Interrupted (Kevin/Joe)
The walls aren’t white.
That surprised me, to be honest, the first time I came here. I mean, they always say that they make everything in asylums white, because it’s supposed to be soothing. Here, there’s wallpaper, and it’s a funny sea-foamy green, but that seems to fit too, in a way, like it’s just an extended stay hotel, trying to be personable and homey, when really, it’s just a place these people are being forced to live because there’s something wrong with them.
The sun’s always shining when I come. I always feel like it’s mocking me. I mean, I know my life didn’t turn out quite like I expected, and I know I didn’t get the perfect storybook ending, but honestly, must God really rub it in my face with the beautiful weather? Today, as always, I choose to ignore it, since if I give in and glare up at it, all that’s going to happen is that I’m going to go blind.
The heavy oak door creaks open as I approach it, but it usually does, since the doorbell often makes the residents nervous. A nurse awaits me, smiling kindly. She’s older, probably early fifties and gives me that very motherly vibe that makes me feel so comfortable about my brother being here. She told me once that I’m the only person who comes every single week to see anyone, and that she thinks (“though I’m not a doctor,” she made sure to say) I’m a major reason he’s doing so well compared to some of the other patients.
I greet her warmly, shaking her hand, and she leads me back down the hall, that funny green that just nauseates me a bit, but maybe that’s because I now associate it with this place. It’s just a house, really, converted to be able to care easily for the patients, but as far as I’m concerned, for how much freedom they get, they may as well be prisoners here.
“He’s quiet today.” The nurse warns me; she’s not supposed to, because, when I see him, I’m supposed to treat him the same way I did before he got sick. “We had trouble getting him to eat breakfast, but he did agree to some toast, so if you could talk him into eating lunch with you, that’d be good. He’s usually very responsive for you.”
I just nod. Quiet means they can’t get him to talk. Irritable means he tends to yell and run from the room. Sad means he cries and apologizes a lot. Most people think ‘quiet’ would be best. I prefer it, though, when he’s angry or upset, because he’s always been so boisterous that his silence is disconcerting. “How was he this week?”
“Overall, more good than bad.” She smiles kindly at me, because this is really the best news she can give me about him. “His doctor is still trying to break him of that habit of blaming everything on himself. A lamp was broken on Monday. He told us he did it, got punished for it, and we found out later that it was someone else.” She shakes her head incredulously. “He has a big heart, your brother. We just need to convince him he doesn’t have to protect everyone.”
I can’t help but smile myself at that, thinking back to all the times I was the one who broke the plates or ate the last cookie or pinched Nick and made him cry, and he was the one who took the blame, because he was always taking care of me. I don’t think Mom ever really believed him, but she always did punish him for it. I always ended up confessing, because he was so nice afterwards that I felt horrible.
“Here we are!” She always announces it out loud like that, when we get to my brother’s room, like I’ve never been there before, or couldn’t find it myself, if left to my own devices. I know it’s really for his benefit, so that he knows I’m there. He’s the only one allowed to have visitors outside of the main visitors’ room, because he now has more privileges. He doesn’t have to be watched every second like the others.
He looks up when I step into the room. He doesn’t smile, but there’s something about the way his eyes change, soften, that means the same thing. His fingers tap almost nervously against the yellow highlighter he has poised over the book cradled in his lap, and my heart swells at the fact that he still does this. Ever since he was young, he would highlight his favorite lines in each book he read.
She departs, with a wish, something along the lines of “Have fun. I’ll be back in an hour.” I move forward. “Hi, Kevin. Can I sit down?”
He slides back a little, and I perch on the end of his bed. His toes curl and flex, almost awkwardly, and if he wasn’t quiet today, I’d think he was trying to think of something to say. Instead, he caps his pen, with a movement just as jerky and awkward.
“No, no, it’s okay.” I hold my hand up, smiling gently. “I don’t mind. Go ahead and read; I’ll just sit here.”
Even as I say it, he shakes his head, closing his book (The Bell Jar; I almost laugh at how fitting that is) and setting it carefully on the corner of his nightstand, lining his marker up with the edge of it. He always was a little obsessive compulsive. I never expected it to affect him so badly.
I sigh, sliding over closer to him, slowly, so I don’t make him feel nervous or cornered. I’ve done it before, and the ensuing panicked screams, and being kicked out, were not pleasant experiences. He doesn’t flinch though. I take it as a good sign. “Can I have a hug, babe?”
I’m surprised by how quickly he presses up against me, and I wrap my arms around him. Usually, he’s much shyer about letting me touch him. Right now, I relish the feel of him, soft and warm, a little thinner than I remember, but he always was a little on the scrawny side.
He pulls back first, since I won’t let him go at all, if I’m allowed to keep holding him, but not without pressing his lips to my cheek, and the kiss is so soft, but means so much to me. I turn my head, and our noses brush together. “Can I kiss you, like we used to kiss?” The fact that I have to ask makes me sad. We’ve had to start all over.
He sits back on his heels, eyeing me fearfully, and shakes his head. He falls back toward the pillows, clutching his arms around his legs and looking at me with his chin on his knees.
I nod, smiling. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not mad. Don’t worry. Thank you for the hug, and the kiss. I appreciate it, Kevin. Thank you.” I stand up and wander over toward the opposite wall, where I helped him tape up pictures the day he moved in here. I still bring new ones sometimes, just to help him feel like he’s still a part of everything that’s going on. The last one I brought was from Nick’s album release party. Kevin was overjoyed to see it; I think it helps to know he didn’t hold Nick back. “I asked if I can bring your guitar to you.”
I haven’t turned around, but I can practically see the way he sits up straighter in response. It’s been more than a year since he’s played. I know he misses it. The guitar was his whole life before. I can only imagine he feels lost without it.
“They said, if you do really well next week, and don’t have any fits,” I’m still talking to the wall - in particular, a photo of him and me on the beach; he’s laughing at something I said. It always has been my favorite thing, my mission in life, to make this boy laugh. It kills me that I can’t do it anymore. “I can bring it next time I come. You’ll have to tell me which one you want.”
He doesn’t say anything. Really, I never expect him to. He doesn’t speak as easily now; I never thought he’d be the one who would have trouble with words. His arms are suddenly sliding around me, and I can feel his forehead against my neck, and for a moment, if I close my eyes, I can pretend he’s sneaking up on me in our bedroom like he used to, to hold me close and kiss me, to remind me that he loves me.
“Thank you.”
My heart feels like it’s swelling in my chest, filling up with all my love and joy, because those two words are so simple, but I don’t think anyone would realize how much it means to me that he would say them. I lace my fingers with his, where they’re settled on my stomach. “You’re welcome, baby.”
“Not just for the guitar,” I’m surprised by the fact that he keeps speaking. His voice is faltering and low, like he’s really very unsure of how to form words, and I know that’s mostly because I’m the only one he gets to talk to. “Thank you for not giving up on me. I know I’ve been here a long time. You’ve been so patient. I’m doing my best. I want to leave. I want to come home with you.”
I finally turn to look at him, and his eyes are sad, but maybe a little hopeful, and that’s nice to see at least. Secretly, even from myself, I was beginning to think he was giving up, that he never planned on being well enough to leave here. I know it’s up to me, and up to Dad, to decide to release him, since we’re now in charge of him. Dad said it’s really my call, since I know better than anyone how he’s doing. The bitter part of me wanted to tell him that if he came and saw his son, he would see that he wasn’t crazy like he thought he was.
“Baby,” I tentatively run the back of my fingers down his cheek; he doesn’t shy away. “My bed’s been empty and cold since you came in here. I’ve been waiting for almost two years to come back and keep me warm.” This is so strange for me, to be the strong one, the one doing the holding, because he’s always been my knight in shining armor. I’ve always been desperate to be in distress so he could save me. “Every time I come, I see you, and I know you’re getting better. I can see it. Today, you talked to me, when you wouldn’t talk to anyone else, and that tells me you need to come home; you’re almost ready for me to take you home - our home, without our parents or little brothers, where it can be just the two of us, forever.”
The right corner of his mouth twitches up, and it’s so close to a smile that I want to cry. I can remember the last time I saw him smile; it was the morning he got sick. I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, and he was just lifting his cup of coffee to his lips, and right before he took a sip, his eyes caught on mine, and he smiled. What I would give to see that again. “Next week, I’ll let you kiss me.” He says firmly.
My eyes flit to a calendar on the wall beside the open door, where things like that are written, his accomplishments day-by-day. They aren’t written in advance; they’re written as he does them, to remind him of all the progress he’s making. I can see it already, across next Saturday’s box: Joe kissed me, and I let him. We’ll have to think up something else for him to write, since that will only make things worse.
I smile at him. How can I help it? He’s beautiful. His fingers tangle with mine, and I squeeze them gently. “That’s it - one day at a time.”