Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Leo linked his hands together. “I need you to know that there is nothing you could have done,” he said. I felt a familiar flash of anger flare inside of me. Only, where it used to burst out of me through shouts and screams and fists through walls, since being with Savannah, it now instantly faded and turned to guilt and shame and sadness. It was so intense, it actually ached when it settled within me. Because I didn’t believe Leo. He didn’t know me and Cillian. He didn’t know how close we were. How closely our lives were intertwined. I should have known there was something wrong with him. How had I missed it? How had I let him die?
My leg started bouncing in agitation. I opened my mouth, to try to speak, but nothing came out. It was like there was a mental block whenever I wanted to try to talk about it, to give voice to my pain and shame and fears.
Leo checked the clock on the wall. “That’s our time up for today, Cael.” I jumped from my seat, needing to get out of the room. Before I reached the exit, Leo said, “I know it’s hard. Believe me, son, I know.” Shivers darted down my spine at the way he had said that. Had someone close to him done what Cillian had done? If so, how had he moved on? “But to help you gain back your life, we have to start talking.” The expression on Leo’s face was earnest, beseeching. When I didn’t react, he said, “I’ve also spoken to your parents again today.” My stomach dropped. “I told them you were well. They said you’re still ignoring their calls and texts.” Once more, he let unspoken words hang between us.
He was right. I still hadn’t called them once since I’d been away. They tried to call at the same time every day, no matter where I was. They texted every day too. My dad especially. I left them all on read.
I had nothing to say to them.
I left the room and let the sticky Indian air coat my skin. I walked aimlessly, lost to my thoughts. I just didn’t know how to open up. I didn’t feel that I would ever be able to do it. Savannah’s face came to mind. I’d told her about Cillian. I’d told her he’d taken his own life. But I hadn’t said anything else. Hadn’t told her of that night, of what I’d seen …
I didn’t know if I would ever be able to.
I turned the corner of the resort to see Savannah and Dylan sitting together at a café table drinking coffee. She was listening to him speak. She listened so attentively, so well. She never judged, never made me feel stupid. Just looking at her had my muscles relaxing and my shoulders dropping. It still surprised me how another person could have such an effect on me.
Maybe one day I could tell Savannah everything about Cillian. How he’d built me up when I was low, or how he’d taught me how to take a slap shot. Or how I had found him … how the last image of my big brother was him gone, by his own doing, limp in my arms.
A wave of emotion choked me, and I ducked back into the hallway. I picked up my speed until I was running. I ran out onto a jogging trail, and I just kept going. I couldn’t talk to Savannah about this. She was mourning her own sister, fought daily with not succumbing to her anxiety. She didn’t need my issues weighing her down too.
So, I ran. I ran and ran until I was exhausted. Until the gutting sadness my session with Leo had brought up had faded. I ran until I couldn’t think of anything anymore. Until I was so tired all I wanted to do was sleep.
Once again, I’d successfully ran away from my brother’s death, as fast as my feet would take me. And I wasn’t sure how that could ever change.
* * *
Today’s lesson was out in the open air, in a secluded gazebo overlooking the turquoise sea. Miriam was our therapist for this. We’d had days of group lessons and one-on-ones. We’d had days of yoga and walking nearby routes, of meditation and music therapy.
Today was art. Painting, to be exact.
“You all have a blank canvas before you,” Miriam said, and I glanced down at the paints, the brushes and the container filled with water to clean off the paint between strokes.
I wasn’t much of an artist, so I wasn’t hopeful of what I’d get out of this session. The past few days’ activities had been okay and, with regard to facing our own mortality, had been soft and gradual. Nothing had pushed us to the brink yet. I didn’t think for one second those days weren’t coming.