Using his thumb and index finger, Bishop instinctively attempted to enlarge the boyish faces of both he and his brother in the Polaroid picture as if it were a smartphone screen. He laughed at himself the second he realized what he was doing.
Seated atop his sloppy bed, he sat among an array of loose photos and old photo albums. The album of particular interest was the Christmas album from when he was nine years old. The family spent the holiday in South Africa and it seemed the entire retreat was well documented as numerous pictures detailed daily events.
The faces of his mother and father boasted a youthful glow to them. Although Bishop was under the impression that his father was quite handsome for his age, he couldn’t help but take note at how much the man had aged. Perhaps the rigorous work schedule he’d maintained had hung additional years on his face.
Recalling such times was beyond bittersweet. It left Bishop smiling one second, and nauseated the next.
Pictures collected and albums returned to the tattered box from which they came; Bishop made his way down the stairs in gyms shorts and a tank top.
“I’m out, Mom.”
“Out of what, Bish?”
“No, silly head. I’m leaving to meet Monica.”
Seemingly put off by her son’s clothing, his mother evaluated him. “You’re meeting her in this attire?”
“That’s not nice, Mom. Yes. I’m meeting her in this attire. It’s after hours.”
“Oh…okay, sweet boy. I didn’t mean…you look fine. But this ensemble gives the impression that you’re on your way to the ball court, not to—”
“Get my head checked? Screws tightened?” His smiled assured his sarcasm.
“Your mind is beautiful, Bishop.”
“Maybe. I’m going to go run around the lake when I get done.”
“Which side?”
“No, like the entire lake.”
“Bishop, it’s twenty miles around the lake.”
“Yes ma’am. Needless to say I’ll be hungry when I get home. We should go eat or something.”
***
“But just then, the moments before you heard what you heard, what words were exchanged exactly, Bishop?”
Monica’s office was located on the fifth floor of a tall building. It was clear she was only there temporarily as there were no endearing articles decorating her walls or desk.
“It’s just really hard to actually talk about I guess. Actually saying it out loud is harder than I thought.”
“That’s understandable, Bishop. Can you try?”
“I’m really not trying to be difficult, promise. I just don’t understand why that piece is so important.”
“I need to get a solid understanding of the details. Please, Bishop, continue.”
Literally forcing the saliva in his throat downward, Bishop looked toward the wall. “Um…it kinda went all fuzzy. I threw on some jeans and was down the stairs when he just really stopped talking. He was there, but just…just not saying anything.”
“What did you say to him then, Bishop?”
“I could hear him crying a little. And I could hear some wind. I told him I was on my way to him and he told me no. He told me…”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Bishop found himself squirming in the chair across from Monica—regretting the idea of agreeing to meet with her.
“Yes?”
“He told me to be still…to stay there and be still.”
“What do you think he meant by that, Bishop?”
“At the time I didn’t know. I just thought he meant he wanted me to stay on the phone but it was so damn cold outside my primary concern was to get his dumbass back in doors.”
“What did you say next?”
“Just that I was on my way out the door…and that’s when he told me he had it.”
“The gun?”
“Yep.”
“Bishop, what did you say to him when he told you he had the gun?”
“I just…I started yelling into the phone. I yelled his name and told him to put it down and wait for me.”
“What did Nathan say to that?”
The palms of Bishop’s hands pressed mercilessly together as he nervously glanced about the bare walls. “He said…he was all calm…I was like, yelling, but he was calm. He just said to be still.”
“You’re doing well, Bishop. What did you say to Nathan after he said to be still?”
“I started crying. I started crying pretty hard. I begged him to just stay there until I got there. I told him how much I loved him and that…that I couldn’t be here without him.”
His gaze now to the floor, Bishop found that recalling the memory of that night produced an actual pain in him—not a metaphorical pain—an actual pain.
“What did Nathan say then?”
“He said…um…he said, I love you too, Bishop…now…now take your ear away from the phone.”
Bishop looked to Monica to see her studying him.
“Is that when you heard the gunshot, Bishop?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do then?”
“Um…I just remember I was outside in nothing but my jeans. I didn’t have any shoes or a shirt on. I was yelling. I might have been cold but I don’t remember.”
“That’s when the Castleburry’s came to assist you?”
“Yeah, our neighbors got me back inside and called the police. I just…I feel like I want to fast forward at least a little bit if that’s okay.”
“So, Bishop, now that you’ve had time to distance yourself from this awful event, can you describe your feelings toward Nathan now?”
Gentle in her approach and demeanor, Bishop was uneasy, yet far from put off or angered with Monica’s questioning. Her methods were mild and, though they left Bishop longing for the interaction to be over, they didn’t leave him harboring hostility for his mother’s friend.
“I’m just…I’m just pissed. I’m mad. And the weird thing is that I’m not mad that he did it, I’m mad that I didn’t know he was capable of doing that. I’m mad at him for not telling me he was that sad. But…but I’m not mad at him for leaving. If he needed to go…if he was hurting that bad…I’m not mad I guess.”
“Bishop, that’s an interesting and mature outlook. You don’t hold a grudge toward Nathan for his suicide?”
The word suicide hurt. Bishop had grown to hate it. Before it was just a word with a sad meaning—now it was a scour-pad, looking for open wounds.
“No. I can’t. I can’t be mad at him for something I don’t understand. I don’t understand why he was that sad. Or at least I didn’t.”
“Didn’t?” Monica’s tone sharpened as she propped her head atop her hand, looking toward Bishop.
“Yeah. I didn’t understand what it was like to be that sad until Nathan died. Now it’s like I…” Bishop’s words trailed as his eyes glistened.
“It’s okay to cry here, Bishop.”
“I know. I cry all the time.”
“Can you continue, or at least try?”
“It’s like I wake up sad and I go to bed sad and there’s brief moments throughout the day—little tiny moments—where I’m not sad but only because I forget for like a nanosecond. And then I basically feel guilty for feeling anything but sad I guess. So, I guess I get it now. I get what it’s like to be sad all the time.”
“But, Bishop, do you ever feel sad enough to do what Nathan did? Do you ever think about suicide?”
Again—the scour pad.
“Yes.”
“How often.”
“Every day.”
“And have you ever acted on those impulses?”
“Acted? Nah. I just drink and pop a couple pills and try to sleep.”
“Bishop, did you ever think about suicide prior to what Nathan—”
“No. Never. I never once thought about anything like that.”
“Bishop, I feel you’re being genuine and honest with me. Do you feel you’re at risk for hurting yourself?”
The question left Bishop dumbstruck for nearly three seconds. “It’s not that I don’t like life. I miss it. I miss waking up happy and wanting to get out of bed. If I knew how to get back to it, I would. I don’t know how to do that without…” Burying his face in his palms, Bishop began crying.
“Without what, Bishop?” Her words—motherly and soft—exacerbated his tears.
“Without leaving him behind.”
“You feel guilty because you feel like you’re leaving him behind and continuing on with your life?”
“Y…yes.”
“Bishop, that’s completely natural. You’re stuck in this—”
“I didn’t know it was possible to miss someone this much! I’ve…I’ve heard of it and seen it and shit…but I didn’t know it was actually possible. I’ll never get over this. I miss him too much. I can’t live without my brother.”
Bishop’s face remained planted in his palms as he felt Monica’s hand on his shoulder.
“There, there, Bishop. This is common. We are going to get you through this, okay?”
“I just…I don’t see how it’s possible.”
“A lot of things might seem impossible from where you are right now, Bishop. That’s why you need to let someone else guide the way momentarily. This process is tricky and often extremely taxing. With dedication, there can be resolution.”
Attempting to wipe his saturated eyes, Bishop finally raised his face—his gaze meeting Monica’s.
“I want to help you, Bishop. Let me help you.”
Forcing a half-smile while nodding his head, Bishop’s ailing voice produced but one word. “Okay.”