In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(26)

She answers on the third ring, shouting a “Hello?” into the receiver above the loud laughter and music on the other end. She must be at another party.

I close my eyes and cherish these few seconds connected to her, as I did the other three times I called. I had my number blocked so she can’t read my name—not that Trent Emerson would mean anything to her.

“Who the hell is this?”

I really should stop doing this, or else she’ll change her number.

Not that it matters anymore.

“Listen, you creeper . . .”

Is she drunk? I think I detect a slur. But maybe it’s just me who’s drunk. And, damn, I am f**king loaded. I can’t even focus on the steering wheel in front of me. But I have to say it. Just once, when she’ll hear it, even if she doesn’t remember tomorrow. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long pause. “For what?”

I open my mouth but I can’t bring myself to say the words, and so I say nothing.

“Drop dead, you douchebag.” The phone clicks.

It has taken almost two years and the half bottle of scotch that I just downed, but everything is suddenly so obvious.

I wasn’t meant to survive that night.

The emptiness that I’ve been living with—so utterly consuming—is what’s left of a person when he dies and yet still breathes, facing each day with nothing at the end of it. When he exists, but cannot feel beyond his own misery. There’s an endless weight on my chest that I will never be strong enough to lift off.

It’s crushing my will.

And I finally accept that I’m done with this. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.

So, I close my eyes and settle my head against the headrest. Just like I remember doing in the SUV that night.

And breathe in and out, slowly, heavily, over and over again. Inhaling the fumes pumping in through the garden hose that hangs over the cracked window, the other end stuffed into the car’s muffler.

The first genuine smile that I’ve felt in almost two years touches my lips.

A smile of relief, because peace is finally coming.

Chapter 14

May 2010

If I started to go bald, I’d just shave my head. I guess he’s not exactly bald, but that hairline bought a one-way ticket and it’s well on its way. I give him ten years before he’s polishing his scalp.

“Hello? Trent?”

I blink several times, trying to focus on the doctor’s words. “Sorry, what?”

He gives me a patient smile. “How are you feeling today?”

“Tired,” I croak. A stomach pump for alcohol poisoning, serious oxygen therapy for carbon monoxide poisoning, and a slew of tests and psychological assessments has left me exhausted. Now I’ve got a mess of medication pumping through my veins. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been in this room, but I’ve been asleep most of that time.

Apparently, my dad came home from work minutes after I lost consciousness and, when he searched the house and couldn’t find me, some gut-churning sixth sense told him to check the garage.

He couldn’t get a pulse.

In my drunken stupor, I tried to kill myself. And I almost succeeded.

When I woke up in a hospital—again—with my mom holding my hand, tears in her eyes—again—and realized what I had done—again—I agreed to everything my dad started insisting upon, including an intense inpatient program. That’s how I’ve ended up in this sunny-colored private Chicago cell.

It’s not a cell, really. Though I haven’t seen the rest of the facility yet, I’m guessing it’s pretty nice.

“Your body has been through the ringer. You’ll adjust. Ironically enough, I’m not a big fan of medicating, but I think, given the depth of your depression, you’ll benefit from a small chemical reset.”

Depression. That’s what I keep hearing.

“So . . .” Dr. Stayner begins pacing, his arms over his chest, “you dropped out of college, quit the football team, broke up with your high school sweetheart, your parents are divorcing. And you spend excessive amounts of time in your mother’s basement, isolating yourself with work.”

“That about covers it,” I mutter.

“It’s been a long downward spiral for you.” He pierces me with his stare. “Do you want to get better? Because that is a requirement for my inpatient program.”

I’m betting this is the same opening spiel that he gives everyone. I don’t mind, though, because the answer is simple. “Yes.” I’m thinking clearly enough now—without scotch coursing through my veins, polluting my thoughts, amplifying my emotions—and I know that I don’t have a choice. I’ve hit rock bottom and something has to change. It has to get better. I just don’t think it’s possible.

He slaps his hands together, like something’s settled. His eyes twinkle with genuine excitement. “Good! We’ll start therapy in the morning. Give you a swift kick in the ass, down the road to recovery. Until then, get some rest.” He strolls briskly out of the room without another word, leaving me frowning at the door. My dad said that he’s the best. I guess we’ll see if the best is good enough.

■ ■ ■

My eyes follow the baseball as it sails up to nearly touch the spackled ceiling and then back down, landing in Dr. Stayner’s hand with a soft thud.