“No!” Jolting from sleep, Bishop frantically attempted to decipher fragments of fleeting dreams from reality. “No!”
His hands darted blindly across his bedding—the anxiety brewing in his core mounted to something unmanageable. Phone in hand, the well-lit screen hurt to look at. “He called! What? He…I know he called!”
Free from his tangled sheets and stumbling to the light switch, Bishop lit the room in an attempt to regain clarity. The commotion gained the company of his concerned mother—charging up the stairs and through his bedroom door.
“Bishop! Bishop, honey, what’s wrong?”
“Mom! I…I was…I…”
Walking to him, Constance placed her hand on his shoulder. “Sweet boy, it was another dream. I fear you’ve had another dream.”
“No, Mom. I was talking to him…I was supposed to talk to him but I missed his call. I missed his call.”
Nothing immediately made sense, but as reality finally returned—it did so as menacing as a viscous liquid of pain washing over him. “Dammit!”
“Come here, sweet boy.”
Hugging his mother, Bishop found the intensity of the resident ache within him growing greater—as it typically was upon waking. “It’s not getting easier, Mom. It’s never going to get easier.” His muffled words were absorbed into her silk-covered shoulder.
“Time will help.”
“Nothing helps, Mom. I can’t get away from it.”
“The therapist—”
“She doesn’t help. There’s not enough in those pills. They only numb me but I still feel this way.” Tickling his nose, his tears etched their way to his mother’s shoulder as she hugged him. “I drink until…until I pass out. That’s the only time I don’t hurt, Mom. And then…and then I wake up and I hurt more.”
“Bish, precious boy. Your strength is there. Your strength has always been there. It’s within you, not hiding in any bottle, bought or prescribed.”
“I’m weak, Momma.”
Releasing her, he turned to his window. “I don’t understand it. He was so happy and carefree and loved life. I don’t understand why—”
“Bishop, I feel being completely honest will produce the most viable path as we move forward.”
“Huh?”
“Smiles are bedsheets. They hide nasty stains and damage. His smile was beautiful, but it hid so much, Bish. Your father and I knew.”
“Knew what?” His gaze traced her face for insight.
“Bish…even the brightest day couldn’t completely light your brother’s shadows. He was sick. Nathan was sick and he had been for a while. Your father and I were in denial, but no more.”
Nearly dumbfounded—Bishop all but tripped over his words. “Wha…nah…Mom, Nate was solid. Nathan was…” Images of Nathan’s face plastered the back of Bishop’s brain—his happy, wholesome portrait, so blatantly clear.
“Sad…Nathan was sad, Bishop.”
“He was always smiling, Mom. Always.”
“Bedsheets, sweet boy.”
“He was just tired, Mom. He had so much going on and it just wore him out.” Sitting on his bed, Bishop looked to the hardwood flooring beneath his feet.
“Your argument might hold validity had your brother not ended his life, Bishop. Tired people take vacations…they alter their situations or they bitch and complain about how tired they are. Tired people go to bed…they don’t do what Nathan did.”
“Why then, if you knew he was so sick, didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you intervene?”
Sitting next to him on his bed, Bishop heard his mother inhale deeply.
“Perhaps sick isn’t the right word, Bishop. How…how do you stop a butterfly from fluttering out a window? You…you can put it in a jar or clip its wings…but it’s still a butterfly.”
“The fuck are you talking about, Mom? Butterflies and bedsheets? So you’re saying what? It was okay what he did because you couldn’t stop him?”
Her hand upon his trembling leg, she kissed his cheek. “No, Bish. I’m saying some people simply don’t want to be here. There is no explaining it or medicating it, they simply don’t want to exist in our world for whatever reason. Can you think of any overwhelming circumstances in Nathan’s life…any inescapable oppression that would lead him to suicide?”
Feeling his face was a sloppy, wet mess, Bishop merely shook his head.
“Exactly, Bish. And I can assure you if we could speak with him directly right now, he wouldn’t be able to give us a pinpointed reason as to why he did what he did.”
“That doesn’t make it okay, Mom. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been happy, or couldn’t have liked being here eventually. He was just a kid. How the hell was he supposed to know if he wanted to be in our world or not?”
Watching his mother stand from his bed, he tipped his head as she kissed him atop it. “Clearly, Bishop, he knew. He took himself from our world in the most irreversible manner imaginable.”
“Right, Mom…I’m sure Nate decided he wanted to be a statistic long before any of this happened.”
“Bishop…the last thing I’d want to do is hurt you. This conversation is hurting you.”
“Nothing, Mother, could hurt me anymore than I’ve already been hurt. I think your theory lacks logic but I know you’re not trying to hurt me…I know you’d never hurt me.”
“Never. You’re my sweet boy. Come…let’s go for a swim.”
“At this hour? What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven, Bish.”
“I need some wine or something.”
“How about we take a cool dip and then we soak in the hot tub?”
“Okay…a cool dip and we sit in the hot tub with some wine…or a drink.”
Smiling passively, Constance merely nodded.
“I’ll be downstairs in a second. I need to throw my trunks on.”
“Very well, Bish. I’ll go grab some towels.”
As soon as she left, Bishop reached for his phone, thumbing to the voicemails. Number seventeen—permanently saved. Lying backward, he pressed play on his touchscreen and closed his eyes.
“Dude! What do you call a dog with no legs?” Nathan’s voice filled the otherwise silent bedroom from Bishop’s phone speaker. “Doesn’t matter, man. He won’t come anyway. Ha! Hey man, don’t forget our gym date tonight and then you’re buying me supper…you promised. Pick me up at the rent’s casa at six and don’t be late. Later gator.”
Pressing play once more, Bishop’s thoughts sloshed about in his skull. “Dude! What do you call a dog with no legs?”
Trunks on, Bishop made his way down the stairs. The air-conditioned house relentlessly chilled him as he descended. Shirtless, he was thankful to open the door to the warm humidity of the outdoors.
Looking out over the lightly lit pool, he found his mother floating gracefully—looking toward the clear sky.
“It’s nice out tonight, Mom.”
“Yes.”
Wading toward the poolside, she motioned him to join her. As he moved closer, his gazed danced about the patio bar for the bottle or glass.
“I want some wine, Mom. I’ll be right back.”
“Sweet boy, why can’t we swim and talk. Why can’t we relax without wine tonight? It’s already so late.”
A feeling resembling guilt nipped at his psyche. “Okay.”
“Come in, the water’s wonderful.”
Sliding into the cool water, Bishop joined his mother by the side. “I’m ready.”
“Ready? You’re ready for what?”
Crickets and the sounds of the hot tub motor serenaded the evening.
“I’m ready to go.”
“You…you don’t want to wait?”
“Nah, Mom. My heart hurts…like, it literally hurts here. I wanna leave here.”
“Okay, Bish. I’ll call your father tomorrow and tell him there has been a change in plans.”
The smile on his mother’s face put a smile on his. If leaving behind his room, his physical things and returning to South Africa for good would ease the ache in his heart, Bishop was ready to board the plane.
“We’ll start getting everything together and leave after we meet the man sweet Nathan donated to.”
Imagining the colossal change in scenery somewhat lifted his ailing mind. “Okay. Sounds good.”