“I’m glad you told me, Honey Boy,” I say, furrowing my brow. That was words, at least, though it was sweet words I wouldn’t normally use for him, so at least it wasn’t awkwardly silent as I think of something better to say. My lip sticks, unintentionally, out in a diminutive pout. This is probably the sort of situation where I should close the gap between us, get close to him. Instead, I pull further away. “But, you know now that I know this I’m going to have to tell someone. Like your mom or your counselor.”
“No.” He protests. “Please don’t call my counselor. I don’t want to go back there.”
“Can I tell Avery?” I ask. Not that I want to be a tattle tale, go tell dad or whatever but I’m just curious what my boundaries are. This is something you and I should discuss.
“Don’t!” he insists, jerking forward a little bit. His back is pressed squarely against the wall, his feet sticking out past the edge of my bed. His head is right next to the collage I’d made of photos of the 3 of us and things we loved. From where I sit, his ear is square over Harry Potter’s head, so it looked like a boy on a broom with an extraordinarily odd Ear head.
I chastise myself for making a note of that when this conversation was so important; such an intimate secret.
“So this is just for me to know?” I ask. How can he expect me to be able to handle this responsibility? How does he expect that I can do this—save him, care for him, tend to him—without your input. You knew the difference between supporting him and babying him. You knew when it was a cry for attention (how much attention the situation should garner, on that note) or when it was serious. You knew what to say to make Jason agree to get help. You knew how to keep Jason engaged in day-to-day activities. All I know is that I’d been through this before and I did a shitty job.
“You’re the only person I’ve told.”
“Are you going to tell Avery?” I ask.
“I might.”
“You should.”
“I might..” he wants me to stop pushing the subject, because he’s already decided he won’t.
“He’d want to know,” I push anyways because I’m right and he’s wrong.
“I MIGHT! Fuck. Can’t this just be between you and me?”
“Look!” I throw my hands up. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing to you and be at your funeral and have to tell everyone that I knew it was coming and I couldn’t stop it. I don’t want to realize that the last stupid argument we had was the last we’ll ever have!”
“Please, bitch. I have plans to haunt you.”
“I have an exorcist on speed dial.”
“Well, I just want you to know that you don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile.”
That’s true, Jason isn’t fragile; he is just defective.
“I just want you to be okay. I know it takes time, I don’t mean to be so impatient.”
“I still want to die,” he pulled a messy clump of blankets over himself until it was just his head and bare feet poking out. “I fucking hate my counselor. I hate going there.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“He has no basis when he tells me that life is worth it. He’s just doing his job. And he’s a bitch when I tell him that I don’t take the SSRIs and the Lithium.”
I don’t know whether to say, dude, take your fucking meds or support the fact that, like he’d told me before, they make him lose his sense of humanity.
“C’mon dude, lets smoke a bowl, put on some music, and paint or something.” That was something you might have suggested. Maybe not to him, but to me definitely.
“I don’t want to.”
“Just the bowl?”
“I don’t want to be high right now, I just want to be sad. Sober and sad.”
“Well, shit, dude, I don’t know how to help you then. You can kick it here and be sad if you want.”
“What are you gonna be doing?” he asked, still in his cocoon of my blankets.
“I’m going to smoke a bowl, put on some music, and paint or something.”
“Hmm.” He lies down, raccoon eyes open, staring up at my ceiling.
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