Chasing Ellie

38. Runner's High

Darren Hannigan

I'm sweating again. But this time it's from physical exertion and not Ellie Hope.

My feet pound into the pavement, my lungs filling with crisp air as I send my body hurtling down the sidewalk as fast as I can. There's something about running. I wouldn't say I love it. But I do love the runners high.

The one that makes you feel like you can take on the world. And I can only imagine my desire to run will only increase once I'm running in new places. Like through the crowded streets of a large city where people are bustling or through the bends of an old country road. Anything but the same few routes I run around my house.

They're tired and worn out.

But as I reach the stretch before my house, I push myself on. Stretching my legs as far as they'll go, the motion rippling through my entire body, calling on every muscle to give me more reach, more momentum.

It's a good way to maximize the benefit of working out.

I hold the pace until our neighbors mailbox, slowing myself to a walk as my chest heaves and my legs wobble with fatigue.

My mom's car is in the driveway, the back open, bags of groceries sitting there and as I walk up I load the rest onto my arm and close her car before going into the house.

I slip my shoes off, heading for the kitchen. "Hey."

"Just finished a run?" She asks the obvious and I nod. "Oh thank you, is that the rest?"

"Yeah." It answers both questions. "I'm going to shower."

"I was going to make a roast but I don't feel like it now that I went to the store." Her red hair is still slicked perfectly back into a bun but she's swapped her pilots uniform for a pair of jeans and a sweater. "Should we do pizza or Chinese or something easy?"

"Sure, I'm fine with whatever."

"Go ask Peter what he wants." She tells me.

So I leave her in the kitchen to put the groceries away, heading down the hall toward our rooms. Peter's door is open, his room a mess. Blankets twisted into a knot on his unmade bed, clothes strewn everywhere. Someone got the usual pile of dishes to the kitchen, if I had to guess I'd say mom. His TV on, a video game holding screen playing on it.

I've thought about rifling through his room more than once. Looking for something that might give me an idea of who Peter is and how he feels. What's going on in his life. Answers to the questions that I have. But spying on someone doesn't feel right, it's the same uneasy guilt that I got anytime I started to wonder about James and the library.

Turning away from his open door, I go to the bathroom next, twisting the knob. It's locked.

"Peter?" I call.

And then I hear a series of noises. Peter cussing, rustling, mutters, scrapes, inhales. They all happen not quite in unison but close.

"What?" He barks.

"Mom wants to know if you want pizza, Chinese or something else." I say through the door.

I'm leaning close, staring down the hallway at his open room as I wait for an answer he doesn't give me.

"Peter?"

The bathroom is mostly silent, or if it's not, I can't make out any distinct sounds overtop my own breathing.

"Peter?" I say again.

My ear is almost to the door when I hear the door knob jiggle and I yank myself back as quick as I can before Peter flings the door open. He's shirtless, standing there with his hair a mess and black bags under his eyes. They seem darker, or maybe that's just because he seems even more pale now that we're finding ourselves working our way toward winter. His scars on his arms on full display, haphazardly placed from his wrists, growing in frequency past his elbow.

But that's not necessarily what my eyes focus on. It's the scars that litter his torso. There's not many, but they're there. Pink and raised rather than smooth and dark like the ones on his arms. And I don't remember them being there before he left for college.

"Peter?" I mumble his name.

"I'm not hungry." He snaps, shouldering past me.

I'm frozen at the doorway of the bathroom. Shocked. Confused. Maybe.

I've been saying it the whole time, somethings going on with him. But to see new scars, even ones that aren't fresh but new, to think he's back to cutting himself. It leaves me lost.

Why wouldn't he tell us? Me? Why wouldn't he get help? Why hasn't he asked mom to go back to his therapist?

Does mom even know?

Does Cora know?

Why did he start again?

The questions flood my thoughts, overwhelming me. Peter emerges from his room a moment later, a sweatshirt on. He glances down the hallway at me, his face hardened and defiant.

"What's wrong with you?" He grumbles, turning away.

And once again I'm left in the hallway, without answers. Wondering what to do. How to help Peter when there's so much distance between us. When he seems like he doesn't want my help at all.

I close my eyes, leaning my tired body back against the doorframe.

It's pointless I know. Wishing for things that are impossible. But I can't help it. I'm ill-equipped and not good at things like this. Not like my dad was. He always knew what to say and how to say it. He'd be able to fix this. All of it. Mom's sad smiles, my inability to let go, Peter's anger.

I really, really wish my dad was here.

He would know what to do.

But all there is, is me. And I'm not sure I'm enough.