Page 52 of A Thousand Broken Pieces

Leo sat back in his chair. We were in the red room from the first day we had arrived here. All of our group sessions had been held here. I hadn’t participated. But I’d listened, which was an improvement on most of the sessions before.

“When it comes to suicide,” Leo said carefully, “especially notable in men is the lack of talking.” At those words my body went still. All my muscles locked, and my bones turned to stone. Leo sat forward in his chair. My eyes dropped to the ground. “Talking saves lives.” Leo placed his notebook on the floor beside him. “Around eighty percent of all suicides in the United States are men. It’s one of our biggest killers.” I felt anger stirring inside of me. He didn’t have to tell me this. Iknewthis. I had researched this. “I’m worried about you, Cael,” he said, and this time, I met his eyes. “You don’t talk to us. You don’t even mention your brother. Not just by his name but atall. I know you have opened up to Savannah some, but Mia and I are here to help you through this. We are here to help you professionally. To give you tools to move on.”

Leo linked his hands together. “I need you to know that there is nothingyou could have done,” he said. I felt a familiar flash of anger flare inside of me. Only, where it used to burst out of me through shouts and screams and fists through walls, since being with Savannah, it now instantly faded and turned to guilt and shame and sadness. It was so intense, it actuallyachedwhen it settled within me. Because I didn’t believe Leo. He didn’t know me and Cillian. He didn’t know how close we were. How closely our lives were intertwined. I should have known there was something wrong with him. How had I missed it? How had I let him die?

My leg started bouncing in agitation. I opened my mouth, to try to speak, but nothing came out. It was like there was a mental block whenever I wanted to try to talk about it, to give voice to my pain and shame and fears.

Leo checked the clock on the wall. “That’s our time up for today, Cael.” I jumped from my seat, needing to get out of the room. Before I reached the exit, Leo said, “I know it’s hard. Believe me, son, Iknow.” Shivers darted down my spine at the way he had said that. Had someone close to him done what Cillian had done? If so, how hadhemoved on? “But to help you gain back your life, we have to start talking.” The expression on Leo’s face was earnest, beseeching. When I didn’t react, he said, “I’ve also spoken to your parents again today.” My stomach dropped. “I told them you were well. They said you’re still ignoring their calls and texts.” Once more, he let unspoken words hang between us.

He was right. I still hadn’t called them once since I’d been away. They tried to call at the same time every day, no matter where I was. They texted every day too. My dad especially. I left them all on read.

I had nothing to say to them.

I left the room and let the sticky Indian air coat my skin. I walked aimlessly, lost to my thoughts. I just didn’t know how to open up. I didn’t feel that I would ever be able to do it. Savannah’s face came to mind. I’d told her about Cillian. I’d told her he’d taken his own life. But I hadn’t said anything else. Hadn’t told her of that night, of what I’d seen …

I didn’t know if I would ever be able to.

I turned the corner of the resort to see Savannah and Dylan sitting together at a café table drinking coffee. She was listening to him speak. She listened so attentively, so well. She never judged, never made me feel stupid.Just looking at her had my muscles relaxing and my shoulders dropping. It still surprised me how another person could have such an effect on me.

Maybe one day I could tell Savannah everything about Cillian. How he’d built me up when I was low, or how he’d taught me how to take a slap shot. Or how I had found him … how the last image of my big brother was him gone, by his own doing, limp in my arms.

A wave of emotion choked me, and I ducked back into the hallway. I picked up my speed until I was running. I ran out onto a jogging trail, and I just kept going. I couldn’t talk to Savannah about this. She was mourning her own sister, fought daily with not succumbing to her anxiety. She didn’t need my issues weighing her down too.

So, I ran. I ran and ran until I was exhausted. Until the gutting sadness my session with Leo had brought up had faded. I ran until I couldn’t think of anything anymore. Until I was so tired all I wanted to do was sleep.

Once again, I’d successfully ran away from my brother’s death, as fast as my feet would take me. And I wasn’t sure how that could ever change.

Today’s lesson was out in the open air, in a secluded gazebo overlooking the turquoise sea. Miriam was our therapist for this. We’d had days of group lessons and one-on-ones. We’d had days of yoga and walking nearby routes, of meditation and music therapy.

Today was art. Painting, to be exact.

“You all have a blank canvas before you,” Miriam said, and I glanced down at the paints, the brushes and the container filled with water to clean off the paint between strokes.

I wasn’t much of an artist, so I wasn’t hopeful of what I’d get out of this session. The past few days’ activities had been okay and, with regard to facing our own mortality, had been soft and gradual. Nothing had pushed us to the brink yet. I didn’t think for one second those days weren’t coming.

Savannah was beside me, but none of us could see one another’s canvases. I stared at that white piece of canvas and wondered what the hell she’d ask us to draw.

“For today’s session, I would like you to remember the person or persons you have lost,” Miriam said, and my world absolutely stopped. Invisible hands took hold of my lungs and heart and began to squeeze. I heard my heart beat slow in my ears as white noise filled in the rest of the barren space.

“You have an array of paint colors in front of you. I want you to think of who you have lost and simply paint. It can be a portrait or simply a conceptual representation of who they were to you, who they were in life. Perhaps how you feel since they have been gone.

“I want you to really pour your heart into the memories you have with this person and purge it on the canvas.” Miriam walked slowly around us all, circling the silent room. The tension between all of us rose so high you could slice it with a knife.

“I want you to really delve down deep.” Her voice changed sympathetically. “This can be emotionally draining. But we must face these emotions head-on. We must think of the person we have lost and not run from their memory or the pain their passing can inspire.” Miriam stood in the center of the circle. She placed her hand on her chest. “Feelthis painting.Feelyour loved ones. Let your soul lead you on this journey and allow all the pent-up sorrow and happiness and unfairness you feel leave your body.” Miriam smiled at each of us. “When you’re ready, please begin.”

I stared at the canvas for so long, I completely lost track of time. I didn’t know what to paint. Nothing was coming forward. In my peripheral, I saw people beginning to put their brushes to their pieces. I didn’t look at what colors they were using or what they might be painting. The canvas before me seemed like an impossible mountain to climb.

A familiar heat seared through me. And today, I let it. Ineededto feel it right now. I was soangryat Cillian. He had taken our dreams and smashed them into pieces, so many that they could never be put back together again. He had destroyed our family. He had destroyed his friends, his team; he had destroyed so much in his path that he was like the deadliest of tornadoes.

And he hadn’t told anyone. He’d hid his pain with easy smiles and loud laughs. He’d played every game of hockey like he was in the Stanley Cup final. Talked animatedly, the life of the party at family gatherings, at our familydinners. And me, I was the idiot who hadn’t seen through the cracks—his fractures. I hadn’t seen the sadness in his eyes. Hadn’t noticed the tiredness in his voice, hadn’t noticed him giving up, day by day, pretending to the world that he was fine.

But worst of all, he hadn’t told anyonewhy. They’d been no obvious reason for why he’d done it. No falling out with friends, no girlfriend who had left him broken-hearted. He hadn’t been in trouble. He was in the first line at Harvard, on his way to the Frozen Four, NHL shining brightly in his future. He had a mother and father and brother who adored him.

But he’d fucking left anyway.

It was only when the paintbrush snapped in my hand and the canvas blurred before me that I realized I’d been painting. That I’d thrown color onto the white canvas and poured all of what I was thinking into some kind of art piece.

I blinked my eyes and cleared the tears that had formed. And I just stared … I stared at what lay before me.

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