Page 108 of Take My Hand

CARTER

Hayden’s family home is a quintessential suburban home. Two stories in a quiet neighborhood, oak cabinets and faded kitchen wallpaper that’s covered in family photos. The carpets are clean, but well used over the years. A large sectional and a leather recliner face the TV in the living room, lamps scattered around the space to give everything a warm, inviting glow. It smells like cinnamon, and everywhere you look, there’s a personal touch.

A vase of flowers with a card still attached to them that shows they were sent from his dad to his mom just because. A record player with a vinyl on deck, the slipcase sitting next to it worn and faded from being handled so much. An award from a show five years ago that’s proudly displayed on the mantle over the fireplace. I asked Hayden why he or one of the guys didn’t keep it and he told me because his parents used to let them practice in their basement when they were first starting out, so they guys agreed to give it to them to keep for their contribution to the early days when they, and I quote, “Kinda fucking sucked.”

“Is there anything I can help with?” I ask Helen, walking into the kitchen as she’s putting the finishing touches on the taco salad she’s making for dinner. I had offered to cook tonight, but she insisted on making one of Hayden’s favorites for his last night home.

They brought Will home from the hospital yesterday after he got cleared by both his doctor and by the psychological evaluation. He’s been resting upstairs in his bedroom most of the time, with Lucas and Hayden keeping him company playing video games and watching old reruns of their childhood favorite shows.

While the circumstances around us coming here were scary, it’s been a nice visit. Will has been in better spirits than when we first arrived and Hayden confided in me last night how he had already found him a therapist to start helping him work through his PTSD. And that Hayden himself was going to start seeing his again when we returned.

“If you’d like to get the rest of that cheese shredded, that would be great,” Helen greets me with a smile and points to a bowl and block of cheddar on the counter. I take a spot at one of the barstools and get to work.

“So this is one of Hayden’s favorites, huh?”

“Sure is,” she says, brushing her hands on the checkered apron she has wrapped around her waist. “I never had to call the boys to dinner that night if we were having this. I’d just turn around and they’d all be sitting at the table.”

“What was Hayden like growing up?” I ask, trying to picture a smaller, non-tattooed version of him.

Helen dices up a tomato in bite-sized cubes. “Oh, he was my easy child. Always liked to help out around the house. Very sensitive, a little shy. He was just a sweet boy.”

“Well, he’s a sweet man,” I tell her and love the way her face lights up when talking about her son.

“He is. He treating you right?” She raises a brow at me, and I laugh at her attempt at a serious expression.

“Yes,” I assure her. “Better than I have by anyone else.” I don’t need to get into those details with his mom on our first meeting but it’s true. “He’s very thoughtful and generous. You and Scott have raised him well.”

She blushes at my compliment.

“Is this enough cheese you think?” I ask, holding the bowl out for her to see.

“Looks great. Dump it in.” She slides the giant bowl across the counter, and I sprinkle in the pile of cheese.

She adds the tomatoes and pours a bag of tortilla chips into another bowl before taking them over and setting them on the table.

Pulling off her apron and hanging on a hook by the refrigerator, she turns to me and the mood shifts.

“Now, I don’t mean to pry at all. But after what you’ve seen over the last few days with my youngest, I think you’ll understand my question and desire to know truly how my son is doing. He can tell me until he’s blue in the face that he’s fine, but you see him everyday. And I need to know, how’s he been doing lately?”

Her face is awash with concern, and she rings her hands together, clearly wanting to know the truth but preparing for more hurt to come her way in the case that Hayden isn’t doing as good as he tells her.

And while I don’t want to speak on his behalf because at the end of the day, it’s his well-being and only he can truly articulate how he’s feeling, I also am around him a lot, and he’s open with me when he’s having one of his bad days.

“He’s been okay,” I tell her, and she visibly relaxes. “He still struggles some days with getting up and out of the house, but those days are few and far between now. And there are times when we’re out in public and something will startle him, but he’s been able to calm himself down and not fly headfirst into a panic attack.”

Sure, he still always is scanning our surroundings and keeps the exit in sight at all times, but at least he gets himself out of the house. He’s trying, and he’s succeeding.

“That’s good. You know even with video calls, it’s still not the same as seeing him in person and being able to check in on him,” she says, absentmindedly running a washcloth over the already clean counter.

“From my perspective at least, he seems to have more good days than bad ones now. I see him trying every day to find something to focus his energy on and keep his anxiety at bay. It’s been good for him to work on his house.”

I don’t voice my concerns to her about how he’ll do once Whisper Me Nothings announces their breakup after their last show in just a little over a week. He assures me he’s fine with it, that he’s found some peace in the decision after the dinner party at Nikolai’s. But I’m not convinced. I don’t see how there is peace to be had in a decision like that.

“Well, and I’m sure you’re a part of his good days,” she says with a knowing look in her eye.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket and I fish it out, seeing a text from my dad.

Dad: How’s Hayden’s brother doing? Flying home tomorrow still?

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