Rachel Dyken - Toxic

It was why my music major wasn’t performance, as the asshat had assumed. It was music theory. I wanted to be a professor. I wanted safe. Safe meant I’d have a job, that I’d be able to pay off my ridiculous student loans, and that I wouldn’t fail.

Safe was all I had. Because when you took chances you got hurt and I was so done being hurt. Most people went to college hoping for an adventure — I’d be happy with a diploma and a mug with my alma mater on it. Nothing was more important to me than not having to worry.

Typical for someone who’s been taking care of her family for the past few years. I was all my little brother and my mom had. They were counting on me to make something of myself so that I could, in turn, provide for them.

And it wasn’t even like they were asking a lot. They just wanted me to graduate and find a job that brought in decent enough money so we wouldn’t have to live paycheck to paycheck.

I shook my head. Practice. Mom. Eric. Those were my motivators, not some tattooed, spoiled bad boy who liked attacking innocent girls in music rooms.

Nice. I was a romance novel waiting to happen.

I closed my eyes and placed my hands on the smooth keys and so began my two hour practice session.

I kept a picture of us in my pillowcase like an absolute nutjob. She’d had it in her pocket the day of the accident. I wanted it as close to my face as possible when I slept every night. Because every night I went to bed hoping it was all a bad dream, and every morning I woke up to the terrifying reality that it was not. You’d think I would stop hoping…but I’d never stop. I’d never stop praying for God to take it away. —Gabe H.

Gabe

I pulled out onto 405 South and took the exit toward the other side of Seattle. How many times had I driven this same route over the years? Through rain, snow, sleet, hail. Shit, I was like a dog with a trail in his owner’s back yard. Predictable to the extreme. I was either at school or at the Home. I increased the speed, hoping that it would decrease the sharp pain in my chest. I was messing everything up just by existing, it was too tempting. To end everything. End everyone’s misery.

Almost as tempting as dropping the whole happy-go-lucky bullshit act and actually pouring my feelings out to anyone. Hell, I’d even pour them out to Lisa at this point, but she was too close to the situation. It would just make her cry, and I hated seeing that girl cry. Correction, I hated seeing any girl cry. The last time Kiersten cried I wanted to do a freaking heart transplant so she wouldn’t hurt anymore. I would have gladly taken her pain. After all, what was one more broken heart when yours was in a constant state of being shattered?

The moist air bit into my leather jacket as I got closer to the water. I slowed down once I pulled up to the Pacific Northwest Group Home and put my bike in its usual spot.

The building had once been an old hospital but had been converted into a group home with an adjoining retirement home in the late fifties. Later it was remodeled to include a state of the art treatment center for people with brain injuries. Every time I parked in that spot, the same feelings washed over me. Dread, heartache, confusion, guilt.

Luckily, the building was a pristine white with exposed wood, making it look more like a set of cabins on the water than what it really was.

For some reason I was delaying the inevitable. My feet felt like lead as I approached the doors. It had been… different since Wes’s surgery. Or maybe I was different? Whatever it was, I wasn’t dealing with anything well.

I walked toward the main building — the treatment center — and braced myself for impact. The first steps into the entrance were always the hardest.

“Gabe!” Martha clutched a clipboard to her chest and let out a sigh of relief. “I know it’s not your normal day but—”

“It’s fine!” I flashed her a smile when I all I wanted to do was turn around and march back out to my bike and cry. I was here five days a week. You’d think it would be enough. But lately, even being there twenty-four seven wasn’t doing the trick. She was failing. And it was my fault. Martha gave me a sympathetic pat on the hand.

Aw, pity. Lovely. I cleared my throat and forced a wider smile. “You look great. Have you lost weight?”

Good call, Gabe. Just hit on the elderly because that’s been known to make everything better.

“Such a nice gentleman.” She elbowed me in the ribs as I wrapped my left arm around her, pulling her in for a hug. “I still don’t understand why you don’t find a nice young girl and settle down.”

My entire body tensed.

Did she still really not know? How in my heart that would be the final nail in the coffin? To settle down and finally — forget.

“Yeah, well.” I laughed it off. “Most girls my age can’t keep up. I’m into older women. You got any ideas of who I could seduce out of her scrubs?”

“Oh, you.” She hit me with the clipboard. “I could be your grandmother and you know it.”

“So you’ll think about it?” I kissed her cheek in good fun.

“Oh, I never said I didn’t.” She winked. “Now, she’s just in there. The nurses finally calmed her down a bit with a game of checkers.”

“Let me guess, she’s destroying everyone.”

“It seems the only way to calm her down is competition.” Martha shrugged and handed me the clipboard. “Just be sure to sign out when you leave.”

I took the board. “No problem.”

Nurses and staff shuffled by me, each of them hurrying off in different directions, getting things prepared for the day. Martha went back to the main desk while I made my way through the long hall toward the game room, passing the security team on the way. The two men nodded in my direction — as they should, considering I paid their asses — and opened the door to the room.

Laughter danced off the walls.

Her laughter.

I grinned despite my shitty attitude and the fact that I was sweating. When had I ever been hesitant to visit her? Or any of the patients? I shook it off as the large metal door closed behind me.

“Gabe!” Old man Henry wheeled himself over to me and held out his hand. “Didn’t know you were gracing us with your presence today!”

“Count yourself lucky.” I took his hand and reached into my pocket to pull out a piece of taffy. “Shh, don’t tell Martha.”

“That woman was a drill sergeant in another life.” Henry shook his head, “Last time she caught me with pudding I was on bathroom duty! In my condition!” He pointed at his legs. They were strapped against the chair so he didn’t lose balance and fall out. A farm accident had nearly killed him, but it didn’t keep him from volunteering his time. Once his wife died he decided to move into the retirement home next door — unfortunately, Martha was head nurse for both buildings and had the ear of the cooks, meaning he never got sugar. Poor guy.

“Hey, Gabe!” Sarah practically tripped over Henry’s chair to jump into my arms. She was my age but because of an accident had memory issues. For some reason, though, she remembered my name. Probably because I was the only constant thing in her life.

My heart ached a bit as I set her back on her feet and kissed her cheek. “Do a twirl for me, Sarah. Let’s see this dress.”

She laughed and did a twirl then went to go sit at the far table. Where I knew I was being patiently waited for.

“Henry.” I saluted him and walked toward the table.

“Parker.” A muffled voice rose from the table, nearly bringing me to my knees. I told myself to be strong, but it was so damned hard and getting harder. She reminded me of every mistake I’d made, every bad road I’d traveled.

She looked thinner than when I saw her last week. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a pink scrunchie — her favorite color — and she was wearing her favorite Oregon Ducks sweatshirt.

Another really bad sign.

She only wore the sweatshirt on bad days.

She’d been having bad days for the past two weeks.

And every time I tried asking the doctors what was going on they’d just shake their heads and say the human condition was a mystery. Her health was failing and they had no freaking clue why. She’d already suffered through two bouts of pneumonia where she needed to be physically restrained so they could calm her down enough to put a tube down her throat to help her breathe.

The second time she’d screamed my name over and over again. I’d stayed overnight and prayed that God would just take her. Even though it would hurt like hell, I wanted Him to take her.

Watching her suffer was like going to bed and praying that when you wake up things would be better. I’d been told that all my life, just to sleep on things and they always look better in the morning.

It didn’t work anymore.

Because now when I woke up, things always looked worse.

“Princess?” I knelt down next to her wheelchair and took her hand in mine. She was paralyzed from the neck down, so it was impossible for her to feel the warmth of my skin — but I still held her hand anyway.

One time I forgot to hold it and she thought I was mad at her. When I asked how she could feel my hand in the first place, she said she couldn’t, but she did still have two eyes. I’d laughed and grabbed her hand, promising to never let go.

“You haven’t been here, Park.” Her lower lip jutted out as her mouth dropped open a bit. So she was pouting. Fantastic.

And this was what I was talking about. I’d done my daily duty by showing up for at least a half hour to an hour each day. But it still wasn’t enough. She always forgot, meaning I’d had to start calling at night too. That had begun a month ago, and things still weren’t getting better.