Tyler Johnson Was Here(36)

Pop! One.

I fight for breath.

Pop! Two.

I’m about to black out.

Pop! Three.

No, no, no, no, no. This. Can’t. Be. Real.

I stare at the dark phone screen. And then my chest expands and retracts fast, my throat drying, a lump burning up in my gut.

“That’s not him,” I say through tears, the words falling out all jumbled and wet. “It can’t be.” I want the world to swallow me up. And it sinks in, kind of like how all the sand sinks to the bottom of an hourglass.

Tyler is gone.

I’m just going home. My brother’s last words echo in my head as I shudder, mostly out of fear and so much damn misery. I could vomit right now. My stomach folds from my racing thoughts.

I’m going to be sick. All of my breath leaves my body. And suddenly, I can’t be in this room anymore.

I storm outside, hop on my bike, and ride away as fast as I can. I don’t have a destination in mind. I just need to get away. I need to go somewhere I don’t have to think about what I just watched, where I don’t have to think about how my own brother died at the hands of a police officer, where I don’t have to think about a world without Tyler.

I need a safe place. The tears keep coming before I can stop them, drying on my chin as huge gusts of wind come over me. I let the world distort around me until I’m slamming my bike down in front of Faith’s place. There’re two cars in the driveway, so I know she’s not alone. But I don’t care. I need to be with her.

I knock on the door, hands shaking. My head feels heavy, and my throat is so dry it’s like I’ve eaten an entire box of saltines.

I clutch my elbows, waiting for her to answer, spilling my tears on her porch.

Faith opens the door. “Marvin. Oh my God. Are you okay?”

She lets me in, and I sit on the couch and tell her everything. It takes so long for the words to come out between my sobs, but she’s patient and keeps her hand on my back, rubbing it slowly. I show her the video and she flinches and says, “What the hell?”

Before I know it, there’s a set of brown eyes and long eyelashes in front of me. It’s Faith’s mama. She puts her hands on my back, telling me, “Let it out, honey. Let it all out, honey.” She doesn’t even know me, but I don’t care and she doesn’t either.

“I just don’t know what to do,” I keep saying over and over. The video is stained in my mind, playing over and over again. I shut my eyes tight, trying to shake the footage out of my head, but I can’t. I just fucking can’t.

Pop! One.

I shake my head hard.

Pop! Two.

I imagine Tyler’s final gasp of oxygen.

Pop! Three.

I’m suddenly throwing up in a small trash can. I’m powerless and I have no control over my own brain or stomach. I don’t move. I can’t. I just cry, throw up, cry, and throw up again.

Faith puts a hand on my arm. “Hey, I’m so sorry.” I look up at her and see she’s crying, too.

She hugs me.

I hug her back and let out a slight breath.

Faith’s mama offers me some hot tea. I tell her no, thank you.

She gives me a regretful face, opens her mouth, and keeps it open for a little while. Then she says in a sympathetic voice, “I’m sorry for your loss. The man who did this to your brother is going to be punished.” I think this was supposed to be a way to reassure me or something, but I only feel stunned.

I don’t even feel like being.

As I keep my head in my hands, Faith and her mama take turns trying to comfort me. “There’ll be justice for y’all,” her mom says. “You have all my empathy.”

But I don’t even deserve empathy. If anybody does, it’s Mama.

Part of me regrets leaving Mama alone. I wasn’t thinking when I left. She needs me, and I need her—now more than ever.

I leave Faith’s house, and as I ride back under a fading, starry sky, my stomach feels like a churning abyss, and I hurt too much not to start tearing up.

At home, G-mo and Ivy are still at my place. Mama’s come out of her room, and I take one look at her, and I can tell she’s seen the video, too. The TV is on with the volume down low, and on the news I can see images of the video that captured the last minute of my brother’s life. Tyler Johnson has become breaking news, and I feel raw and pissed off that the last few seconds of his life and his death are on display for the whole fucking world to see. He wouldn’t have wanted that.

There’re Chinese food cartons scattered across the coffee table, the smell of soy sauce and fried rice reminding me that I’m hungry and that I still have to eat because I’m alive, even if Tyler is not.

“Hey, Marvin,” G-mo says. He’s standing next to Mama. She’s still and quiet, just staring forward.

I nod at him and walk over to Mama. I pat her on the back, doing my best not to have a breakdown again. There’s so much I want to say and so much static in my brain, and I can’t find a way to say it. I just keep rubbing her back.

Ivy’s lying on the floor, going through a photo book Mama put together last night, showing me some of her favorites.

Ivy points to this one picture of Tyler and me when we were little, playing cops and robbers with Dad. The two of us are in tank tops and shorts. In the picture, Tyler and I are each holding a water gun, and Dad’s chasing us.