“No, you don’t.”
I sucked in a deep breath that I hoped would bring me clarity, but it didn’t. “Yes,” I nodded, “yes, I do.”
“You’re upset,” she stated.
“No fucking shit, Audrey!”
She laid a hand against my shoulder. “Oh, God, Blake, I’m not attacking you.”
I thrust my hands out against the backdrop of buildings and sky and shouted, “The whole fucking world is attacking me! This entire fucking universe has been attacking me since the day I ruined my brother’s life, and all I’ve ever wanted to do was keep him safe. That’s all I was ever supposed to do. That’s it! And the second I stop to be fucking selfish and live my fucking life for myself, this is what happens.”
“Blake, you have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I know exactly what I’m saying!”
“No. You don’t,” she stated firmly, leaving her hand on my arm. “Why don’t we go back inside? I talked to them; they understand. You can come back in and see Jake, but I need you to calm down, okay? Please, just try to calm down.”
I shook my head with such a bitter taste in my mouth, I spat bile onto the sidewalk. The world around me felt weird. Unreal and cruel and nearly post-apocalyptic. I looked at the sky through a bleary haze of existential rage and silently asked what the fuck Jake had ever done to deserve this shitty hand he’d been dealt. What the fuck did he do? What the fuck did he ever do to deserve a brother who stole from him, a mother who denied him normalcy, and a father who had turned a blind eye? What the fuck could he have possibly done?
Audrey stood, wrapped her hands around my arm and tugged. “Come on, Blake. Come with me.”
Slowly, I shook my head, turning from the sky to look at her and catching a glimpse of that goddamn motherfucking tattoo on her chest. And suddenly, it was so clear, so transparent, and I lifted a finger to touch it. The delicate structure of her sternum was ungiving beneath my touch.
“It all started with this,” I said to nobody, then I looked at her. “You never knew how to leave me the fuck alone.”
“Blake, let’s—”
“You could never just leave me the fuck alone! You’ve always been following me, hounding me, refusing to fucking leave, until I finally give in, and what happens? Everything goes completely to hell!”
She finally let go. “What?”
“Just leave me the fuck alone, Audrey!”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m fucking begging you to,” I pleaded through gritted teeth. “I need you to go the fuck away and leave me the fuck alone.”
Swallowing, she slowly nodded. “I’ll leave,” she whispered, cautiously relenting. “But I’m not gone, Blake. Do you understand? I’m not out of your life, I’m just going home.”
Home.
I wanted to be home. I wanted to be in my bed and in her arms. I wanted my shoes and blanket, all my things and my tea. I wanted sleep, and above everything else, I wanted my brother. I wanted his music on my stereo. I wanted his movies playing on the TV, Legos all over the living room floor, and pancakes every fucking night for dinner. I wanted his stupid fucking dog shedding all over my house, drooling on the couch, and getting his food on the kitchen floor. And at the thought of Mickey, my hand drooped to my side, scraping my knuckles against the concrete.
“Where’s Mickey?” I spoke, my voice rough and broken.
Audrey sank to her knees in front of me. “Mickey died, Blake.”
I shook my head furiously. “You don’t know that.”
But she nodded and reached out with a trembling hand. Her palm grazed my cheek, her fingers aimed for my hair. “Your dad told me.”
A sob broke through my lips as I continued to shake my head. “Fuck,” I blubbered. “He loves that fucking dog.”
“I know ... I know,” she whispered, collecting me in her arms.
She stroked her fingers through my hair and listened to me cry and wail. She coddled me, rubbed my back, and rocked with the gentle wind, never mentioning that she was cold and shivering. Never complaining that my fingers were bruising her back. Never letting go until I had settled in an exhausted heap against her shoulder.
Then, she kissed my cheek, my temple, my forehead, my lips, and said, “You’re gonna go inside and see your brother. I’m gonna take your car and go home. Do you have your phone?” I could only nod in reply before she continued, “Okay. Call me when you want me to come get you. Okay?”
I nodded again and her lips touched my forehead once more. “Fight for him, Blake,” she whispered, and left me alone on the sidewalk.
Chapter Thirty-Two
JAKE HAD TAKEN Mickey and his backpack, filled with his Gremlins DVD, iPod, headphones, and stuffed dog—the necessities. Wearing his Mickey Mouse pajamas and a black coat, he’d walked two blocks away from my parents’ residential neighborhood before reaching a main road. Visibility was low and the roads hadn’t been plowed yet. They were slippery from the snow and ice, and by the time the driver saw him and the dog, she couldn’t stop fast enough.
She’d hit Mickey first, and according to her account of the accident, Jake hadn’t reacted. He’d probably been stunned, frozen, completely unsure of what to do, and she hit him with her Jeep.
The time of impact had been 12:22 in the morning.
The driver, a kind woman named Lacey, had escaped with not a scratch on her body, but a gaping gash across her heart. After calling 9-1-1 and the number on Mickey’s collar, Lacey had sat in the snowy road, cradling Jake’s bleeding head in her lap, until the ambulance arrived. My parents came shortly after, and that’s when Dad had called me.
Now, in a curtained area of the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit, I sat with my parents in a foggy silence, caught somewhere between being asleep and awake. I stared forward at my brother’s lifeless body, wrapped in bruises and bandages, and thought, that’s what I’d look like if I was dying. It was so fucked up and morbid, but fuck it. That was the truth. That’s exactly what I’d look like, and God, how I wished it really was me instead of him.
As angry as I’d been, the doctors really had done everything they could. They had repaired his lung, punctured by two fractured ribs. Had sewn up the cut across his forehead and stitched all the minor scratches on his face and hands. They’d also set and casted his broken leg and ankle, with a warning that he’d likely need further surgery if he pulled through.
If he pulled through …
It was the head injury that really had them worried. The swelling and bleeding on his brain had been alleviated as much as the doctors could, but to say they weren’t hopeful for his survival was an understatement. And even if he did make it through the morning, they’d said, there was no guaranteeing that he’d wake up. “If he does get very lucky—and I mean, very lucky,” the doctor had said, “there’s no telling how much damage has been done, especially given the condition of his brain before the accident. Something like this would likely be catastrophic.”
Considering that Jake’s luck hadn’t been all that great since the ripe old age of ten, I wasn’t so confident in his chances now, but I was hoping. I was hoping, and hoping, and if anybody was out there to hear me, I hoped it was paying off.