Echo Read online

  But Daniel ignored the sarcasm and said sincerely, “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through. I tried to think what that would be like. To see your brother die right in front of you…”

  What with the day…and what had happened…Justin folded into a crouch against the wall, dropping his face into his arms to hide the fact that the pressure behind his eyes had become too much.

  Justin sensed rather than saw Daniel squat down next to him.

  “Hey,” Daniel said softly. “I think it’s amazing that you’re even still walking around. I think they’d have to lock me away.”

  This made Justin cry harder. Here was someone who didn’t expect him to be back to normal, someone who understood that sometimes it got worse before it got better, someone who made him feel like it was okay to be a complete mess.

  Daniel seemed to read Justin’s mind with his next words. “And you know what else? I think everyone is scared shitless of you, and I don’t just mean the fact that you might kick their ass. They’re walking around in their little bubbles, and they don’t want to think. You remind them that bad shit can happen. You remind them that sometimes it’s not gonna be okay. That nothing’s gonna be okay.”

  It was such a relief to hear the truth. Finally. Everyone else with their optimistic reassurances, their bullshit condolences, their “I know how you must feel,” and their “time heals all wounds,” they made him feel like he was going crazy. Because it didn’t fit with what he felt on the inside: that nothing was going to be the same. Ever. He couldn’t go back to the safe little version of the world he’d lived in before. He buried his head deeper in his arms, and his shoulders shook.

  Daniel gingerly reached out and put his arm around him.

  Justin hadn’t been able to cry like that since his brother’s death. He’d been too numb. He’d been too angry. But now he discovered what was underneath.

  Daniel sat there quietly, patiently waiting. When Justin finally raised his head, Daniel impulsively extended a hand and touched Justin’s cheek. He gently wiped away the tears.

  Justin didn’t move.

  Then Daniel leaned in, as if he were going to give Justin a kiss on the cheek. But then, on impulse, he touched Justin’s lips with his own.

  Justin sat absolutely still for a moment, feeling the incredible softness of Daniel’s lips. They were softer even than Megan’s. And Daniel smelled different. Megan was cigarettes and mints. Daniel smelled like shampoo.

  Then, suddenly, Justin snapped out of his trance and jerked back. He gave Daniel a wild-eyed look.

  “Sorry,” Daniel said. “I didn’t mean—”

  But Justin didn’t give him a chance to say what he didn’t mean. Instead he grabbed Daniel by the shirt. His other hand was already curled into a fist, and he smashed it into Daniel’s face once.

  Twice.

  A third time.

  Daniel’s nose was bleeding, his lip was swollen, there was blood all over his face, and now he was the one crying.

  Justin paused, panting. “Come on,” he spat, shaking Daniel by the shirt. “Fight back, you faggot.”

  But Daniel just sat there, sobbing. He didn’t even try to pull himself away.

  Justin let go, and Daniel fell back against the floor and curled into a ball as if to protect himself.

  Justin stood up.

  “Come on. Fight me,” he demanded, aiming a kick at Daniel’s back.

  But Daniel just curled tighter.

  “You fucking faggot,” Justin repeated, making as if to kick him again.

  Then Justin caught sight of one of his hands. Daniel’s blood was smeared on the knuckles.

  Justin turned and ran, slamming out of the bathroom and into the hall. And he would have kept on running—except that he caught sight of a clock on the wall.

  He stopped abruptly.

  The clock said it was three thirty.

  With sudden determination Justin changed directions and headed the other way down the hall—toward the back staircase.

  “It’s time, isn’t it?” the voice asked.

  Justin just increased his pace.

  “Justin?”

  Yes, it’s time, Justin said. I’m going to meet him. There was a pause, then he said grimly, I hate his fucking guts.

  Justin rounded the corner, and sure enough, Billy was there. Waiting.

  Billy barely had time to turn and face Justin before Justin grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him back against the wall.

  “I’m here,” Justin snarled. “So what the fuck do you want?”

  Billy was momentarily speechless with surprise. Then he said, “I wanted to ask you…”

  “What?” Justin demanded impatiently, shaking him.

  “I wanted to ask if I could go with you,” Billy said.

  Justin loosened his hold. “What the fuck are you talking about? Go with me where?”

  Billy looked straight at him. “To the memorial.”

  Justin let go at that point and stepped back. “How do you know about that?” he demanded.

  Billy shrugged.

  “I’m not going,” Justin said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be so fucking stupid. What do you think the words ‘I’m not going’ mean?”

  “You’re not going to your own brother’s memorial?” Billy was suddenly angry. “And you’re calling me stupid? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Justin said.

  Billy snorted. “Yeah, you’re absolutely fucking normal.” He stared at Justin for a moment as if trying to decide something. Then he spoke again. “I think I know,” he said.

  “Know what?” Justin asked suspiciously.

  “What’s wrong with you—I think I know.”

  “You don’t know shit,” Justin said, but he couldn’t keep the nervousness out of his voice.

  Billy shook his head. “Yeah? How about this? I know you think it was your fault. You think what happened with your brother was your—”

  With a cry Justin pushed Billy, and everything that Billy was saying, away with all his strength.

  Billy stumbled back…back…back. He was at the top of the steps, teetering on the edge.

  Once more Billy’s body went sailing back into air. Once more his head struck the corner of the iron railing. Once more he landed, crashing down on the concrete steps.

  Justin moved like a sleepwalker to the top of the staircase. Then he looked down.

  Billy’s body was crumpled awkwardly, half on the landing, half spilled over onto the next set of steps. As Justin stood there, immobile, he saw something dark start to seep from underneath Billy’s head. It pooled and then started to drip down onto the next step. It was a little waterfall of blood.

  Justin felt the hysteria rising. And it overflowed. He started to cry, sharp, jagged, hiccupping cries.

  The bell rang—a shattering, earpiercing sound that echoed inside his head. Justin turned and ran. As kids spilled out into the hallway, they turned to stare at the sight of Justin, his face contorted with tears, stumbling down the hallway. But Justin was completely unaware of the attention he was drawing. In fact, he was unaware of anything but getting away.

  He finally reached the entrance and pushed through the front doors of the school. It was a clear sunny day outside, an Indian summer day, with a warm breeze that ruffled his hair, but he didn’t notice that, either. He just headed for the bus and climbed on. He was still crying.

  The bus driver said, “Hey, kid, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Justin choked out, and quickly passed by, going to the far back of the bus and sliding into the seat. He watched through the window as first the police cars arrived, then the ambulance, all with sirens blaring just as the bus pulled out of the parking lot.

  Justin was still crying when he climbed down off the bus in front of the gates of the subdivision. He was crying as he walked along the street to his house. He was crying even harder when he let himself into
his house and climbed the stairs.

  He walked down the hall and stopped in front of his brother’s bedroom door.

  It was shut. It was always shut. Justin knew that his mother often went in and sat. His father did sometimes too. Justin never went inside. And he didn’t go inside now. He simply stood there. Then he touched the door lightly with his fingertips.

  He said, choking on his sobs, No more. Please.

  “It’s almost over now,” the voice replied soothingly.

  He continued down the hall to his parents’ room to get the pills. He brought them back to his room, going into the bathroom briefly to retrieve the glass and fill it with water.

  He stared at himself in the shattered mirror while the water climbed the inside of the glass. As he stared at his reflection, his crying finally seemed to ease. He went from hiccupping to deep breaths, to one big sigh.

  When he looked down, the glass was full and the water was spilling over on his hand and down into the sink. He turned off the faucet, took the glass, and left the bathroom. Once he was in his bedroom, he sat down on the edge of the bed and said, It’ll be over now, won’t it?

  “Yes.”

  He carefully shook one pill out onto his palm and swallowed it. Then a second. And a third. They went down so easy that he started swallowing them by the handful, until the bottle was empty.

  Suddenly he found he was crying again.

  I killed them, he whispered. I killed them both.

  “No, Justin. The only person you really tried to kill was yourself.”

  But Justin wasn’t listening. He was so tired. Too tired to even sit up. He lay back down on the bed, but was vaguely aware of something hard and lumpy under his back. He pulled it out from under him—and discovered that it was the remote to the television. More from habit than anything else, he flicked it on. But he didn’t watch. Instead, still crying, he rolled over onto his side, curling up like Daniel had on the bathroom floor.

  Justin gradually stopped crying. He didn’t even feel bad anymore. All he felt was a wonderful floating feeling. His bed was a raft, and it was floating. Going out with the receding tide. Taking him with it. He was already very far away when he heard the voice of his mother. She was crying and yelling and pulling at him. Trying to roll him off the raft. Then his father’s deeper voice, and his father’s arms, scooping him up as if he were a baby again. He couldn’t hear the words, but he knew what they were saying. They were calling for him to come back. He tried to move his lips, he tried to tell them that it was too late.

  He was already gone.

  36

  “Wake up.”

  No, Justin whispered.

  “Wake up, Justin.”

  No more, he said, keeping his eyes tightly shut. You promised.

  “I know. I did promise. It’s over.”

  Justin didn’t move.

  “It’s over,” the voice repeated. “You can open your eyes now.”

  Justin hesitated, then cracked his eyes open just a tiny bit.

  All he could see was white.

  He blinked, clearing away the tears that blurred his vision, and he could see an expanse of white ceiling—but he knew immediately that it wasn’t the ceiling of his bedroom. His bedroom ceiling had a road map of fine cracks; this ceiling was smooth, recently painted. And he wasn’t lying in his bed. He was lying in a big leather recliner that was leaned so far back it was almost like a bed.

  “I’m here,” the voice said.

  The voice was different too, he realized; it wasn’t inside his head anymore. It was coming from somewhere over to his right. Nearby.

  “Look at me,” the voice said.

  Justin turned his head and looked. Then he closed his eyes again.

  “Justin?” Then, more gently. “Justin. Do you know where you are?”

  Justin sighed and opened his eyes again and looked at the man sitting next to him: the now-familiar lined face, the short gray hair, the military straightness with which he sat in his chair. Dr. Ryden.

  “Yes,” Justin said. “I remember.”

  A moment ago he’d lain down in his bed with the bitter taste of the pills in his mouth. But the taste was gone now. It was amazing how strong the memory had been, since it had been almost a month since he’d swallowed them. It took him a moment to reorient himself, to put together the pieces in his mind. What had actually happened right afterward? The first faint memory was a sound: the wail of the ambulance, quiet as a whisper. Then the sense of an echoing place with lots of noise and a sense of urgency so strong it managed to break through his floating peace—that must have been the emergency room. But the first real memory he had was of waking up in a sterile hospital room with his throat burning from the stomach pump they’d administered and an IV drip taped into his arm.

  He was crying when he came to, and he hadn’t been able to stop—not until they’d given him a sedative. They’d kept him in the hospital for two days before he was finally released. His parents took him home, and that had been even worse than the hospital. In the hospital there had been the sedatives and the brisk efficiency of the nurses, who stayed only long enough to give him the pill or check his blood pressure. At home he had to deal with his parents. He was always aware of their anxious, hovering presence. Their worried faces. Their nervous questions: “Do you need anything?” “Are you all right?” “If you want to talk about anything…” His mother was constantly on the verge of tears. Justin knew it was his fault. He knew he wasn’t doing well. But it felt like it was something beyond his control. And his parents certainly couldn’t help him.

  So they brought him to Dr. Ryden.

  Justin hadn’t wanted to go. He was sure a psychiatrist would be even worse than his parents, and that Dr. Ryden would turn out to be some sappy guy who would talk to him in one of those soft, terribly understanding voices and would ask him about how he was feeling.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Justin had gone in alone for his first appointment, leaving his mother fidgeting in the waiting room. When Justin had entered, Dr. Ryden hadn’t even smiled; he’d simply instructed Justin to take a seat. Then, in a business-like voice he had told Justin about his background. He said he’d been a doctor in the army, and his specialty was treating soldiers suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. He explained that he used hypnotherapy to bring the patient back to the time of the trauma in order to reexperience the event. He said that the standard technique was called exposure therapy where the patient simply reimagined the event, but he’d had even more success using hypnosis. However, the experience was also more intense.

  “You mean it really feels like you’re going through it again?” Justin said.

  “We call it flooding,” Dr. Ryden told him. “And yes, it feels as if you are reliving it.”

  “Are you crazy?” Justin said. “No way. I’m not going through that again.”

  “It wouldn’t be today,” Dr. Ryden said. “There would be a number of sessions before we actually take you back.”

  “I don’t care if it’s not for ten years. I’m not doing it,” Justin declared.

  Dr. Ryden stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, “But aren’t you reliving it every day as it is?”

  At the time, Justin had wondered how Dr. Ryden knew.

  Dr. Ryden went on in a calm, unemotional voice. “Ultimately, this is your decision. It’s not something I can do without your full cooperation. So I want you to think about what you are going to do about this problem if you don’t do this technique with me. You have to decide, if not this, then what? If you want me to help you, you need to follow my instructions. Decide if you are willing to do that, and then we can proceed. If so, you can call my secretary and schedule another appointment. If not, I wish you the best of luck.”

  Dr. Ryden stood up, signaling that the meeting was over.

  “That’s it?” Justin asked.

  “What else would there be?” Dr. Ryden asked.

  Justin had expected
that Dr. Ryden would try to convince him, and then he would be able to stubbornly insist that he wasn’t doing it. But Dr. Ryden obviously wasn’t planning on doing that. As Justin was leaving, Dr. Ryden asked him to send his mother in.

  This was where the convincing would happen, Justin thought. The doctor would enlist his mother to persuade him.

  His mother’s meeting seemed to last longer than his own, and when she came out, she seemed subdued. Justin expected her to start in on him as soon as they got in the car, but she didn’t say a word. Finally Justin had to ask her if the doctor had told her about the procedure. She nodded. “And?” Justin asked. She simply shrugged and said, “It’s your decision.”

  The next day Justin asked his mother to call to schedule another appointment.

  Then they began the preparation. Session after session. Talking about everything in detail beforehand. Practicing the hypnosis so that Justin would be comfortable going into the deep state that Dr. Ryden said was necessary for this kind of work.

  After all the work, Justin thought he’d known exactly what to expect. But he hadn’t expected this. Justin could feel that his cheeks were still wet from the tears. He reached up and rubbed them away.

  “You did well,” Dr. Ryden said.

  As the doctor spoke, Justin could remember what it felt like to hear that merciless voice in his head—pulling out his memories, holding them up to the harsh light of truth.

  “I didn’t do anything. You did it,” Justin responded.

  “That’s not true,” Dr. Ryden said. “This work is easier when exploring an event years in the past, but with something as recent and as painful as this…often the mind simply can’t handle it. You have to be very strong and very determined to get past the initial memories.”

  Justin thought he might even have heard a hint of emotion in the doctor’s voice—something like admiration.

  “Initial memories…,” Justin repeated. “You mean the lies?”

  “No, I mean the initial memories,” Dr. Ryden corrected. “They weren’t lies. You see, memory is what we forget with…when we need to forget.”