Page 20 of Rectify

“Emerson keeps asking about you, which is weird because why wouldn’t she just ask you. You’re friends, right?”

She ignores my attempts to placate her, refusing to let up on the twenty questions. “Listen,” I shout, pulling her out of her mild hysteria. “How about I come tonight? You’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.”

Her face perks up at my version of a peace offering, the little worry creases between her brows softening. It brings the whole conversation with Holly and Riley to the forefront of my mind. My life is so entwined with Jagger and Hendrix, it’s impossible to change it. Even the hint of a distressed Dakota has me bending over backwards to please her.

Sitting with Jagger and Emerson for dinner is one of the very last things I want to do. Dakota is right. Since her birthday, I’ve been avoiding them, the bitter single woman in me not prepared to hang out with them as their third wheel. Watching them actively work to keep their hands off one another, because they pity the empty seat beside me is something I can do without. I don’t want to fake small talk, and I definitely don’t want to sit with Emerson after what went down between me and her best friend.

But all of that pales in comparison to Dakota’s requests. If me at Jagger’s place feeds into the charade that everything is okay, then that’s where I’ll be.

6

Jay

It’s been a week and after three purposefully orchestrated run-ins with Holly, it’s safe to say her rehearsed rejection means Sasha is very much aware I’ve been asking about her.

I should be deterred that she’s so opposed to seeing me, but I’m in no rush. Anything worth having is worth waiting for.

Sitting at home after a morning at the hospital, Max and I discuss the high possibility of Leroy never waking up on his own. The doctors began weaning him off the drugs five days ago, hoping he will wake himself up.

As each day passes, the probability of burying my brother weighs heavy on my mind. Still in a drugged-up haze, the swelling on his brain has barely gone down, but it isn’t increasing either. If there’s no progress, our next option is to switch off the machines and let him go.

Max’s gone through a whole box of tissues mourning the man she loves. There’s a huge disconnect between us when it comes to Leroy’s fate. She’s all heart and I’m all logic. It doesn’t help the situation, as we sit in a constant state of tug-of-war. She wants to wait it out for as long as possible, and I couldn’t think of anything worse than leaving him in such a vulnerable and exposed state.

He lays there with nothing more than a sheet covering his fragile, and deteriorating body. Machines are breathing for him. Drips fill him up with fluid, and tubes wait for it all to come back out. If he could see himself right now, he would be cursing me for letting people see him, stripped of his dignity, so broken, so bare.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” I say through Max’s hiccuped sobs. “But you have to prepare to say goodbye.”

“How can you just switch it all off like that?” she shrieks accusingly.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. This is about the sixth time she’s had some sort of outburst in protest. “I'm not going to be the bad guy in this story, Max. Not this fucking time.” I push the detailed medical papers to her. “Read it, and come to me when you realise we don’t have any other options.”

“I don’t want to switch it off,” she begs.

“He’s not himself,” I explain for what feels like the hundredth time. “He’s not the man you know.” I scrape the chair across the wooden floor. “Even if he woke up, he wouldn’t be the same guy we remember. He could have memory loss, even worse he might be paralysed. He’s a shell of his former self right now. You need to understand that.”

As her cries get louder, and harder, I find myself in my own personal hell. Rising from the table, I make my way to the door, needing distance. “I’m off,” I call out.

“Where are you going?”

I don’t bother turning around. “Anywhere but here.”

I leave the house in a hurry. I’m agitated, upset, and angry. So fucking angry. Not used to all these emotions, I find myself unable to process them. I’m torn between wanting to hit something, wanting to yell at someone, and wanting to consume something strong enough to make it all go away. I want to be numb.

Surprising myself, I notice I’ve unknowingly made my way to the hospital. Turning into the car park, I wonder why my subconscious brought me here. I hate this place. Its contradicting nature has me feeling helpless and defeated every time I visit. I want the healing. The stitching up. I want the qualified people to make it all better. Instead I can’t help but feel we’re getting the only thing we deserve. Heartache. Misery. The bleak reminders that lives like ours are too hard to save.

Walking into Leroy’s room, the nurse looks surprised at my second visit.

“Back again, Mr. Evans?” she queries.

Unable to muster an explanation, I offer the only coherent word available to me. “Yeah.” I leave her looking at the back of me as I sit on the chair between his bed, and the window.

Unlike the other times I’ve been here, where my phone is my constant companion, this time is different. I don’t return phone calls, or catch up on emails. Instead I focus on the body that is the only thing left of my brother, and do something I haven’t done in years.

I talk to him.

“Hey, bro.” I scoot the chair as close to the bed as possible. I hunch my back and rest my elbows on my knees, while I think of where to start. “It’s me. Jay.”

The consistent beeping of the machines twists the knife in my chest a little bit farther. The bitter reminder, he doesn’t know I’m here and he isn’t going to respond.

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