When I get home, Georgia greets me at the door with a huge hug, squeezing the breath from me.
“How was your day in the scented candle mines?” My heart’s not remotely in the joke—one of our regulars—but I make it as a halfhearted nod to normalcy.
I feel her half smile on my cheek. “If I pretend that’s still clever, will it cheer you up?”
“Maybe.”
She pulls back and takes my hands. “Hey. You hanging in there?”
“Define ‘hanging in there.’ I’m alive. My heart’s beating.”
“Time’s the only thing that can touch this.”
My sister is only a little older than me, but she’s sometimes wiser than her years. “Then I want to go to sleep and wake up a decade from now.”
We stare at each other for a second. My eyes well with tears. It’s not sadness or exhaustion this time. It’s Georgia’s goodness. I’m a total baby in the presence of unalloyed kindness. I choke up when I see YouTube videos about people donating a kidney to a stranger or saving a starving dog or something.
“I know you miss them,” Georgia says. “I’ll miss them. Even Eli constantly trying to look down my shirt.”
“Once Mars drew a picture of you in a bikini as a present for Eli.”
She rolls her eyes. “Did you at least defend my honor?”
“Of course. I mean, it was a really good picture, though. Mars was good.” I choke up.
Georgia gives an oh-you-poor-thing wince and hugs me again. “There’s some lasagna left.”
“I ate at Blake’s.”
“Mom and Dad called while you were at the funeral. They were checking up on you. Call them.”
“Okay.” I hesitate before spilling. “So—a reporter ambushed me after the funeral.”
Georgia’s face sours. “What? A reporter wanted to talk to you after the funeral of your best friend? Are you shitting me? The hell?”
“Yeah. He was superpushy. Like”—I imitate Darren’s voice—“ ‘Well, Carver, I gotta write about this, and the news doesn’t wait for grief, so if you wanna tell me your side, you better.’ ”
She rears back, folds her arms, and does that pissed-off thing with her lips that absolutely only girls of a certain age can do. “What’s this dipshit’s name?”
I know the look on her face. It’s the look she used to get every time I told her about kids picking on me in middle school, just before she went to “sort things out.” “Please don’t. I guarantee it’d make things worse.”
“For him.” (She isn’t wrong.)
“For me.”
We stand at an impasse. She sniffs at me. “Speaking of news: you kinda stink.”
“I was wearing a suit all day and it was superhot, but whatever.”
“Go shower. You’ll feel better.”
“I’m despondent and I apparently smell like gross balls. How could I possibly ever feel better than I do now?”
Georgia’s right; I’m improved when I get out of the shower, dry off, and flop naked on my bed. I stare at the ceiling for a while. When I tire of that, I dress in a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
I open my blinds, letting the peach-hued dusk cast long shadows in my room. I sit at my desk and open my laptop. Glowing on the screen is the story I’m working on. Any illusion I have of losing myself in that, though, quickly vanishes.
I live in a part of Nashville called West Meade. My street has an unusual characteristic: a train track running behind it on a raised berm. Trains come by every hour or so. In the distance, I hear a train whistle. I watch the setting sunlight strobe between the train cars as they pass behind the 1960s-era houses directly across the street from mine. I pick up my phone to call my parents, but I can’t. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone.
And suddenly I have the overwhelming sensation of swirling down the drain of a bottomless melancholic boredom. Not the please-kill-me-when-will-this-class-be-over sort. The sort where you realize that your three best friends are, at this very moment, experiencing the afterlife or oblivion, while you sit on your ass watching a train pass as your laptop screen darkens and goes to sleep.
Darkens and goes to sleep. That’s what happened to my friends. And I have no idea where they are right now. I have no idea what’s become of their intelligence, their experience, their stories.
I’m a casual believer in God. My family goes to church at St. Henry’s maybe four or five times a year. My dad says he believes in God enough to make himself suffer over it but not enough to make anyone else suffer over it. My belief has never been tested in this way. I’ve never had to examine myself to decide whether I truly believe that my friends are currently in the presence of some benevolent and loving God. What if there is no God? Where are they? What if they’re each locked in some huge white marble room with blank walls and they’re there for eternity with nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to read, nobody to talk to?
What if there’s a hell? A place of eternal torment and punishment? What if they’re there? Burning. Screaming in agony.
What if I’m going there when I die for killing my friends? What if Nana Betsy has no power to forgive and exonerate me?
I feel like I’m watching something heavy and fragile slide slowly off a high shelf. My mind swirls with mysteries. The eternities. Life. Death. I can’t stop it. It’s like staring in the mirror for too long or saying your name too many times and becoming disconnected from any sense of yourself. I begin to wonder if I’m even still alive; if I exist. Maybe I was in the car too.
The room dims.
I’m tingling.
I’ve fallen through ice into frigid black water.
I can’t breathe.
My heart screams.
This is not right. I’m not fine.
My vision narrows, as if I’m standing deep in a cave, looking out. Spots form in front of my eyes. The walls are crushing me.
I’m gasping. I need air. My heart.
Gray, desolate dread descends on me—a cloud of ash blocking the sun. A complete absence of light or warmth. A tangible, mold-scented obscurity. A revelation: I will never again experience happiness.
Air. I need air. I need air. I need air. I need.
I try to stand. The room pitches and tosses, heaving. I’m walking on a sheet of Jell-O. I try again to stand. I lose my balance and fall backward, over my chair, thudding on the hardwood floor.
It’s one of those nightmares where you can’t run or scream. And it’s happening to me this moment in the dying light of this day of dying. AND I AM DYING TOO.
“Georgia,” I croak. AIR. I NEED AIR. My pulse thrums in my temples.
I start crawling toward the door. I can’t stand. “GEORGIA, help me. Help me.”
I hear Georgia open the door. “Carver, what the shit? Are you okay?” She sounds like she’s calling down a well. Her bare feet slap on the floor as she runs to me.
Her hands on my face. I gasp. “Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.”
“Okay, okay. Breathe. I need you to breathe. Are you hurt? Did you do something to yourself?”
“No. Just happened. Can’t breathe.”
“Did you take anything? Drugs?”
“No.”
She stands up and presses her hands to the sides of her head. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What do I do?” she says, more to herself than me. She kneels beside me again and slings my arm over her shoulder. “Okay. We’re going to the ER.”
“Nine-one-one.”
“No. We’ll get there faster if I take you. Come on. Up.”
With a grunt, she helps me to my knees. I’m seeing double.
“Okay, Carver, I need you to try to stand and I’ll support you. You’re too heavy for me to lift.”
I make it to my feet, where I sway drunkenly. I put one foot in front of the other until we’re outside. Georgia sits me in the passenger seat of her Camry and runs inside for her phone, her wallet, a pair of sandals for her, and a pair of shoes for me. I want to puke. I close my eyes and try to breathe through the nausea.
While I wait, I wonder if it’s annoying God to be missing the last member of Sauce Crew in his collection. I wonder if dying right now wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It would certainly solve a lot of the problems I foresee in the immediate future.
When we arrive at the St. Thomas West Hospital ER, about ten minutes from our house (with Georgia exceeding the speed limit by twenty-five miles per hour), I’m breathing easier and I’m less queasy. My vision has opened up a little, my heartbeat has slowed, and in general, I’m a lot less certain I’m going to die, which comes as a strange disappointment.
I’m able to walk into the ER on my own. While I’m filling out paperwork, Georgia pulls out her phone and starts scrolling through her contacts.
I pause mid–check mark. “Are you calling Mom and Dad?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t.”
“Carver.”
“What? Don’t worry them. Plus it’s probably the middle of the night in Italy.”
“I know you aren’t stupid.”
“I’m serious. Just…we’ll tell them when they’re home.”
“Okay. We are sitting in the ER after you fully had some weird deal. I’m calling Mom and Dad. End of story.”
“Georgia.”
“We are not, like, debating this. I wonder if I can legally give consent for you to be treated. Fortunately, they don’t seem to care about parental consent at the ER.”
Georgia’s a sophomore biology major at the University of Tennessee, with plans to go to medical school. She’s probably loving this on some level.
“No answer,” Georgia mutters. “Hey, Mom, this is Georgia. I’m at St. Thomas ER with Carver. He had some sort of…episode after the funeral. He’s doing okay now. Call me.”
I slump in my chair and stare forward.
Georgia finds my eyes. “Why are you so weird about opening up to Mom and Dad when you’re vulnerable?”
“I don’t know. It’s embarrassing.”
“They want to be a part of your life. So many kids would kill to have our parents.”
“Can we not talk about this now? I feel shitty enough.” She’s right, but I can’t deal with yet another kind of guilt.
“Well, we might be waiting awhile.”
“Let’s find something else to talk about.”
“All I’m saying is that when we’re down, we need the people who love us.”
“Got it.”
“Got it,” Georgia says, mimicking my voice.
I’m feeling better now, less like I’m facing imminent death or confinement to some dread-filled limbo. Only exhaustion mixed with shapeless anxiety. Which I guess is my new normal. Too spent to experience much embarrassment, though, which is a relief.
It’s several minutes before a nurse comes to talk to me about my symptoms and take my blood pressure. They run an EKG. A little while after that, the doctor comes to see us. She gives off a reassuringly chipper go-ahead-try-to-shock-me aplomb even though she doesn’t look much older than Georgia. It’s weird to imagine Georgia wearing scrubs and treating people in a few years. She’ll probably try to guilt-trip all her patients.
“Hello, Carver. Dr. Stefani Craig. Nice to meet you. Sorry you’re not doing well. Tell me what’s going on.”
I describe what happened. Dr. Craig nods. “You paint quite the picture.” She clicks her pen, looking over my chart. “Have you been under any extraordinary stress lately?”
“You mean besides my three best friends dying in a car accident last week?”
She stops clicking her pen and freezes, her brisk confidence abruptly vanishing. “My God. The texting accident? I read about that in the Tennessean. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”
“I was at a funeral a few hours ago.”
She winces and sighs. “Well. The timing, the symptoms, your EKG: it’s a textbook panic attack. I had a roommate in med school who got them around finals. They’re common among people who’ve experienced a traumatic event. Or three. Normally, they happen a little later and at more unexpected times, but you may be wired differently.”
“So—”
“So physically you’re a healthy seventeen-year-old. You’re not going to die from this. You may never even have another panic attack as long as you live. But you’ve had psychological trauma and it’s important to work through it. There are medications, but I’d prefer any such prescription come from a mental health professional. You have insurance. I’d look into who takes your plan and see someone. That’s my official recommendation.”
“We have someone,” Georgia said.
I look over at Georgia. She mouths, “Later.”
“Great,” Dr. Craig says, extending her hand. “Anyway, you’re good to go. Carver, all the best. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss. What a difficult thing to deal with, especially at your age.”
Especially at my age. I bet this is something I’m going to be hearing a lot in the days to come. I shake her hand. “Thanks.”
She hurries off to deal with people who are actually hurt and not merely crazy. I wonder if I would have preferred that there be something physically wrong with me. Something you could heal with a cast. Stitch up. Excise. My mind is all that makes me special. I can’t afford to lose it.
We sign some more paperwork and leave. Georgia’s phone rings as we’re walking out in the parking lot. I listen to her side of the conversation. “Hey….No, he’s fine. It was a panic attack. Said they’re normal during stressful—Right….Yeah….No, don’t. We’re literally leaving this minute. We’ll talk when y’all get home….Just— I know….I know….Yeah, I’m gonna talk to him. No, I said I’ll talk to him. Okay. Okay. Love you. Have a safe flight and don’t stress. We’ll see you at the airport. Okay. Hang on.”
“Is that Mom?”
“Telemarketer. I swear, these guys.”
“Hilarious.”
Georgia hands me her phone. “Here. She wants to talk to you.”
My mom sounds distraught. She puts me on speaker with my dad. I summon all my strength to tell them I’m okay; that I’m going to be okay. I tell them I’ll see them soon.
Georgia unlocks her car and we get in. It’s dark out, but the car is still warm and it comforts me like a blanket.
I recline in my seat with my eyes closed, further sapped by the effort of trying to seem as fine as possible for my parents. “Sorry to make you bring me here for nothing.”
Georgia puts her key in the ignition and starts to turn it but stops. “It wasn’t nothing. You had a panic attack. You didn’t know if you were having a heart attack or what.”
“I want this day to be over. I want this life to be over.”
“Carver.”
“I’m not going to kill myself. Chill. I just wish I could go to sleep and wake up when I’m eighty.”
“No you don’t.”
“I really do.”
“We need to discuss what the doctor said. About talking to someone. And you don’t talk to Mom and Dad. You’re Mr. Secret Agent High School Boy with them.”
“I’ll talk to you.”
Georgia starts the car and backs out. “That won’t work. First off, UT starts in a couple of weeks, so I won’t be here.”
“We can talk on the phone.”
“…Second, I don’t have the training to deal with this stuff. Dude, this is serious. Therapists are the real deal.”
“Mmmmm.” I lean my head on the window and stare out.
“Remember when I hit that rough patch senior year? After Austin and I broke up?”
“You seemed depressed.”
“I was. And I was having eating issues. I went to see a therapist named Dr. Mendez, and he was way cool and helpful.”
“You never mentioned that.”
“I didn’t want to advertise it.”
“I don’t want him to tell me I’m crazy.”
“So you’d rather be crazy. Look, he won’t tell you that. Plus they won’t even let you be a writer if you’ve never needed to be in therapy.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’m here for you, Carver, but you need to see Dr. Mendez.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
I don’t say anything more on the short drive home. Instead, I reflect on frailty. Mine. Life’s.
I want to live unburdened again.