6.
Where Tyson Comes Home
Four years later
MY NAME is Tyson Thompson (formally Tyson McKenna, aka the Kid), and I’m here to recruit you.
When was the last time you had a hamburger? A piece of bacon? A succulent chicken breast from KFC (Kentucky Fried Corpses?) Last week? Yesterday?
Today?
Did it taste good? Did the juice just drip down your chin as you shoved that poor defenseless cutlet (who undoubtedly had once been something’s mother or father, son or daughter) down your throat? Did you groan in delight when you finished, licking your fingers to get one last taste of the flesh? Did you spend a few moments thinking fondly back on that meal, only to forget it seconds later and move on with your day? If you did remember the food, it was only later when it was passing through you like liquid magma as you sat on the toilet playing Candy Crush on your smartphone. It burned coming out, I’m sure, but at least you had the time to beat level 232. Right? Is that how it happened?
Well.
Have I got a story to tell you.
Imagine, if you will, a beautiful cow named Carl. Carl is a Red Angus, the hairs on his body a deep maroon that catch the early morning light, causing him to flash like fire. He grew up on a pretty farm in the mountains and dreams of one day being the head cow in charge of his herd. He’s recently met a lovely heifer named Jennifer who sparks his cowish fancy. It’s the swish of her tail that first catches his eye, the way she bends over and licks the salt block with her long, flat tongue that causes his five-pound heart to skip a couple of beats in his broad chest. He’s two years old and is in the prime of his life. He’s ready, you see, to enter bullhood, leaving the calf life behind. He’s decided that the very next day, he’ll make his move and let Jennifer know how he feels by mounting her in front of the herd to display his cowness.
He’s nervous! He’s excited! He feels like he could jump over the moon!
But then it all comes crashing down.
He’s awakened early the next morning when men come and herd him and his fellow cows up onto ramps that lead into trucks of dirty metal. He bellows for Jennifer, but she is nowhere to be found. His eyes are wide, and he flares his nose in fear. He tries to break away, but the push of his brethren is too strong, and he is forced into the back of the truck, his face in the ass of another cow he barely knows.
All of them call out as the rear door slides shut, casting them all into darkness. The men laugh. There’s a knock on the metal paneling. The truck rumbles to life, and they are on the move.
But not for long.
It seems like only seconds have passed when the truck stops and the rear door slides open again, the bright light flashing against Carl’s eyes, causing him to cry out again. He shouts for Jennifer frantically, but even if she’s there, he can’t hear her over the call of the others. It’s also unlikely that she could hear him. There is only confusion. Chaos. What is happening? Carl wonders. What is going on?
He’s forced into the light and is startled to find himself in a chute of sorts, a high metallic fence around him, a dull and rusty orange. There’s no grass here, no feed in front of him. There’s no field that smells like sunshine. There’s no Jennifer. This is not his home. This is hell.
His brothers and sisters around him begin to move down the chute. He has no choice but to follow them. It’s a tidal wave of flesh and bone, and he cannot fight against it.
He is pushed into a large room filled with men. One stands in front of him and cackles maniacally. The man grabs Carl by the head and pulls him along. He’s thrust forward into a metal device that closes around his head, holding him in place. He kicks up his back legs, wrenching his neck in the process. Paneling raises on either side of him, pressing against his sides, holding him up and in place.
There’s a crackling noise behind him, and he has time to call out again for his beloved before he’s electrocuted with three hundred volts to the back of his head. Carl’s eyes are still open, and he’s still breathing, but he can’t move. He can’t seem to get his legs to work. He tries to move his tail, but it is dead against his rear. Everything is hazy. He flicks his eyes from side to side, sure he can find a way to escape, sure that this is merely a dark moment in his life that he’ll look back upon one day when he is old and fat and think to himself, Why, that was an experience. That sure was a scary time.
Then comes another sound.
A mechanical sound.
A deep whirring that grates against his bones.
A circular machine lowers from above him to the right side of his head. A small tube extends from this machine and presses against his skull, above his eye. He tries in vain to move, but the electroshock has rendered his body useless. He closes his eyes and thinks of Jennifer.
They are frolicking in a field. Grass and hay extend as far as the eye can see. There’s sunshine! And salt licks! Jennifer stares at him adoringly, and doesn’t he feel the urge to mount her? Why, yes! He does! He is the king of this field and Jennifer is his queen, and all will be well, will be well, will be—
A burst of compressed air propels a stainless steel rod forward, striking a forceful blow against the side of his head, and the darkness that extends over Carl at that moment is all-consuming.
Later, Carl’s unconscious body is pulled from the machine and chains are tied to his lower legs. He’s lifted into the air and placed in line with the rest of his knocked-out compatriots, his bindings attached to a track above his head that moves them slowly to yet another machine.
He’s still dreaming of Jennifer when a razor-sharp blade severs his carotid artery and jugular vein. His life’s blood drips form his body in a fragrant gush, and Carl’s big heart, his loving heart, his five-pound heart, struggles to keep up with the loss.
But even the heart of a future Cow King cannot beat forever.
Carl dies of exsanguination, never knowing the loving touch of the mate who would have been his everything.
Once he’s drained, his head is removed. His feet are removed. His hide is removed. His internal organs are removed to be inspected for parasites or signs of disease. His tongue is removed. His head is placed on a hook and sent further down the line. A man named Todd who works for the Food Safety and Inspection Service (and whose soul is clearly dead) inspects the head and carcass of our beloved Carl to make sure it passes what is obviously the subpar standards set forth by the USDA. Todd (the malevolent, evil man) signs off on Carl’s body (not even knowing that this bull, this majestic creature, had hopes and dreams; no, Todd is only thinking about how he needs to pick up toilet paper and Fancy Feast on his way home so his mangy cat Mr. Fluffy Good Times doesn’t go hungry and chew on his toes during the night).
Carl’s chopped-up carcass is put through interventions of steam, organic acids, and scalding water to reduce levels of bacteria. His pink and shiny corpse is then electrocuted again to improve the tenderness of the flesh.
At this point, as if it couldn’t get any worse, Carl gets frozen for forty-eight hours before he is hacked into prime cuts—first split in half, then quartered.
But that’s not enough. No, sir! Not by far.
What remains of the once noble Cow King is processed further to make sure all of his flesh is sucked from his body, a process with the ironic name of “advanced meat recovery.” We can’t leave any part of Carl behind, you can bet the farm on that!
His bones are sent to a rendering plant, and pieces of his body are sent to distribution centers all over the country. These centers then provide them to the retail market.
Then to you.
So.
How was that hamburger?
Did you get it from McDonald’s?
Burger King?
Perhaps the grocery store, and then you grilled it at the neighborhood barbecue where you were forced to socialize with Jeffrey from next door, who got drunk yet again and made a move on your spouse. That bastard.
Regardless of where you got it, chances are you just ate Carl. Carl, a cow who only wanted to love his precious Jennifer and eat and poop and die at the old age of twenty-three.
Horrified yet? Outraged? You should be. This happens to nine billion animals every year in the United States. That’s more than there are people on this planet! Where is the righteous anger? Where is the unending fury? These plants and facilities are essentially our version of the Holocaust (Cowshwitz, if you will, and don’t give me that look, you know it’s true!) and we must fight back! We must rise up! The madness must stop!
So, think of that the next time you have your dark and monstrous cravings. Think about how you are taking part in a long line of murder. It has to stop. And it can stop with us.
So, rise up with me, brothers! Rise up and—
“You would think,” Bear says from the front passenger seat of the car, “that after living with him for almost twenty years, I’d be used to hearing these things by now. It’s sad to learn I’m not. You just had to wait until we already ate, didn’t you?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “That’s what you get for stopping for fast food. Think of all the cancer you probably have now. Not to mention the back fat.”
“Back fat?” he all but howls.
“The worst kind,” I say gravely.
“There was nowhere else to go! And they had salads.”
“Covered with chicken,” I say indignantly. “Do I need to tell you the story of Jermaine the rooster and his love, Lupita? It’s positively riveting.”
“Twenty more miles,” Bear groans. “We’ve come three thousand miles, and I’m going to commit murder in the last twenty.”
“You already killed Carl. What’s another one?”
“Jermaine?” Otter asks from the driver’s seat. “Sounds delicious.”
“Do not egg him on,” Bear says. “You know what happens when he gets going. I told you getting fast food was a bad idea.”
“I’d rather listen to his cow murder love stories than hear you complaining about being hungry,” Otter says. “At least with him, I know he’s eventually going to stop talking at some point.”
“Oh, burn,” Corey says. Well, today he’s Corey. Sometimes he’s Kori, but that’s a story I’ll tell you in a bit. Just know he’s my very best friend in all the world. And my ex-boyfriend. And ex-girlfriend. It’s not as complicated as it sounds, I promise. Or maybe it is. Whatever. “He’s pretty much got you there, Derrick.”
“You just think that because you like his muscles,” Bear accuses him.
“They are pretty dreamy,” Corey agrees. His voice is soft and wispy, a bit deeper now that he’s Corey. It reminds me of the flutter of bird wings. Everything about him does, actually. He’s taller than me (damn him), but slight. He told me once his father was black and his mom was Hispanic, though how he knew, I don’t know. One of the first things I learned about Corey when I met him years ago was that he was raised in foster care and never knew his parents. He doesn’t talk much about those days. Foster kids tend not to. This I know for a fact. “You best be careful, Derrick, lest I swoop in and steal your man.”
“You can have him,” Bear grumbles. “He’s a big fat jerk.”
Otter winks at Corey in the rearview mirror and flexes his bicep. It’s a big arm, but he’s essentially my father, so of course I think it’s gross. Otter doesn’t look that much different, even though he’s approaching forty. Sure, there are a few more lines around his eyes and mouth, and maybe his hair is thinning a bit on top, but he still looks like I’ve always remembered him: bigger than almost everyone I’ve ever known and twice as tough.
Okay, and maybe I’m just a tad bit jealous. But only because I’m still as scrawny as I’ve ever been. And short. And not the object of Corey’s pseudo affections. Not that I really want to be or anything. It doesn’t matter. Fuck it, I’m not jealous.
Sort of.
Blah.
“Is this your hometown?” Corey asks, looking out the window into the rain. The Pacific Ocean looks as dark and choppy as ever. It’s so different from the Atlantic. I don’t know why I never saw it before.
“Not quite,” Bear says. “Give it a few more minutes.” He says something else to Otter in a low voice. Otter laughs and reaches over to grab Bear’s hand.
“You excited?” Corey asks me. He flashes me a quiet smile, and even though I try not to let it, my heart does a little flip in my chest. He’s gorgeous, that one is.
“About?”
He rolls his eyes. “Being home for the summer. One last little adventure before the rest of your life starts.”
“It’s not the rest of my life. It’s more school. Or, at least I hope it’ll be.” If they take me back, that is. I think the words were “academic suspension.”
“You’ll be okay,” he says, patting my hand.
“It’s no big deal.” It actually is, but I don’t even want to think about it right now. Now is supposed to be a time of calm and healing and some other esoteric bullshit. “Let’s not talk about bad stuff, okay? I don’t want Bear to start crying again.” Trying to keep it light.
“I heard that,” Bear says. “I’m a man! Men don’t cry.”
“You cry,” Otter says. “All the time. Like full-on snot-face, puffy-cheeked, gross crying.” He raises his voice to high-pitched hysterics. “I’m gay and I want to tell everyone at dinner and make things superawkward for everyone and then snot all over Otter’s shirt!”
“You worry about the weirdest things, Papa Bear,” I tell him.
“I didn’t say it like that!” Bear shouts, his voice going into high-pitched hysterics. He scowls. When he speaks again, his voice is at least two octaves lower than his normal speaking voice. “I was calm, cool, and collected, and everyone had a lovely evening.”
“Bullshit,” Otter and I say at the same time.
“You guys are assholes,” Bear mutters.
“You’d think I’d be used to you guys by now,” Corey says. “Those moments I find out I’m not are very strange.”
“You’re strange,” Bear retorts.
“Bear’s just emotionally stunted,” I tell Corey. “He’s been that way since I can remember.”
“I’ll show you emotionally stunted, you little shi—”
“I think that’s something that runs in the family,” Corey says.
“Kid, stop upsetting your brother,” Otter warns. “Bear, calm down. Corey, you….”
“Yes, Oliver?” Corey asks, batting his eyelashes.
“You stay classy,” Otter says with a wink.
Corey sighs dreamily.
“Gross,” Bear and I say at the same time.
“Now go away, both of you,” Corey says to the front seat. “We’re gossiping.” He leans his head toward mine. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What?”
“Are you excited about being home? You’ve never come back before. Even when Derrick and Oliver made trips back, you always stayed in New Hampshire. Surely you’ve missed this place.”
It’s inevitable, a voice whispers in my head.
“I guess,” I say.
“I would think something called the Green Monstrosity beckons constantly. I know it would to me. You should know I am expecting something grotesquely palatial.”
“Boy, are you going to be disappointed, then. It’s nothing grand.” That’s a lie, though I don’t know why I say that. I’ve missed that house more than a person should probably miss a house. It’s weird. “It’s not too bad.”
Not too bad? it echoes. It’s where you met D—
No. Not that name. That name stays far away from me.
Oh? it whispers. Because actively not thinking about something always works. Say it. Say his name.
I push it away.
“It’s… quaint,” Corey says as we pass by houses along the beach. “It’s not Tucson, that’s for sure.”
“I’m pretty sure there are a few differences where we grew up,” I say dryly.
He flashes that liquid smile at me. It’s cunning, like he knows something I don’t. “Undoubtedly. There’s nothing else?”
“What else could there be?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Something. Anything.”
“No.”
He nods and looks back out the window. “I’ll miss you, you know. When I’m gone.” He reaches across the seat and takes hold of my hand. Our fingers intertwine, and it’s familiar. It’s comforting. It’s almost like home.
Almost.
“It won’t be for forever,” I tell him. “You know it won’t. You’ll come see me, and I’ll come visit you, and the next four years will go by so fast until we’re side by side every day again… I’ll work for the Environmental Protection Agency as a toxicologist or whatever else I decide to do. You’ll be an overworked victim’s rights activist. Then I’ll become a billionaire and I’ll buy PETA and make it not crazy again. And then we’ll get a house. You and me. You’ll become a lady of leisure, and I’ll stop the whaling ships along the coast of Japan. Those savages.”
“All that, huh?”
“All that.” It’ll happen. I know it will because I can do it all. I’ve got everything in front of me here. My entire fucking life. I just have to get through this summer, and then real life can begin and I can pick up the pieces and become who I’m supposed to be. It’s that easy. It has to be.
He squeezes my hand. “I’m going to hold you to that, Thompson.”
“I promise.” I allow myself a moment of weakness and pull his hand up to my lips and kiss it gently. He squeezes my hand in acknowledgement, but nothing more.
I turn back to the window. I shouldn’t have come back here, I think. Should have stayed in New Hampshire…. I don’t know why I said yes.
Sure you do, it says, voice full of cheer. You aren’t that stupid.
Go away. Just… go away.
It laughs.
Soon, we pass a familiar sign:
WELCOME TO SEAFARE!
“I’m home,” I whisper to the rain.
IT HITS a few minutes later. Not quite panic. Not quite suffocation. I almost can’t name it, but as we drive farther and farther into Seafare, it becomes more palpable.
It’s queer, really. It’s a sensation that I can only describe as doubling. In the four years I’ve been gone, Seafare has expanded drastically. What were once empty, lonely stretches of beach are now brightly lit shops selling glued-together seashells, ice cream, and postcards. Gas stations. A CVS on almost every corner. Starbucks on almost every corner. A Walmart.
There are people everywhere, even in the rain. They walk on what is ostensibly now a boardwalk. Some have umbrellas. Others have parkas. Some don’t seem to care at all. They walk their dogs. They ride their rental bikes. They eat their food under gaudy awnings. It’s alive and vibrant and garish.
This isn’t the Seafare I remember. But then I’m not the same person who left all those years before. I’m worn and battle-weary. Shit happens. Things change. I know that now more than ever.
Otter must sense something off with me. “Revitalization project,” he says. “Bunch of taxpayer money funneled into restoring the tourist traps.”
“It looks so fake,” I mutter. Because it does. It’s all flash but no substance, all lights and fake smiles and shiny, happy people who want nothing more than to be out in the rain.
We move through the town toward the Green Monstrosity. I start to see familiar sights, things that pull my heart in a billion different directions, warring with the fact that I hate it. That I love it. That this is my home. That this place is a stranger to me.
Here’s the high school I graduated from, only a few years before, complete with a new building sprouting up near the football field.
Here’s the street I’d walk down almost every day off the bus.
Here’s the library that had become my shelter in my teen years when I realized that I was so very different than everyone else, and not necessarily in a good way.
And then. Oh, and then comes the memories, those damn memories that choke me, that throttle me. Here we are! they shout at me. This is your life, Tyson Thompson, Tyson McKenna that was. The Kid. Here’s your Greatest Hits all the way to your Greatest Shits. Because weren’t some of these things just awful? Aren’t they just terrible? Surprise! We’ve been waiting for you all this time.
Here’s the store where my brother worked to keep our heads above water.
Here’s the hospital where I lost Mrs. P, and almost lost Otter.
Here’s the cemetery where her marker lies next to her husband, the woman taken from me so unfairly. Her body lies as dust in the ocean. I’m sorry, I think as we pass. I’m so fucking sorry.
And here. Here. The apartments. Those fucking apartments. Those shabby brick apartments with cracked gutters and rusty metal stairs. With shitty cars in the parking lot. With people who look like they’re barely scraping by. Barely living. Barely breathing. We drive by them, and I swear time slows and almost stops, and my breathing must be heavy because Corey squeezes my hand and murmurs something quietly to me that I can’t quite make out. This fucking place. This horrible fucking place.
“It’s not us anymore,” Bear says. I look up at him. He’s staring at the apartments through the window. There’s an expression on his face that I can’t quite make out. It almost looks like fear. And hatred. “You know? Whatever we were, whatever it was to us, it’s not us anymore.” His voice is low and his words only for me.
I say nothing because all I can think about is hearing someone knock on the front door to that apartment. All I can hear is Mrs. Paquinn cackling at something on the TV. All I can do is jump up and say, I’ll get it, I’ll get it, I’ll get it, thinking all the while that maybe Bear’s come home early, or maybe it’s Otter coming over to hey, and I’ll reply with hey, yourself, because isn’t that what we do? Isn’t that who we are?
I open that door. I open that fucking door and it’s not Bear. It’s not Otter. It’s not Creed or Anna or even Dom (He wasn’t there then, I think wildly. He wasn’t even alive to me yet). No. It’s a woman, a woman standing there with a strange little smile that’s not quite a smile. Cheap dress. Cheap shoes. Tired hair and face and eyes. She is beaten, she is broken, but that smile that is not quite a smile widens and she says, Hi, baby. Hi, darling. Hi, Tyson. It’s me. It’s your mommy. I’m home. I’ve come back. How are you? Look how big you are! I’ve missed you.
I stare at her. For so fucking long. And all I can think is Bear, Bear, Bear, but he’s not here. He’s not here, and this is my life, my Greatest Hits, my Greatest Shits. And then? Oh, and then? I run. I run from her so quickly. I run and hide and don’t stop shaking until my brother holds me in his arms, until I know that she is nothing but a ghost from the past rising up and rearing her head because everything had been fine. Everything had been swell.
“Fuck you,” I whisper to those apartments even as my throat constricts. “Fuck you.”
We stop at a light. A Seafare Police Department cruiser pulls up next to us. It’s going to be him, I think. It’s going to be him, and he’ll see me and I will split in half. I’ll just fucking break. I hang my head as my breath rattles around in my throat.
Welcome home, Kid, it chuckles. Sure, you ran away once. But we all knew you’d come back eventually. Welcome the fuck home.
It’s not him. It doesn’t even look like him.
“Ty?” Corey asks me worriedly. “Tyson?”
“Stop,” I croak, though I should be so far beyond this. It’s not fucking fair. “Stop.”
“Kid?” Otter asks.
“Stop the car. Please.”
“Pull over,” Bear says. “Now.” He reaches back and squeezes my knee. “Breathe,” he tells me. “Just breathe. You got this, Kid. You know this. In and out. In and out.”
“I can’t,” I tell him. “It hurts.”
I claw at the door as soon as the car stops. I open it and am hit with a wave of sea air, salty and sharp. The rain has lessened—now more mist than anything else. But I can’t see, it’s like I’m blind. I push away from the car, and the only thing I hear aside from the ocean is Bear saying, “Stay here,” and then he’s lost to the waves.
No. I am not like this. I am better than this. I am more than this.
Panic disorder, it says, sounding eerily like Eddie, my former therapist. An anxiety disorder characterized by recurring severe panic attacks. In other words, you’re fucking crazy.
I stumble down a hill, clumps of sand sticking to my pants. Wind blows through the sea grass, a sound so familiar from my childhood that I almost scream.
I am better than this.
Think, Tyson. Think. You know this.
I can’t.
You can.
No. There’s an earthquake.
There is no earthquake.
The ocean. It’s here. It’s angry.
It’s not.
It is. It is.
It’s not. It’s calm. The tide is out. The waves are low. The saltwater brushes against your feet. Everything is right. The ground does not move.
It will shift apart. It will pull me down.
No, it won’t. It tugs on your toes, that’s it. You take in a deep breath. What do you smell?
Salt. Seaweed. Brine.
What do you hear?
Rain. Birds. Fucking seagulls.
That’s right. Fucking seagulls. What do you feel?
Rain. Sand. Water.
And me. Do you feel me?
“Yes,” I whisper. “Your arm.”
“Where?” Bear asks, his voice breaking through the haze.
“On my shoulder.”
“Because I’m here.”
“Yeah.”
“What do we do?”
“Breathe.”
“Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah.”
“Do it, then.”
I do. I take in a breath and my throat whistles and my lungs fill with Seafare, Oregon, a smell I promised myself I would never experience again. My lungs fill, and it’s like muscle memory. I can taste the air on my tongue, and all I remember is Bear, Bear, Bear, and Kid, Kid, Kid. I’m not the Kid anymore, though Bear and Otter still call me that. I’m beyond that. I’m Tyson. I’m Ty. I’m not some fucking Kid anymore.
It’s this place. It’s Seafare. The ocean.
My throat opens slightly, and I’m able to suck in a deeper breath.
“Good,” Bear says. “Hold it.”
I do.
“Let it out.”
I do.”
“Again.”
I do.
Eventually, my vision clears. I’m not surprised to see the stretch of beach we’re standing on is the one where Bear and Otter were married, where Mrs. P’s ashes were spread.
“S-she was thrown,” I say. “R-remember? Back into our f-f-faces.” I’m really cold.
“I remember,” Bear said. “Her last bit of fun, I think.”
“You think so? Y-you think that was her?”
Bear sighs. “I do. I don’t know why, but it just seems like something Mrs. Paquinn would have done, you know? To tell us to not be so sad over her.”
“Yeah.”
“Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not… I’m not right. You know.”
His arm tightens around my shoulder. “You’re more right than you could possibly know, Ty.”
“I thought I was over this.”
“It has been a while, huh?”
“Months. At least.” That he knows of.
“It’s a lot, I know.”
“What?”
“Coming back here. For all the shit we’ve been through, I know it’s a lot.”
“I didn’t think it’d hit me this hard.”
“We can leave,” he says. “Say the word, Kid. Say the word and we get back in that car and I swear to you that you’ll never have to come here for as long as you live.”
I’m embarrassed now. God, what he’s had to put up with. On top of everything else he’s gone through. The late nights spent in the bathtub all the way up until only a couple of years ago. The behavior and cognitive therapy, which led to the diagnosis. Followed by the antidepressants that I didn’t want nor thought I needed and that only ended up making things worse. The antianxiety drugs that made me a drone. Benzodiazepines that I began to crave. The craving that turned into something so much more. All of which I finally dropped because I am Tyson Fucking Thompson. I have an IQ of 158. I became a member of MENSA at the age of thirteen. I graduated high school at fifteen. I don’t need this. I am not fucking crazy. I am better. I am bigger. I am stronger.
“No,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “No. I wanted to come back. I told you I did. I can do this. It was just… overwhelming.”
“Ty….”
“Bear.”
“You’ll tell me if it gets worse.” It’s not said as a request.
“Even if I don’t, you always know,” I mutter.
“Damn fucking right I do. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you slide backward, Kid. You need something, you ask me. You got me?”
“I got you.” Only because there’s no other choice.
“And you can stop now.”
“Stop what?” Even though we both know what he’s talking about.
“Thinking about if it’s going to hit again. It might. It might not. If it does, we’ll face it.”
Anticipatory attacks. A big part of panic disorder. After a panic attack, there’s times when my thoughts are completely occupied with when the next attack will hit. Sometimes, it goes on. And on. For days.
“Sometimes I think you know me way too well,” I tell him.
He laughs quietly. “You could say that. You need to talk to someone?”
“More therapy?” I groan. “I’m not crazy, Bear.”
“No one ever said you were. It might help. It helped me, you know.”
“That’s because you were crazy,” I assure him.
He waits.
I give in. Sort of. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Eddie’s still here.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because that’s a good idea.”
“He’s family.”
“We’re so weird.”
“That we are,” he agrees.
We’re quiet, for a time. Then, “Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to fix this. My head.”
“It’s not broken, Kid. It just needs to right itself.”
“That’s absurdly profound.”
“I try.”
“Everyone’s probably waiting for us, huh?”
“At the Green Monstrosity? Probably. But they can wait as long as you need.”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’m okay.” The rolling panic has been pushed away.
For now, it whispers.
Bear slides his arm off my shoulders, and I turn to head back up the beach. Corey and Otter stand at the top of the hill in the rain, watching us.
“Ty,” Bear says from behind me. I turn back. He’s watching the ocean.
“What?”
“You don’t have to see him while we’re here. You know that, right?”
Damn you, Bear. “Oh?” I ask innocently. “He still lives here?” Like I didn’t know that already.
Bear’s not fooled, but he lets it slide. Say what you will about him, but he’s grown into something extraordinary. “Sure, Kid. Still lives here. Still a cop.”
“Good for him.” I walk away, back toward the car.
It doesn’t matter. I’ve moved on from something that was never there to begin with. That’s one of the dire things about escaping from childhood. Eventually you grow up and realize the things you wanted when you were young weren’t really yours to ask for.
I know that now.
The sun peeks through the clouds above as I reach the car, and for better or worse, I have come home.