Shattered

Short Story for NTT

This short story is from one of fellow blogger Kevin’s previous No Theme Thursday images. I had it stashed away, thought there was a story there.

I awoke with the first morning light; the birds in the cherry tree were twittering and chirping, but it was too hot to sleep with the window shut. I pushed the fan button to high and fell back onto my sweaty bed.

My head pounded like it did most mornings. An empty Johnny Walker bottle lay on the floor in the middle of a pile of empty Bud tall boys. I noticed I’d missed one.

It was lukewarm, but I cracked it and chugged it anyway. As I felt the warmth and dull pain in my stomach, I could see today was already shaping up to be just a repeat of the day before, the week before, the months before. Before Chuck.

That was my system. Just get buzzed first thing in the morning,  then keep it going all day until falling senselessly into my bed. It was better than remembering.

God help me, I can’t stop.

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper when I came in. He lowered the corner and looked at me.

“Good morning, Edward,” he said. “Another late one, I see.” He looked me up and down. Mom was standing with her back to me at the stove; she stiffened.

“There’s oatmeal on the stove,” he said, going back to his paper. Mom clicked the stove knobs, then took off her apron and faced me.

“Don’t forget this afternoon is your appointment with Dr. Hoover. His office is right next to the bank.” She turned as she was leaving. “Don’t be late.”

Great. Now everybody in town will know I’m seeing a shrink.

It was always about Chuck.

Older than me by seventeen minutes, he was the favorite. He got the old man’s name. He got the most presents, the most hugs, the most praise. He got away with stuff that would have gotten me grounded.

No matter what I did, Chuck was always ahead. I made second-string wide receiver; he was the starting quarterback. I got three As and two Bs; he had straight As. I got elected to the student council; he got elected Homecoming King.

Mom and Dad didn’t even try to hide it. He was never called Charles; it was always Chuck. I was always Edward. Chuck called me Weeder because my hair stuck out like weeds when I was a kid.

I should have been jealous, resentful. But I wasn’t. Chuck was one of those people you can’t just help but like; and besides being the starting QB and Homecoming King, he was my brother. He couldn’t help that he was the favorite; it’s just how it was. He wasn’t trying to upstage me. I loved him anyway.

Chuck and I shared a lot of interests and hobbies. One was surfing. The Beach Boys got the craze going and soon all the kids from school were trying it. We lived on a farm out in the valley and it was a long drive to the beach, but it was always worth it.

Chuck was better than me and took off on waves I never would have tackled. He was a natural and all the kids on the beach watched and pointed when he was out. The way he rode down the face, then back up, ripping off the lip, nose riding, hanging ten…it was awesome. When he paddled in after a long set, the girls just flocked to him. I just shook my head and smiled inside; I got my share of dates from Chuck’s leftovers.

On our long trips, we talked about a lot of stuff. Once, we got into a weird discussion; it started out with how fast life was going by, then into Mom and Dad’s advancing age. Next thing we were talking about burial plots, funeral homes and our dead grandparents, who were buried up by their cabin in the Sierras.

“What about you?” I asked. “Where do you want to be buried?”

Chuck grinned but didn’t look at me; he kept his eye on the road, shimmering with the late day heat.

“Me?” he asked. “Little bro, don’t worry about me. I’m never gonna die.”

One day we drove all the way to Malibu, to the pier. We’d heard about a new thing kids were doing, surfing under it somehow. We got our boards and watched.

It was a big day that afternoon; you could tell by the humps far out to sea. By the time they reached the end of the pier… almost 800 feet offshore…they had drawn back into monsters 10 to 15 feet high. Kids were taking off a hundred yards past the pier and riding them in between the pilings. It was crazy; they were hot dogging around these barnacle-encrusted poles, pushed by a wall of water more than double overhead.

We saw a couple of guys we knew. They came over with their boards. 

“Hey, Gundersen,” they said to Chuck. “Whaddya think?” We all watched as some kid shot out between two pilings and skimmed up to the beach. A bunch of kids clapped and cheered.

“Yeah, man,” Chuck said. “Crazy. I gotta try it.” He started walking toward the shore with his board. “C’mon, Weeder,” he called over his shoulder.

Against my better instincts, I hopped on my board and took off after him. 

That afternoon was the one when I crawled into the bottle.

I remember bits and pieces: The ambulance; the guys trying to get him in a backboard; his ruined face, blood, horrified kids in a circle around us.

I called Mom and Dad from the hospital. I told Dad and he put his hand over the mouthpiece; I heard mumbling, then my Mom, screaming. She just screamed and screamed until my Dad told me he had to go, he was going to meet me at the hospital. She was still screaming as I hung up. Across the lobby, the surgeon stepped through the double doors as he undid his mask. His face said it all.

In the weeks after the funeral, life became bizarre. Mom was put on tranquilizers and slept much of the time. When she was awake, she moved in slow motion, deliberate, like she was trying to remember how to do the simplest things. She rarely spoke.

Dad lost himself in work. From sunrise to sunset, he was busy with the livestock, the crops, the barn. He took the tractor all apart when it was running fine. His eyes, like Mom’s, were hollow, empty. It was like the two of them were sleepwalking through their days. I was ignored.

I was never much of a drinker, but walking past Chuck’s empty room…which was left untouched…gave me a stomach ache. I didn’t have any of Mom’s pills, and Dad was always busy. So I started having a few beers in the evening as Mom and Dad sat on the couch soundlessly, watching TV.

A few turned into more, then a lot. I started hitting the hard stuff that Dad kept in the dining room hutch. Soon I started drinking by lunch, then as soon as I woke up. 

 I couldn’t focus, my grades slipped; Mom and Dad didn’t seem to care. Eventually I just stopped going and laid in bed all day, drinking. Kids called for a while but eventually they moved on and I was alone.

The day came when I woke up, slammed down a few shots of Johnny Walker, and lay in anguish waiting for it to hit. I was tired of carrying the load alone, of being ignored. It had been six months and things were only getting worse.

I snuck into Mom’s bathroom and found her pills. I took every one, then chased it with the rest of the Johnny. I laid down, feeling sick.

Soon, I felt like I was sinking in to my bed; my arms and legs were extraordinarily heavy. My eyes grew heavy and my breathing slowed. Sounds receded until there was only muffled noises. My last thought was of Chuck; he was shaking his head sorrowfully. “Oh man, Weeder,” he said. “It isn’t your time.” 

I remembered no more.

The first thing I heard was beeping and hissing. My mouth felt like sandpaper and my head felt like someone had embedded an axe in it. I opened my eyes; Mom and Dad were sitting by my bed. If I expected gentleness, I was mistaken.

“Edward!” Mom said viciously. “How could you? You think I don’t miss him, too? You think this is all about you?” Her eyes were red. She blew her nose. “I’m barely hanging on and you pull this shit? You want to kill me? You horrible, selfish boy. I wish to God it had—“

She stopped, but not in time. Oh, OK.

Dad just looked at his fingernails as the machines beeped with squiggly lines.

Mrs. Liles…Amy…was my roommate at the hospital, and we became friends. She, too, had tried to take her life by slitting her wrists, but her husband found her in time. She was about thirty, pretty. She wore her hair like the actress in Bewitched.

We had to stay in the psych ward for a month and during that time, I got to know Amy well. I can’t describe the level of pain in our group sessions; everyone there was a suicide survivor and all of the stories were horrible. But little by little, as the weeks went by and we lowered our guard, I found kindred spirits. It was soothing, cathartic to spill your guts to people who got it. There was real camaraderie there. Doctor Hoover ran the sessions and I got to be friends with him.

I wasn’t home three weeks before the drinking started again. Nothing had changed: Chuck was still gone, Mom and Dad were zombies and Chuck’s room called out to me, a knife in the gut every time I passed it.

Amy and I went out for coffee a few times, but it was weird. Without our group…the camaraderie, the support, the caring looks and touches… it felt strange. Like me, her issues were not settled and she also lived day to day.

One afternoon, I walked her to her door. She hugged me tightly, then looked up at me. “We’re gonna make it,” she said. “We’re gonna be OK.” I was surprised by the fierceness in her voice. She hugged me again. “We gotta be,” she said into my sweatshirt. I hugged her back.

The sign on the door downtown was at least discrete; frosted glass with elegant lettering: Dennis F. Hoover, MD. I looked around and snuck inside.

The secretary gave me some forms to fill out, then I sat waiting. Within a few minutes, Dr. Hoover opened the door and beckoned. “C’mon, c’mon inside,” he said. “Good to see you.” His office smelled musty and the walls were filled with diplomas and certificates.

He pointed to a couch as he pulled his desk chair over. I felt weird lying down, so I sat up.

He opened his notepad, and took a pen out of his pocket. “So,” he said. “It’s been three weeks. I’m glad you’re here.” He smiled as he clicked his pen.

“How’re things?” he asked.

How did I start? I could write a novel. I sat trying to compose my thoughts, but nothing came out. I think he got it.

“Look,” he said. “This is a process. I know you’ve got so much inside that you don’t know where to start.” He looked at me kindly, and I felt my throat tighten. “We’ll work on it together, you and me. Some days will be good, some won’t, but if you stick with me, I guarantee we’ll get somewhere eventually. OK?”

He leaned back, signaling he didn’t want to rush anything or pressure me. He put the notepad in his lap.

“Okay,” I said with less conviction than I felt.

My first AA meeting was a lot like the hospital, just less fancy. It was held in a church fellowship hall and everybody drank coffee from a big urn on a table. The first night, I just listened. It was cool, nobody bothered me.

By my third visit, I thought it was time. I stood up and cleared my throat. “Hi everybody,” I said. I’m Edward and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Edward,” everybody said. A few gave me encouraging smiles. There was an awkward silence. 

I started with the accident and worked my way backwards. I had just planned to say a few words, but this pent-up pain was like a boil that had been lanced; things I barely remembered came out. I had to stop a few times when things got blurry, but everybody knew enough to not interrupt. When I finally sat down, I noticed almost 15 minutes had passed.

The leader was sitting next to me. As he put his hand on my shoulder and everybody clapped, I couldn’t help it, the tears started coming and just didn’t stop. Somebody handed me a box of tissues and while other people were sharing, I quietly blew my nose. I wondered what Chuck would have said.

Things began to lighten. Talking with Dr. Hoover and the AA group was helping. I wasn’t out of the woods yet, far from it, but at least I’d stopped drinking before lunch and only beer, no more of the hard stuff.

Other than asking now and then how things were going, nothing had changed with Mom and Dad. One afternoon I sat on Chuck’s bed and picked up the trophy we’d won the year our team won regionals. I remembered that night, all the lights, the crowd in the bleachers. When the clock ran out, Mom and Dad came running out to the bench with all the others, eyes shining.

Chuck had had a great night, almost 300 yards passing, no interceptions. I’d caught a pass for a touchdown. But Mom’s eyes were on Chuck; she radiated pride. “My God, Chuck,” she said. “You were magnificent. I heard there were scouts here.” 

Dad spoke. “I think both boys played well,” he said, smiling at me for a few seconds. But he too was most proud of Chuck and talked about a few of his best passes. The ride home was like listening to two TV sportscasters interviewing the star.

That night I called Amy. The phone rang and rang before someone picked up. It was her husband. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Edward Gundersen. May I speak to Amy, please?”

There was breathing on the phone, and a choking sound. Or maybe a gasp, I don’t know. But her husband’s next words sounded strangled.

“I’m sorry, Edward,” he said. “Amy… is gone. We uh— that is, her mother… found her in the tub yesterday morning. She had uh—“

My body felt numb, like I’d been mildly shocked. Everything got white around the edges and I heard a whine. I felt weak.

“But I just talked with her on Saturday. She was doing fine. She was excited about her Mom coming to visit.”

“I don’t know…” her husband trailed off miserably. “We thought so, too.” He put his hand on the mouthpiece and there was muffled talking. He removed his hand and I heard Amy’s mom sobbing. 

“Look, I gotta go,” he said, and hung up.

I dropped the phone as I collapsed into one of the stools at the kitchen counter. Panic set in; not just unease, or despair, but full-blown Oh shit, what the fu*k do I do NOW terror. 

“We gotta make it,” she had said. She was doing good, better than me. She was on meds, seeing a shrink, active. If she couldn’t make it…what chance did I have? 

Mom and Dad were out. I ran upstairs to their bathroom and found Mom’s pills on the counter. She had just gotten a refill and there were more than enough to do the job. I took the bottle into my room and sat on the bed. I gripped the bottle so tightly my knuckles whitened.

I think what saved me was seeing an appointment card on the floor for Dr. Hoover; I was supposed to see him in two days. I couldn’t wait that long; I couldn’t wait ONE day. I needed him now.

I got the emergency after-hours people and he called me back in ten minutes. “Where are you?” he asked. His voice was concerned, forceful. I told him my address and he spoke again. “Don’t do anything. I’m on my way. Hold on, be there in ten.”

Those ten minutes seemed like an eternity. I paced back and forth, replaying everything in my mind. I still clutched the pills; a few times I took the lid off and looked down at them. Just a bunch of little blue ovals that could make it all go away, for good. I saw the dining hutch and got out the Johnny. There was a pounding on the door.

Doctor Hoover took charge. He had me lay on the leather couch while he pulled dad’s chair close. “OK, tell me what happened.”

I told him about Amy and he winced. I showed him the pills and cursed Chuck. 

“This was all his fault,” I said through my tears.

“Why?”

“Because he should have never tried it that day. I told him. The waves were big and he’d never done it and it was fu*king crazy. But he just had to try it, the other guys were watching. But just for once he shoulda said no.” My fists were knotted.

“And that makes you mad,” said Doctor Hoover. 

“Well shit yeah, it does,” I shouted. “He always had to push it. He always had to be first. I TOLD him don’t do it.”

“And he left you alone, here, to pick up the pieces.”

“Yes! And what really bothers me is—“

He waited. Then, gently: “What?”

I angrily wiped away a tear. “Because I was supposed to go next. I promised him. But when I saw him between the pilings, I froze. I chickened out. I didn’t—“

“…die?” asked Dr. Hoover. He looked at me sorrowfully.

“No!” I shouted.

“He did,” he said. “And you didn’t.”

“Yes…yes…” I cried. I was beyond feeling, beyond sadness. I was lost at sea and only Dr. Hoover’s light kept me from smashing into a reef. “It should have been me. They wouldn’t be nearly as sad. They blame me, you know. She wanted it to be me.”

“But here you are,” he said. “Alive and well. Can you live with that?”

I shook my head. “I want to. But I can’t.”

He continued. “Edward, Chuck forgives you. On some level, your parents do, too. All that’s needed—“ he paused. “All that’s needed is for you to forgive yourself.”

He reached over and hugged me and as I felt his scratchy corduroy jacket on my cheek, a still, small voice spoke deep inside.

Mom didn’t last long after that. I think the stress did her a lot more harm than everybody realized. She suffered a massive heart attack one night and was rushed to the hospital.

It was a strange role reversal, Mom hooked up to IVs and machines and me sitting helplessly by her side with Dad.

“It’s OK, Mom,” I said. I held hand and looked into her eyes. I saw profound sorrow; not only for her loss, but with every fiber of her being wishing I was Chuck. She broke my gaze, squeezed my hand, then laid back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

Thirty years have passed; Dad is long gone. When I go to see Chuck, Mom and Dad’s stones flank his.

They’re the kind with little photos in them. It’s like we’re having a little family get together, the old days, their faces gazing out with expressions that will remain unchanged forever.

And sometimes when I sit and put the flowers in the urns, I realize one day my picture will also be there; the four of us, smiling at visitors.

They must have had a wonderful life.

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