Jordan

That fourteen year old boy, Lucas, cried all the time, day after day, sitting in the corner of the room. I just wanted to shout "Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" But speaking was too hard for me these days. Either I just didn't have the energy or I couldn't find my voice. Counselors sat next to him, trying to console him, telling him lies by saying "everything's going to be okay." Nothing was ever going to be okay. Lies. All lies. I was older and maybe even wiser than most of the patients here. I was almost a college graduate at nineteen (soon to be twenty) while every other patient here was in middle of high school. I didn't belong there. In fact, I didn't belong anywhere.

We all sat in a room that resembled a classroom, attempting to do our schoolwork. I was only there because I was told I had to be in that room with everyone else. I didn't need a tutor; I was perfectly happy doing my own schoolwork in my room by myself. In the beginning of my stay here, counselors let me stay in my room, but then they kept harassing me and harassing me until I gave in to their demands. Tim told me the doctor increased my medication. Maybe the medication helped me get out of bed and speak and obey the counselors commands.

I hated taking medication. I hated being different, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Shut up....shut up....I held my head, covering my ears, as Lucas went on and on. He just wouldn't stop. Why can't they give him medication to shut him up? I couldn't stand it, so I got up and headed to the door. And then there was that other kid who wouldn't sit down. This kid walked and walked, pacing all over the place like he had a running motor inside him. In the back of the room, two teen girls argued back and forth. Last week one of the girls punched the other girl in the stomach. I wanted them all to just shut up.

"Where are you going, Jordan?" the head counselor, Marjory, asked, a black woman from Haiti. She spoke with a thick French Creole accent and wore long braids in her hair and eyeglasses that were at least two inches thick. This room was way too loud and noisy, so chaotic I was about to explode. I didn't know what to say to this counselor. "Are you okay? Can I get you anything?" she asked me. Standing at the door, I pulled at my hair...what was left of it, anyway. Tim cut most of it off except for the top. 

My own counselor, Megan, showed up right before I was about to really lose my mind. She was only a little older than I was, twenty-three or twenty-four. She would have looked younger if she didn't wear so much make-up. Her make-up sometimes distracted me. She liked to wear purple and shimmery eyeshadows with lots of mascara. Her lips were usually painted a deep maroon. Once she wore pink lipstick, which caught me off guard so I wanted nothing to do with her that day. I mean, she always wore dark lipstick. Her reddish brown hair was short and she had this habit of tying the sides up with little barrettes.

"Hey, I was just coming to see you," she said in that annoyingly chipper voice of hers. "Come with me. Let's chat."

Chat. I hated to "chat," but I nevertheless followed her to her little office. For a few minutes I wandered around, pulling at my hair until she told me to sit down. Megan always tried to get me to talk when I didn't want to talk...just like Tim except her job was to get me to talk. Reluctantly, I plopped down on one of the uncomfortable chairs in her office.

"Your hair looks nice," she said. "Did Tim cut it?"

Who else would have cut it? What a stupid question, I thought, folding my arms across my chest.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"Fine," I said because I knew that's what I was supposed to say.

"You seem stressed," she said like she knew me so well. She had only known me a month.

"I'm fine," I repeated. "It was loud in there, that's all." Even though I didn't look at her, I felt her eyes on me. "You seemed to handle yourself very well. It was to much for you, so you chose to leave. That's good."

So what?

Megan was silent for a minute, contemplating what stupid question she wanted to ask me next. "Tell me about Jamie," she finally said.

Oh no. Not this again. She had been after me since the beginning, trying to get me to talk about Jamie. Summer was over. What's done was done. I messed things up really bad. I shouldn't be with anyone. No one. I said all those awful things to him, but he wouldn't give up. He wouldn't let me go as evidenced by all the texts and emails he sent me. I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to face him again.

My heart hurt and all I wanted to do was cry at just the mention of his name.

"He's your boyfriend, right?" Megan said. "Jamie...he's your boyfriend?"

He was my boyfriend, I thought to myself. I chose not to answer her. There was no way I could ever go back to him.

I shouldn't be with anyone. I'm meant to be alone. Forever alone.

"I know you have a voice," she said. "We've all heard it." I ran my hands through my newly cut hair. My hair hadn't been this short in a long time...maybe not since high school. In my nervous habit, I continued to pull the top of my hair. I didn't want to think about Jamie. Jamie Perron, who was in England. Jamie. Jamie...how could I have said those things to him? These thoughts ruminated over and over again in my mind. I couldn't talk about him. Instead, I chose to speak about someone else other than Jamie.

"I haven't seen my mother in a long time," I finally said, more to appease my counselor so she would leave me alone. "I usually visit twice a month. I've never gone this long without seeing her. She probably hates me now like everyone else."

"What do you mean 'like everyone else?' Who do you think hates you?"

Everyone, I thought although I really didn't know a lot of people. Everyone...my mother, Art, Tim, and Jamie. I was sure they all hated me. I was more trouble than I was worth.

"Everyone," I muttered.

"Who's everyone?" she asked again.

Pausing a minute, I fought back my tears, overcome with guilt, regret, and shame. I wondered about how different Tim's life would be without me. I was sure it would be so much better. He never had a normal childhood. As a teenager, he had more responsibilities than most adults. Ever since I was born, he was always the one who had to deal with me and now I was stuck in this hospital with no end in sight. For all I knew they were going to keep me here forever. No one told me anything and I didn't ask.

"I miss my mother," I said. "She left when I was eleven and never came back. She lives in a group home. Did you know that?"

"Yes, I know," she said. "You'll get to visit your mother soon." Swallowing back my tears, I shrugged.

"I don't want to be like her," I said.

"Your brother told me she had a stroke," she said.

"Yeah, but she was sick before that," I said. "But at least she talked. She'd sing to us, she'd make brownies with us...with me, anyway...and now...well...she's not the same. I haven't heard her voice in years."

"It must have been very hard for you...for both you and Tim."

Talking was exhausting. Even though Megan wasn't done with me, I was done with her and made my way out of her little office.

"Where are you going, Jordan?" Megan asked. "Come back. Sit back down."

Ignoring her, I left and went straight to my room that was no bigger than a closet, my jail cell. I deserved to be in jail. Sitting on my bed, I held my head in my hands. Whether I wanted her to or not, Megan showed up, standing in my doorway.

"That's you, isn't it?" she asked, pointing to the sketch I hung above my desk. Even though I noticed it weeks ago, I only took it out recently. Someone packed it in my suitcase, hiding it under my clothes. "Did Tim draw that?"

I quickly glanced at her because how could she be so stupid?

"No...no...It wasn't Tim," she said. "Whoever drew that was definitely in love with you. Jamie?"

I didn't want to talk about Jamie.

"He's an artist?"

Not answering, I took out my phone and put my headphones on. Within the first verse of The Cure's Pictures of You, I decided to say something.

"He's an art teacher," I said. "He's in England for the school year. Some teacher exchange thing."

A selfie of me and Jamie popped open on my phone. I inadvertently (or subconsciously) opened it. In the photo Jamie and I were lying shirtless in the field of sunflowers, either before or after we did it. Oh yeah...he let me do it to him...Megan entered my room and got a glimpse of the photo.

"That's a beautiful photo," she said. "Did you take it?"

"Yes," I said.

"He's very handsome," she said.

"Yes," I said, my entire body longing to be close to him, to touch him and hug him, to feel his skin against mine. My shoulders shuddered thinking about it. "He's beautiful," I said. "And he's gone."

"But not forever, right? He's coming back."

I didn't want to get into it with her. Before the tears came, I needed her to leave. Giving her a hint, I curled up on my bed, staring at the selfie, listening to my favorite Cure song. I wished I had the strength or courage to text him or something, but I didn't. I turned up the volume so I didn't have to listen to Megan anymore. I was done.

***

Just two weeks ago, I turned twenty, which officially made me the oldest patient at this hospital. Tim bought a marble birthday cake ( because marble was my favorite) and we shared it with the other patients. He also got me another t-shirt, one of the Clash because he said I didn't have one. He was right about that. Today Tim brought me a burger and fries as well as a chocolate frosty from Wendy's because I was always complaining about the food at this hospital. I didn't ask him to bring me anything; he just did it. I was a horrible brother, a horrible boyfriend. Tim should just send me away, so he could get on with his life. I dipped a fry in the frosty as my mind wandered off, guilt-stricken and wondering why Tim stuck around all these years. Tim deserved better.

"Hey, what's going on?" Tim said. I just shrugged. "Then something is going on. What? I thought you've been doing well, so what is it?" Shaking my head, I shrugged again. Unsatisfied with my response, he took my frosty away. "I'll give it back when you tell me what you're thinking about."

Pausing a few seconds, I looked at him, then back down again. "I don't want to be a burden to you anymore," I said.

"Huh?" he said.

"I'm a burden to you," I said. "It's not fair. You never had a normal life. I messed everything up for you."

"What?"

"I was always in trouble and you were always there. I don't want to be a burden to you anymore. I want you to be happy."

"Who says I'm not happy? You're not a burden to me. You're a brat and a pain in the ass, but you've never been a burden."

I didn't believe him. Of course I was a burden.

"Look at me, Jordan." I shook my head. "You've never been a burden, Jordan. You're not a burden."

"I'll go to a group home if you want me to," I said, not believing a word he said.

"Jordan, look at me," he said, squeezing my arm. He squeezed it so tight, I swore he'd leave a handprint. "You've never been a burden to me. Never. I want you to come home."

As he forced me to look at him, tears poured out of me.

"I love him," I sobbed. "I love him and I messed up."

"I know you love him," he said. "But I know Jamie and he's very forgiving and he would love to hear from you." Sobbing, I shook my head, too embarrassed to call or text him. As long as I was in this place, I felt like I just couldn't.

"Believe me, Jordan, you've never been a burden to me," he said. "I'm never letting you go. You're going to get out of here, finish college, and go to med school. And somewhere along the way, you're going to get the balls to call Jamie." He handed my frosty back to me. "That's so disgusting," he said as I dipped another fry in my frosty.

"Shut up," I said.

As my tears dissipated, I shoved a frosty-covered fry in his face. One thing I knew was that I was great at being a bratty younger brother.