My chest starts to burn. I realize I haven’t taken a breath in a few seconds, so I inhale sharply. “Suicide attempt? Is he okay?”
“I’m not sure,” Dad says. “But I wanted to be the one who told you. I know you feel like the whole world has been coming down on him really hard.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “Was it because of the lawsuit?”
“No one knows the exact details yet,” Dad says. “According to the news, Freeman got into a physical altercation with some men at a park today and he got charged with assault. He left his ex-wife a strange apology message saying he was going to do the one thing that would make everything go back to normal. It concerned her enough that she sent the police over to check on him. He was alive but unresponsive when cops arrived. He had tried to hang himself.”
I perch on the edge of the sofa as a video clip begins to play on the TV. It’s wobbly and washed out, like the one of the Eight Ball Bar & Grill being vandalized. Someone’s cell phone, I realize. I recognize the setting—a popular St. Louis water park that Shannon’s family used to take us to when we were little.
I watch as Brad Freeman strolls past the end of the wave pool carrying two large sodas. A younger guy in royal blue swim trunks looks up from his lounge as Freeman passes and says something. The TV is still on mute, so I can’t hear the words, but whatever he says is enough to make Freeman pause. The younger guy hops up from the lounge and pushes Freeman. One of the sodas falls to the pavement. Freeman says something in response and suddenly more people enter the frame. You can’t tell who throws the first punch, but it doesn’t matter. About thirty seconds later both Freeman and the guy in the blue trunks are being restrained by security guards.
My eyes flood with tears. Dallas is dead, and Brad Freeman tried to kill himself, and both of those things are on me. Maybe Dallas was an accident—I didn’t mean to fall asleep behind the wheel—but Freeman . . . I should’ve known, I must have known that the constant accusations and threats could lead to this. After all, that’s the major reason why I’ve stayed silent for so long—because I didn’t want that bullying directed at me. What if he dies? The hashtag #Murderer blinks on in the back of my brain again.
“Genevieve,” Dad says. “Are you all right? I know how hard all this has been on you.”
“I’m all—” I can’t bring myself to finish the lie. I’m not all right. I will never be all right. I didn’t put a noose around Brad Freeman’s neck, but my inaction, my silence, let things escalate to that point. All he wanted was for people to believe him. All he wanted was for people to accept the decision made by a judge who had more facts than anyone else.
But instead we took everything away from him—the idea of safety, his friends, his job, his sense of self-worth. Some people did it with harsh words and accusations. I did it by saying nothing. He reached out to me for help and I ignored him.
“I don’t know.” I struggle to keep my voice level. “I just want Brad Freeman to be okay.”
“Me too.” Dad nods soberly. “Do you want to talk about it? I could make us both some coffee.”
I shake my head. My dad looks like he’s about to fall asleep and I can’t talk now anyway. My mind is full of horrible images of Brad Freeman trying to hang himself. I wonder what he was thinking about, how hopeless and alone he must have felt to try to take his own life. Because of you. Yes, because of me.
I feel dead inside, like someone scraped out my guts and replaced them with rocks. I can’t believe this is happening. A few hours ago I was laughing, I was happy.
“I’m really tired,” I say woodenly. “I think I’m going to go to sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Dad says. “But please remember that Rachael and I are here for you. And your mom is just a phone call away. Or if you need to talk to a professional, I can get a referral from someone at work.”
“Sure,” I say, but I barely hear him.
As I close the door to my room behind me, my phone buzzes with a text.
Halley: I just want you to know I’m not mad. I’m trying to convince Tazmyn to delete the picture.
Me: It doesn’t matter, but thanks.
I think of the stupid disagreement at the party, how less than an hour ago I was worried about the fact that Tazmyn took my picture with Elliott. I was afraid of being judged, of being called a #Slut.
But now someone else might die.
Suddenly being called a slut doesn’t seem very important anymore.
I lie down and pull the horse quilt up to my chin, but it’s pointless. I’m not going to be able to sleep until I know whether Brad Freeman will be okay. My laptop sits on the desk across the room, calling out to me. I stare at it for a few minutes, caught between a desperate need to know and the fear of actually finding out. Finally, I crawl out of bed and Google his name, holding my breath as the search results appear. All of the articles that pop up are at least a couple of hours old, and there’s no update on his condition. Hoping maybe Carly Freeman posted something, I check her blog, but there is only the single post setting the record straight about the alleged restraining order.
I switch over to Twitter to see if there is any up-to-the-minute news there. I wonder what people are saying, what they’re thinking. Do they feel guilty like I do? Like their rush to judge and punish a stranger contributed to yet another tragedy? I search the #BradFreeman hashtag and scan the last few tweets.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 41s
I hope #BradFreeman doesn’t make it. Another drunk driver off the roads and we won’t even have to clog up the court system to make it happen.
Quite Contrary Mary @manikmari • 2m
I know I should probably feel sad #BradFreeman attempted suicide, but I don’t. He made a choice #DallasKade didn’t get to.
Suicide Prevention @afspnational • 3m
There is always hope. You are never alone. We’re here. #StopSuicide #BradFreeman
YOUNITY FOREVER @laf0387x • 5m
Hey #BradFreeman. Burn in hell, you piece of shit murderer.
Monkey Man @boxxofmonkees • 5m
Oh look! Even #BradFreeman realized the district attorney screwed up.
The tweets go on and on, most of them dismissive or cruel. Occasionally there’s a message in support of Brad, or one reminding people that this isn’t what Dallas would have wanted, but those people are quickly ridiculed and ignored. I never realized that the number of retweets someone gets seems directly proportional to how mean their original tweet is.
I always assumed I’d go back to the internet after everything quieted down. I mean, I can’t imagine going through college without social media accounts. I’ll probably need them for some of my classes. But seeing this steady stream of hate—even now, after Brad Freeman tried to kill himself—sickens me. How can people be this hurtful?
I’m just about to log off when I notice a tweet that agrees with me:
Megz @glittergirl13 • 4m
@pxs1228 How can you say horrible things about #BradFreeman when he might not even live?
Good question, Glitter Girl. I click to expand their conversation.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 3m
@glittergirl13 Because #BradFreeman is a low-life, alcoholic wife-beater who killed a music superstar and deserves to die.
Megz @glittergirl13 • 3m
@pxs1228 He NEVER hit his wife.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 3m
@glittergirl13 How do you know?
Megz @glittergirl13 • 2m
@pxs1228 Because that’s my mother you’re talking about.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 1m
@glittergirl13 You’re Freeman’s kid? Sucks to be you. I’d kill myself if he was my dad.
Megz @glittergirl13 • 1m
@pxs1228 Oh yeah? Well I’d kill myself if YOU were my dad.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 31s
@glittergirl13 Good thing I’m not interested in raising any white trash little brats then, isn’t it?
Megz @glittergirl13 • 11s
@pxs1228 You’re an asshole. And you’re also blocked. Buh-bye.
I click on @glittergirl13’s profile. It reads: Megan F. 13. I like horses, books, and glitter.
I open another search box and type in “Megan Freeman.” The name is way too common and over a million hits come back. I try searching for an overlap of Megan and Brad Freeman and sure enough, a couple of articles appear that were written about the accident. Brad Freeman has a thirteen-year-old daughter. One who likes horses and books, just like I do.
One who is now being picked on by strangers.
Something snaps inside me and all the fear and sadness and shame I’ve been drowning in is replaced by a new feeling—clarity.
I know what I have to do.