes? You can say goodbye to your family here.”
Bill stands wordlessly and embraces his son. I can tell that he’s trying to put everything he has into that hug, just like how I can tell that both of the attendants are watching their hands to make sure there’s no exchange of drugs right here. Finally, after too long, Bill releases him and steps backward. “I’ll visit you as soon as allowed. Is there anyone you’d like me to—”
“Can you ask Mom if she’ll come? I-I know she’s busy, I know she works a lot. But it’d be nice if she could visit. And maybe just extend the invitation to Jamie, too. He’s moving back South soon, but I don’t know. If he happens to be around sometime over the next couple months…”
“Of course,” Bill says. He glances around, then adds, somewhat awkwardly, “Would you like me to ask any of your friends from around here? Perhaps Ben or Alex might—”
“If anyone wants to come see me, they can come see me,” Garen says evenly, “with the exception of your wife.”
Bill sighs. “Garen, I—”
“I’m serious, Dad. I don’t want her to come here,” he says, and suddenly, he turns to face Cheryl. “I’m eighteen years old, and I signed myself in. I’m the only thing keeping me here, right?”
“Right,” Cheryl says, frowning.
Garen looks back at Bill. “If Evelyn walks into this building, I walk out of it. I’m not going to be around her anymore. I can’t.”
The vehemance of this statement is surprising. Even knowing how much Garen hates my mom, the fact that he would drop out of rehab just to get away from her is… insane. Insane even taking into account that fact that he recently held a gun to my head. But Bill is nodding now, stiffly, and heading for the door. I take a step to follow him, but Garen snags my elbow. “Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”
“No can do, kiddo,” Alan says quickly. “We can allow you two to be alone together, seeing as how you’ve already gone through your search. But if you’d like, your dad and Cheryl can both step outside so it’s just the three of us.” He pantomimes zipping his lip.
Garen is barely capable of stopping himself from scowling, but he settles for a shrug, then a nod. Once Bill has been ushered out into the hall and the door has clicked shut behind Cheryl, Garen turns to face me.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. I wonder if I should let him. It would be so easy now, with Ben off pretending I never existed, with no one in the world who would know about it, except the two of us and awkward, staring Alan. Kissing Garen right now could be like a goodbye. But just when I’ve convinced myself that yes, I will kiss him back, he says abruptly, “I don’t want you to come visit me, either.”
“Excuse me?” I say blankly.
“In fact, it’s pretty much the same deal as it is with your mom. If you walk into this building again after today, I’m gone. I’m done.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he echoes. “I don’t want to have to put up with you anymore. The next two months are going to be hard enough without having you in my face all the goddamn time. Like, what, you think I want you to come around just to remind me how much of a fuck-up I am?”
That’s bullshit, I think. I would never say that to you, and you know it. But I stay silent.
“Everything in my life is harder when you’re around. So, really, I’m just… I’m over it. I’m over trying to make things seem even remotely normal. I’m over acting like I can deal with having you be my friend. I’m fucking done with everything that reminds me of you, alright? So please, don’t visit me. Don’t call me. Don’t do anything to me. We clear?”
Rage is bubbling up inside of me like a pan of boiling water. After all these months, after all these horrible days and nights, of course he would find a way to make it all my fault. Of course even now, when he’s entering rehab because he has a drug problem and he threatened to kill himself, of course it’s still all about me.
I don’t wait for him to say anything that will feel like even more of a punch to the gut. I turn on my heel and storm out of the room, nearly crashing into Bill, who frowns. “Is everything alright?”
“It’s great,” I force out. “Can we just go home already?”
Bill lets me drive back to the house. I should probably decline the offer, since the first thing my droning driver’s education instructor taught me is that I shouldn’t drive if I’m emotional. But “emotional” and “so angry I’m surprised I haven’t burst into flames” don’t really feel like the same thing, so I assume it’s alright. Once I have pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and tossed Bill his keys, I stomp inside and head straight for the living room couch to bury my head under the throw pillows.
The worst part is that there’s no one I can call. Half my friends are still in school. Garen’s made it clear I can never contact him again. Ben… Ben would laugh in my face if I called him up to whine about Garen. And I would deserve it.
After a few minutes, I unearth myself from the pillows, glancing towards the door that Bill should’ve walked through a long time ago. I stand and approach the front door, peering out cautiously through the window. My stepfather is sitting on the front steps, speaking into his cell phone. I wonder who he’s calling. Marian, probably. She’d want to know how everything went today. Moms are supposed to care about stuff like this, right?
As if in response to my thoughts, I hear a tinkle of laughter from the den that has been Garen’s bedroom for so long. Frowning, I approach the door, hovering outside of it as I realize that my mom’s inside, apparently on the phone with my aunt.
“Carolyn, all I can say is good riddance to him. I’ve told you about all the trouble he caused! How he damaged poor Travis? How he traumatized my only son into believing that he’s a homosexual? It’s apalling.” A brief pause, then a snort of laughter. “Miss him? Are you joking? I couldn’t wait for him to leave. The months he was gone were fantastic for me, for everyone. Everything around our house was perfect, until he showed up again after the wedding. Then he comes prancing around, drinking everything in sight, taking all different kinds of drugs, trying to seduce my son all over again. Did I tell you what happened the week before last?”
Another pause, during which I have to stuff my fist in my mouth and bite down to keep myself from screaming at her.
“Well, the morning after that horrible blow-out at the dinner table – oh, you do too know what I’m talking about. When he told me all those horrendous lies about Travis? The tattoos? Lord, I thought I’d die. Anyway, Travis of course disappeared to his little friend’s house that night, and Bill left for work early in the morning, to avoid a discussion about it, I suppose. When I came downstairs, Garen was just sitting in the living room, drinking whiskey. At eight o’clock in the morning! He tried to apologize, to tell me he hadn’t meant to be such a bother the night before. Said he was going to try to be better. I said to him, ‘Try all you want, it makes no difference to me! You’re a selfish, ungrateful, disgusting little thing, and that’s all you’ll ever be. I don’t love you, your father doesn’t love you, and my son certainly doesn’t love you, so whatever game you’re trying to play, knock it off. He will never let you corrupt him more than you already have. He will never choose you, especially if it means going against this family. Snap out of it, you’re wasting your time, and you’re never going to win.’ And of course, little brat that he is, he even threw that in my face, with those ridiculous notes he left when he ran away again last week. ‘Evelyn, you win.’ Of course I won! How could he expect to be anything other than a loser? I swear, Carolyn, everything would’ve been so much easier if that Walczyk boy had just beaten the little kike to death years ago—”
That’s too much.
I throw open the door and Mom practically falls off the piano bench in surprise. I stalk across the room and grab the phone out of her hand, ending the call and hurling the device across the room. It smashes against one of the bookcases, and the battery pack flies off. Mom seems torn between scolding me and trying to suss out what I’ve heard. In case she doesn’t realize, in case there’s any doubt, I lean in as close as I dare and hiss, “You fucking disgust me.”
“Travis Daniel McCall, I will not let you speak to me that way!” she shrieks at my already retreating back. It’s not her protests that make me freeze halfway across the living room however; it’s the fact that I have only just now realized that Bill, clearly returned from his phone call on the porch, is standing in the foyer, his face blank. Mom follows me out into the room, only to skitter to a halt. “Bill! I—”
“Don’t say anything,” Bill interrupts. For too long of a moment, the house is completely silent. So silent I can hear the blood pulsing in my ears. Finally, Bill continues, “You got caught up in the wrong competition, Evelyn. Maybe you’re right, maybe Garen did lose when it comes to Travis. But he’s not going to lose me.”
“Bill,” Mom says fretfully, her eyes wide as dinner plates.
Bill just shakes his head. “He is my son, Ev. I don’t understand how you could ever think that I would just write him off. He’s my only child, I love him more than anything. I would die for that boy, just as I hope you’d be willing to die for Travis or Bree. Garen’s my little boy.”
“I understand, Bill, really, I—”
“No, I don’t think you do. So, let me be very, very clear with you,” Bill says, and I know what he’s going to say before he even says it. “I want a divorce.”
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
“I don’t get why I have to write all this down,” he says, twisting to look at his father, who is seated on his other side. “You told them everything over the phone.”
“I told them that my son needed treatment for drug and alcohol dependency, and possibly some psychological issues. I didn’t tell them the details. That’s up to you,” Bill says simply. Garen scowls and slouches down in his seat, scribbling out the rest of the information the form requires.
When an attendant comes to collect him, he asks if Bill and I are allowed to go with him for the rest of his preliminary evaluation. I don’t want to go, but the attendant ushers us into the office after him. The three of us sit down on one side of the table, and the attendant takes the completed form, gives it a quick once-over, and says, “My name is Cheryl, I’m going to be handling your entry to LRC today. Garen, I have to commend you for making the decision to enter treatment for your problems. A lot of people never do that. You should be very proud of yourself for having the self-awareness to realize you need help.”
“Yeah. Proudest moment of my life,” Garen murmurs.
“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me more about your problems with drugs and alcohol. Not all of the details, of course, that will be covered during your therapy sessions. But if you could tell me more about what specifically made you realize that you’d reached the point where you needed to enter treatment for addiction.”
Garen is silent for a long moment. When I glance over at him, he is rigid in his chair and staring at the floor. Apparently, he hadn’t expected a real interview about this. I reach over and hook my pinky finger around his, just to remind him that I’m here. He clears his throat. “I kind of need to tell you some of the background so the story makes sense. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” Cheryl obliges.
“Alright.” Garen takes a deep, shaky breath. “I used to experiment with drugs a lot when I was at boarding school in New York. When I moved to Lakewood in October, I decided to stop, and I was fine until about two months ago. See, um… my dad – this is my dad— kicked me out of the house in January, because he found out that I was dating Travis—this is Travis. And um, my dad was engaged to Travis’ mom, we were all living together. Dad had some problems with the idea of me being with the guy who was supposed to be my stepbrother, so he told me to get out. I went to stay in New York, with my best friend. After Dad married Ev – that’s Travis’ mom—I came back, because I found out Travis had started dating my friend, Ben. We had a party, and one of my old friends from boarding school brought me some coke.”
“This was in April?” Cheryl confirms.
Garen nods. “Yeah, April seventeenth. So, I started using casually after that, and at the end of that same week, I started dating this guy, uh… this guy, Dave. We had dated when I was in boarding school, but we stopped because—well, see, our relationship was really messed up. Like, he used to beat the shit out of me, or whatever. A lot. He put me in the hospital once, but we kept dating. And, I dunno, whatever. But we started dating again in April, and I kept… I don’t know how to phrase it.” He laughs a little.
“You started provoking him,” I supply.
Cheryl frowns. “Travis, it’s important to know that abuse is—”
“—never the victim’s fault, yeah, we all know,” Garen interrupts. “But, see, it was. At least, it was for me. I wanted him to hit me. I kept pushing all of his buttons, doing everything I could to get him to just fight me, because it’s easier to handle someone punching you in the fact than it is to handle someone breaking your heart.”
A lump is forming in my throat, but I just keep staring at the floor, trying to ignore it.
“Anyway, one night, Dave and I got into a big fight. And I start shoving him, smacking him, nothing that’d really hurt, just enough to get him to hit me. So, he did. I ended up in the hospital, with a couple fractured ribs, a couple broken fingers.”
“A broken leg,” Cheryl supplies, gesturing to the cast on Garen’s leg.
He smiles ruefully. “Yeah. The doctor put me on all these painkillers, and I, of course, started abusing them. And, you know, that plus the coke, plus the drinking… it was a bad combination.”
“He started doing some crazy shit,” I add, still trying to focus on the floor, even though I can feel everyone turn to look at me. “H-He came to pick me up at school one day, even though his leg’s in a cast, even though he was high. And then when we got home that same day, he cut off half his hair and dyed it black—”
“It’s mostly faded now,” Garen says, dragging a self-conscious hand through his short, unruly curls. “And I, uh—”
“—the lip rings,” I finish. “He did them himself, right in front of me.”
“Early Saturday morning, Garen ran away,” Bill interjects. “He’s only back now because Travis’ boyfriend, Ben—”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I mutter.
“—drove to Ohio to pick Garen up at the bus station. Last night, Travis prevented Garen from shooting himself.”
“I pulled the gun on Travis first,” Garen murmurs. Next to him, Bill jolts, and I suddenly realize that no one but Garen and I had been in the study for that part. This is the first anyone else is hearing of it.
“It’s not like that,” I say quickly. “When I saw that he had it in his hand, I ran forward to take it from him. He wouldn’t have shot me.”
“I wouldn’t have shot you,” Garen agrees, “but I still held a gun to your head. You can’t honestly tell me you’re going to just forget about all that!”
“I feel like this is the type of thing that you’ll need to work through on your own, Garen,” Cheryl says, not unkindly. “For now, I think we should get you settled in one of the rooms. LRC is a small enough establishment that you won’t be required to have a roommate, but staff reserves the right to enter your room at any point, with or without your permission. None of the rooms in this building have locks, except for the doctors’ offices. There are security cameras in all of the hallways, all open areas such as the cafeteria, the group therapy rooms, and the common room.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Garen says stiffly.
Cheryl smiles slightly. “Now, based on what you have told me and what I discussed on the phone with your father, it’s been decided that you should stay with us for a minimum of sixty days. If you have an issue with this, please let me know.”
Garen is silent for a long moment before he finally says, “No, sixty days is fine, I guess.”
“Wonderful! You will also be required to adhere to a specific schedule, and a certain code of conduct. You will be attending group and individual therapy sessions every day. Some chores will be assigned to you, such as washing dishes, cleaning common areas, things like that. Fridays are Visitor Days; your friends and family will be permitted to come see how you’re doing, what sort of progress you’re making. Whoever joins you on those days will be attending group therapy with you. I feel that I should also tell you that all of your visitors will be searched upon arrival. We’ve had instances in the past of patients attempting drug deliveries within the building, so I’m sure you understand why we must take such precautions. Also, I feel that I should warn you that we do not permit physical contact between patients. This spans everything from fighting to sexual relations. There are also rules about physical contact with your visitors. You will be allowed to shake hands, hold hands, or kiss each other on the cheek or mouth, provided the kiss is chaste. Hugging and open-mouthed kissing are not permitted—”
“I’m totally having a middle-school flashback right now,” Garen says. “Did you have my mom help you make these rules?”
Cheryl laughs. “We’ve had incidents of visitors attempting to pass drugs to patients while hugging them or kissing passionately. Besides, some of our patients are not emotionally stable, and seeing displays of affection like that upsets them.” She stands and straightens the few sheets of paper on her desk. “Now, it’s time for us to get you settled in your room. All of your belongings will be searched, including the clothes you’re wearing now. If it would make you uncomfortable to have your father and boyfriend here—”
“Ex-boyfriend,” Garen and I say in unison.
“Of course. If it makes you uncomfortable to have them here for this process, you can say goodbye now.”
Garen shrugs and stands. “Nah, they can come along.”
Once I have stood up as well, he gives my hand a quick squeeze before stuffing his hands in his pockets and following Cheryl out of the office. Bill gives me a knowing look, and I duck out of the room, blushing. Shut up, Bill. There’s nothing to know.
We are led down the hall to room with white walls, grey carpet, one long table, and a line of five chairs against one wall. Garen’s suitcase is sitting on the table, and a man in a truly disgusting Hawaiian-print shirt is standing next to it, smiling. He thrusts his hand out at each of us in turn. “Hey, guys! My name’s Allen. It’s nice to meet you all!”
“Allen is another one of the attendants here at LRC,” Cheryl informs us. “We’re going to be processing your check-in today, Garen. After you’re settled in your room, your care will be turned over to Gabe, one of our counselors.”
Bill and I take a seat on two of the chairs against the wall, and Garen leans against the edge of the table. “Sounds fine with me.”
“Excellent!” Allen beams. Without further ceremony, he unzips Garen’s suitcase and dumps the contents out on the table. The suitcase itself is searched thoroughly, every pocket checked, every compartment unzipped. When Allen comes up empty, Cheryl sets up the suitcase further down the table. Allen separates all of the jeans from the pile and digs through the pockets of each one. When he finds a lighter in one of the pockets, Garen is given a brief diatribe about why lighters aren’t allowed.
“I forgot I had it,” Garen protests. “I’m used to carrying them around because I used to smoke. It’s just a habit. And anyway, I was never addicted to smoking anything, so it’s not like it’s going to give me all these thoughts about drugs. You wanna remove temptation, cut off my nose.”
I laugh a little at that, until Bill glares at me.
“Regardless, Garen, lighters are not permitted,” Cheryl says.
“Can you just give it to my dad or something, then? My best friend gave it to me for my birthday a few years ago, and it’s engraved. I’d rather not have it thrown out,” Garen says. Cheryl wordlessly holds out the lighter in Bill’s direction, but I’m the one who takes it. Garen glances at me, and I shrug.
“I’ll hold onto it until you get out. Or, if you’d rather, I can just put it in your room back at the house,” I offer. He shrugs back, and I take that as a yes; I stuff the Zippo in my pocket.
The bag of toiletries poses a problem, too. While his toothbrush passes inspection, his toothpaste, mouthwash, shampoo, conditioner, and hair products are all confiscated. “Standard procedure,” Allen chirps at us. “Everything will be provided to you.”
Garen’s flat-iron is added to the stack of things that must be sent home, as is his razor. That really seems to irritate him. “I’m in this place for two months! I’m going to have a fucking beard by the time I get out.”
“On Saturdays, students from the local cosmetology school come to assist patients with personal upkeep. It gives women the chance to maintain their hair color, and men who wish to shave can get a trim from one of the students studying to be a barber,” Cheryl says. “We can’t allow patients to keep their own razors, because it’s possible to use one as a weapon.”
“Yeah, I know,” Garen says. This is followed by a too-long silence. I glance up at him, but he is watching Cheryl, who is eyeing his combat boots with a frown. Garen clear his throat. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, actually,” Allen supplies. “We’re going to need to remove the laces on your boots for now, which might make them difficult to walk in. Do you have any other shoes you could wear?”
“The hell do you need to remove the laces for?” Garen frowns. “I mean, okay, I know I said I’d snort anything, but like, I meant drugs. Not footwear.”
“Because of the incident you and Travis described involving the gun, we’re going to have to place you on twenty-four hour suicide watch. Not for the entire time you’re a patient here, but for at least another week. Part of this involves keep all items such as shoelaces, belts, and ties away from you.”
“Do you really think I’m going to try to hang myself with a shoelace?” Garen asks doubtfully.
“Yes,” is the simple reply.
A few beats of silence pass, then Garen shrugs and removes his belt. “Guess you’ll need this, too, then.”
“You’ll also need to hand over both lip rings, as I assume they have sharpened points for piercing. Any other jewelry you’re wearing, too.”
It’s a little painful to watch Garen remove the snakebites – he winces a little, so I assume he hadn’t thought through the removal when he shoved them through his lip a few weeks ago. He tosses them onto the table, then reaches under his shirt to remove a long gold chain. I expect him to toss it on the table, too, but he crosses the room and dangles it in front of me. I blink at the pendant, a small Star of David. “You mind holding onto this? Kind of a family heirloom thing. My mom would kill me if I lost it.”
I glance sideways at Bill, but he doesn’t seem to intend to accept it on my behalf. I’ve got no choice but to take it. There’s a flash of surprise across Garen’s face when I slip the chain over my head and tuck it under the front of my t-shirt, rather than stuff it into my pocket with the lighter, but he takes it in stride.
“We all set now?”
“Not quite.” Allen pushes a pair of the already-searched jeans and a t-shirt down the table. “You’ll need to change into that so that we can examine the clothes you’re wearing now.”
Garen snorts. “And I assume I’ll need to do that here?”
A brief nod from both of the counselors. “Yes. You can keep your undergarments on, but once you have removed your jacket, shirt, and pants, Allen will need to give you a quick pat-down.”
“Good thing I’m not the kind of person who’ll make a man buy me dinner before he gets to cop a feel.” Garen shrugs out of his black leather jacket and holds it out. Allen pats it down, examines the pockets – nothing but a pen and a pack of gum, both of which are examined, then replaced. When he shucks off his t-shirt and exposes the pale, slightly-bruised skin of his too-thin chest, I close my eyes and let my head drop a little. It doesn’t feel right to see him like this. I hear him pop open the button on his jeans, hear the scratch of the zipper, then the shifting of fabric on skin. There’s a brief pause, during which I assume Allen is giving him the aforementioned pat-down. Suddenly, Garen laughs. “Travis, you do realize you’ve seen me naked like, a dozen times before, right? I really don’t think you’re fooling anyone with the ‘blushing virgin’ routine.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, my face burning and my eyes still determinedly shut. “Just finish getting felt up, and put your clothes back on.”
A few moments later, a hand ruffles my hair, and Garen says quietly, “I’m dressed now.”
“Excellent,” Cheryl says. “Well, I think it’s about time we got you set up in one of the rooms, yes? You can say goodbye to your family here.”
Bill stands wordlessly and embraces his son. I can tell that he’s trying to put everything he has into that hug, just like how I can tell that both of the attendants are watching their hands to make sure there’s no exchange of drugs right here. Finally, after too long, Bill releases him and steps backward. “I’ll visit you as soon as allowed. Is there anyone you’d like me to—”
“Can you ask Mom if she’ll come? I-I know she’s busy, I know she works a lot. But it’d be nice if she could visit. And maybe just extend the invitation to Jamie, too. He’s moving back South soon, but I don’t know. If he happens to be around sometime over the next couple months…”
“Of course,” Bill says. He glances around, then adds, somewhat awkwardly, “Would you like me to ask any of your friends from around here? Perhaps Ben or Alex might—”
“If anyone wants to come see me, they can come see me,” Garen says evenly, “with the exception of your wife.”
Bill sighs. “Garen, I—”
“I’m serious, Dad. I don’t want her to come here,” he says, and suddenly, he turns to face Cheryl. “I’m eighteen years old, and I signed myself in. I’m the only thing keeping me here, right?”
“Right,” Cheryl says, frowning.
Garen looks back at Bill. “If Evelyn walks into this building, I walk out of it. I’m not going to be around her anymore. I can’t.”
The vehemance of this statement is surprising. Even knowing how much Garen hates my mom, the fact that he would drop out of rehab just to get away from her is… insane. Insane even taking into account that fact that he recently held a gun to my head. But Bill is nodding now, stiffly, and heading for the door. I take a step to follow him, but Garen snags my elbow. “Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”
“No can do, kiddo,” Alan says quickly. “We can allow you two to be alone together, seeing as how you’ve already gone through your search. But if you’d like, your dad and Cheryl can both step outside so it’s just the three of us.” He pantomimes zipping his lip.
Garen is barely capable of stopping himself from scowling, but he settles for a shrug, then a nod. Once Bill has been ushered out into the hall and the door has clicked shut behind Cheryl, Garen turns to face me.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. I wonder if I should let him. It would be so easy now, with Ben off pretending I never existed, with no one in the world who would know about it, except the two of us and awkward, staring Alan. Kissing Garen right now could be like a goodbye. But just when I’ve convinced myself that yes, I will kiss him back, he says abruptly, “I don’t want you to come visit me, either.”
“Excuse me?” I say blankly.
“In fact, it’s pretty much the same deal as it is with your mom. If you walk into this building again after today, I’m gone. I’m done.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he echoes. “I don’t want to have to put up with you anymore. The next two months are going to be hard enough without having you in my face all the goddamn time. Like, what, you think I want you to come around just to remind me how much of a fuck-up I am?”
That’s bullshit, I think. I would never say that to you, and you know it. But I stay silent.
“Everything in my life is harder when you’re around. So, really, I’m just… I’m over it. I’m over trying to make things seem even remotely normal. I’m over acting like I can deal with having you be my friend. I’m fucking done with everything that reminds me of you, alright? So please, don’t visit me. Don’t call me. Don’t do anything to me. We clear?”
Rage is bubbling up inside of me like a pan of boiling water. After all these months, after all these horrible days and nights, of course he would find a way to make it all my fault. Of course even now, when he’s entering rehab because he has a drug problem and he threatened to kill himself, of course it’s still all about me.
I don’t wait for him to say anything that will feel like even more of a punch to the gut. I turn on my heel and storm out of the room, nearly crashing into Bill, who frowns. “Is everything alright?”
“It’s great,” I force out. “Can we just go home already?”
Bill lets me drive back to the house. I should probably decline the offer, since the first thing my droning driver’s education instructor taught me is that I shouldn’t drive if I’m emotional. But “emotional” and “so angry I’m surprised I haven’t burst into flames” don’t really feel like the same thing, so I assume it’s alright. Once I have pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and tossed Bill his keys, I stomp inside and head straight for the living room couch to bury my head under the throw pillows.
The worst part is that there’s no one I can call. Half my friends are still in school. Garen’s made it clear I can never contact him again. Ben… Ben would laugh in my face if I called him up to whine about Garen. And I would deserve it.
After a few minutes, I unearth myself from the pillows, glancing towards the door that Bill should’ve walked through a long time ago. I stand and approach the front door, peering out cautiously through the window. My stepfather is sitting on the front steps, speaking into his cell phone. I wonder who he’s calling. Marian, probably. She’d want to know how everything went today. Moms are supposed to care about stuff like this, right?
As if in response to my thoughts, I hear a tinkle of laughter from the den that has been Garen’s bedroom for so long. Frowning, I approach the door, hovering outside of it as I realize that my mom’s inside, apparently on the phone with my aunt.
“Carolyn, all I can say is good riddance to him. I’ve told you about all the trouble he caused! How he damaged poor Travis? How he traumatized my only son into believing that he’s a homosexual? It’s apalling.” A brief pause, then a snort of laughter. “Miss him? Are you joking? I couldn’t wait for him to leave. The months he was gone were fantastic for me, for everyone. Everything around our house was perfect, until he showed up again after the wedding. Then he comes prancing around, drinking everything in sight, taking all different kinds of drugs, trying to seduce my son all over again. Did I tell you what happened the week before last?”
Another pause, during which I have to stuff my fist in my mouth and bite down to keep myself from screaming at her.
“Well, the morning after that horrible blow-out at the dinner table – oh, you do too know what I’m talking about. When he told me all those horrendous lies about Travis? The tattoos? Lord, I thought I’d die. Anyway, Travis of course disappeared to his little friend’s house that night, and Bill left for work early in the morning, to avoid a discussion about it, I suppose. When I came downstairs, Garen was just sitting in the living room, drinking whiskey. At eight o’clock in the morning! He tried to apologize, to tell me he hadn’t meant to be such a bother the night before. Said he was going to try to be better. I said to him, ‘Try all you want, it makes no difference to me! You’re a selfish, ungrateful, disgusting little thing, and that’s all you’ll ever be. I don’t love you, your father doesn’t love you, and my son certainly doesn’t love you, so whatever game you’re trying to play, knock it off. He will never let you corrupt him more than you already have. He will never choose you, especially if it means going against this family. Snap out of it, you’re wasting your time, and you’re never going to win.’ And of course, little brat that he is, he even threw that in my face, with those ridiculous notes he left when he ran away again last week. ‘Evelyn, you win.’ Of course I won! How could he expect to be anything other than a loser? I swear, Carolyn, everything would’ve been so much easier if that Walczyk boy had just beaten the little kike to death years ago—”
That’s too much.
I throw open the door and Mom practically falls off the piano bench in surprise. I stalk across the room and grab the phone out of her hand, ending the call and hurling the device across the room. It smashes against one of the bookcases, and the battery pack flies off. Mom seems torn between scolding me and trying to suss out what I’ve heard. In case she doesn’t realize, in case there’s any doubt, I lean in as close as I dare and hiss, “You fucking disgust me.”
“Travis Daniel McCall, I will not let you speak to me that way!” she shrieks at my already retreating back. It’s not her protests that make me freeze halfway across the living room however; it’s the fact that I have only just now realized that Bill, clearly returned from his phone call on the porch, is standing in the foyer, his face blank. Mom follows me out into the room, only to skitter to a halt. “Bill! I—”
“Don’t say anything,” Bill interrupts. For too long of a moment, the house is completely silent. So silent I can hear the blood pulsing in my ears. Finally, Bill continues, “You got caught up in the wrong competition, Evelyn. Maybe you’re right, maybe Garen did lose when it comes to Travis. But he’s not going to lose me.”
“Bill,” Mom says fretfully, her eyes wide as dinner plates.
Bill just shakes his head. “He is my son, Ev. I don’t understand how you could ever think that I would just write him off. He’s my only child, I love him more than anything. I would die for that boy, just as I hope you’d be willing to die for Travis or Bree. Garen’s my little boy.”
“I understand, Bill, really, I—”
“No, I don’t think you do. So, let me be very, very clear with you,” Bill says, and I know what he’s going to say before he even says it. “I want a divorce.”
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