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November 23
With my focus entirely on taking my November SATs, I forget about everything else. Marla returns to school after a few days, having struck a deal with Hashir that she won't enroll in Boston University so they won't be tempted to stay together. She'll apply at other colleges, though, study what she wants, live her life all while the two of them stay in touch long-distance. And if Marla still feels the same way by the time she graduates or turns twenty at least, they'll have a grand wedding and probably live together till one of them dies.
Fair enough.
The only one who doesn't agree is Mama Harley. After the huge fit she has and the dramatic yelling and crying that follows, she decides she will not give her daughter her blessing. Marla isn't swayed by her mother's threats, firmly stating that she has every right to decide how she wants to spend her life.
I kind of have to agree.
After getting rejected by Riley -- what a turn of events -- Carlos turns his attention on keeping his grandma happy and realizes that Gemma isn't such a bad option for him after all. He likes being with her and her sass is a great counterpart to his arrogance. After meeting the bright-smiled and chock-full of sarcastic-eye-rolls Gemma, I hate to say that I kind of agree.
As for Shane ... now that's the mystery.
Over the span of November, I barely see him. The only times I catch sight of him, he's either racing into class or out of it, and since we don't take any classes together, it's hard getting him to stop and talk to me. Outside class, every time I see him, he's on the field practicing with his team. I'm not surprised. Carlos tells me they have a big match coming up soon enough and their admission into Stanford depends on whether or not they can impress the representative coming in to watch the game.
I don't let the thought of Shane distract me from my own SATs. My mind is set on getting into Washington since I'm more passionate than ever about getting into the psychology major I've decided to pursue. My initial motivation had been Carter and the pressure of wanting nobody else to ever feel ignored or not understood. I realize how important this is as I see Mom slowly getting better.
She seems happier now, the color returning to her cheeks after her weekly sessions with the therapist who has also prescribed her some pills. I don't like the sight of the pills since they always remind me of Carter, but at least Mom takes them regularly.
They make her look more like herself again.
Realizing how important therapy or treatment is, I finally agree to see my doctor again and telling him I hate the insulin shots. He tells me it's either that or a pump that isn't the recommended option. After some back and forth and much failed negotiation, I end up complying with him; Mom will help me administer three insulin shots every day.
The thought is not only frightening but also upsetting.
"Look at it this way, you'll get used to it after a while," Mom says, pinching a bit of my belly fat between her thumb and forefinger and stabbing the needle into my stomach so that I wince and hiss.
"I hate this," I repeat like every other time when she pats my stomach and I tug my shirt down, feeling utterly exposed in front of Mom.
"You'll get used to it," Mom says, breaking the needle and placing it into a disposable zipper bag before tossing it into the bin.
She walks to the basin and washes her hands before opening the refrigerator and taking out a bottle of water. I can almost remember how often I watched her take out nothing but wine from that same fridge. The change is more than welcome.
"Are you ready to take your SATs?" Mom asks, pouring herself a glass of water and one for me.
I slide it toward me over the kitchen island. "I'm taking it on seventh."
"December?" Mom drinks her glass empty.
"Of course, unless I can go back in time to the first Saturday of November," I say coolly.
"Okay, smartmouth, get to bed," Mom reprimands, smiling slightly.
I smile back and nod, getting to my feet.
Although it's not the same, our small house has started to feel like a home again. Carter's shadow haunts me still and Dad's absence is like the elephant in the room Mom and I are too stubborn to acknowledge. We never talk about Dad and Mom has given up on trying to talk to him. I don't even know the last time he was home.
I hear his car sometime when I'm in bed past midnight and unable to sleep. I hear the door unlocking and his heavy footfalls. But the opening of a second door never follows and I'm sure he doesn't sleep in the room that has been his and Mom's since as long as I can remember. Whether he sleeps on the living room couch or whether he sleeps at all is beyond me. I still haven't been able to pluck up my courage to get out of my bed and check on him.
I'm sure neither has Mom.
"Good night!" I call after her as she heads toward her room.
Waving over her shoulder, she leaves. I rinse my used glass and place it upside down on the metal stand on the counter before switching off the lights and making my way up the stairs to my room. Almost instinctively, I glance at Carter's closed bedroom door.
"Goodnight, Cart," I whisper to his ghost and enter my own room.
Pulling my hair into a loose bun, I get in bed and lie down. I fall asleep sometime before midnight, and the dreams that follow involve Carter and dancing numbers.
"You're gonna fail the math portion of the test," Carter tells me, tugging at his hair with his head tilted to the right as he stares at the numbers and mathematical equations that dance before us.
I hum, swinging my legs and wishing the numbers would vanish and let me see the clear hilly landscape. Cool wind ruffles my hair, pushing loose strands into my nose and ticking my neck. Wispy clouds hang low over the horizon, blocking out the bright sun.
Carter nudges my arm and I look at him, seeing his cheeky smile I miss more than anything else in the world.
"Why do you still dream about me?" he asks me, his eyes boring into mine.
"Because you're annoying and you won't leave me alone," I tell him, wanting his smile to widen.
Just as expected, it does, until he's beaming at me with his white teeth with one pointed canine he liked so much. He said it proved he was a vampire and not human.
"I think it's because you love me and miss me," he points out.
I scoff. "You wish, Cart." I roll my eyes. "I hate your guts."
"Liar," Carter says instantly. "You think I can't see you but I know you're the one who cried most at my funeral."
My heart sinks when he says it. I didn't think he'd know.
"And you're the only one who ever comes into my room anymore," he says, shifting closer.
I can't speak, unable to tell him that he's delusional. I could always make up lies and mask my love for him when he was alive. But how do you lie to a dead person? How do you lie to your dead brother about loving him?
"Of course, I love you, stupid," I mumble, looking up to see him gone.
He's gone, leaving behind nothing but an overwhelming sense of something that I have lost. I sense of loss. A void. A shadow, invisible, but always there.
"I love you, Carter," I whisper into the cool wind. "From womb to tomb, brother."
The hill beneath me rumbles, vibrating and buzzing until it begins to crumble. Specks of dust rise into the air and I sit still, knowing nothing can hurt me as long as I'm dreaming. That's why Carter also comes to see me in my dreams; nothing can ever hurt him again.
Slowly opening my eyes, I wait for the buzzing to cease. It doesn't stop for a few moments and my brain catches up with my ears and I reach slowly for my phone. I don't recognize the number on the screen so I swipe a lazy thumb across the screen and lift the phone to my ear.
"Hello?" I grumble, closing my eyes and almost drifting back to sleep.
"Taylor?"
My eyes open again and I frown. "Shane?" I whisper. "Shane, are you ... wait, I thought you said you couldn't call me."
"Yeah, I'm ... I'm sorry," he says, sounding unlike himself.
I shift in bed, confused as to whether it's him or someone else just pretending to be him. The voice sounds like Shane's and yet the manner doesn't. The tremble in the voice, the low treble, and the hesitance ... it isn't like Shane at all.
"Well, I'm just calling because I promised you I'd tell you if I ..." He trails off and I hear him swallow. "Never mind, you should probably sleep. I was just ... I don't know what I was thinking. You should sleep."
"No, I'm up," I say quickly, sitting up as if to prove my point. "What were you saying about a promise?"
Shane sucks in a deep breath. "I promised you I'd tell you if I ever want to hurt myself."
My heart jumps into my throat.
"I'm not ... I'm not saying I want to hurt myself or something but I ... I think I am hurting myself."
"Shane," I gasp, unable to help myself when my heart begins to pound in my chest.
"I think I'm ... I don't know what I'm saying." Shane chuckles, but the laugh is more helpless than anything else.
"Are you home right now?" I ask, willing my voice to sound calmer than I feel. I stare into the darkness, unable to make out the silhouettes in my room.
"No, I'm out," he tells me.
"Where?"
"In my car," Shane answers. "I'm just sitting here on the side of the road and ..."
"Can you come over?" I ask as blood pounds in my ears and deafens me to everything else. "How soon can you get here?"
"A few minutes, I guess?"
"I'll be outside my house waiting for you," I say, already throwing off my covers and swinging my legs off the bed. The cold wind hits my bare skin and I reach for my trousers hanging on the back of my reading chair.
"Wait, don't go out yet, it's cold out," Shane says. "I'll call you when I get there."
"Okay, just ..." My lips move but no words leave my lips.
"Yeah?" Shane presses anxiously.
"Just be careful," I whisper.
He hums and hangs up and I get out of bed, hoping I can do whatever Shane expected me to do when he called me. I might not have been able to help Carter but I hope ...
I hope I can help Shane.
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A/N: Guys, have you got a theory regarding Shane? I'm also concluding other stories so I can now focus mostly on his. It won't be too long but I promise it'll be worth it. Next update coming soon. I can't promise when but soon.
For those of you who didn't know I work at a WHO-accredited hospital, I do. It's actually an asylum but it also has an outpatient unit where people come for counseling and therapy. I work there as a psychologist on volunteer basis and deal mostly with youth with substance-dependance or abuse history. Personality disorders, suicide and self-harm, and delinquency are my specialty. Due to COVID-19, our OPD has been converted into a filter clinic for patients.