Page 51 of Actions and Reactions
Aunt Elle:
We just got here. Where are you?
That was last night, only a few minutes after I left the hospital, I realize. And that makes me feel better, because Si was only alone for a few minutes. But there are more that came in this morning.
Aunt Elle:
We talked to his doctors and they told us a little bit of what happened.
I’m sorry, sweetheart.
You’ll both get through this.
And don’t you worry, we’ll get through to him.
I don’t even know what that means.
Making him understand he’s not okay? That he’s so much more than a hockey player? That he deserves more?
Or is it about me?
God, I don’t think our parents know that we’ve been together for the past couple of months... likeactuallytogether. Sure, we didn’t really talk about it, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it? Not in the grand scheme of things.
Our relationship is just starting. We were just getting into the swing of things here, but maybe we really weren’t.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
I don’t know if I have the strength to deal with whatever is in those texts.
I’ve purposely not thought about Si all day, or tried not to at least, but that obviously won’t get me anywhere.
I said in the hospital room that I need to figure out whether I can live with Si never loving me as much as he loves hockey, and it’s time to try doing that.
So while Mom drives down the highway on our way to the Strip, I finally open Si’s messages.
I see all the text, but scroll up to the start and see he sent a picture. I’m confused at first, but when I zoom in I see the diagnosis and the recommended treatment.
I’m definitely going to google what the fuck it all means, but now I desperately want to read what he has to say.
Silas:
I don’t know why I didn’t say anything yesterday, but I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I didn’t. Apparently I’m insane, which I’m sure you won’t be surprised by, but my parents are taking me to this place near Lottie where I’m going to try and get better. I don’t want us to not speak for years again, Vinny. You’re the only person in the world who knows me, and I’m including myself in that. I think that might have something to do with this whole PTSD thing.
Mom said something about a three-month program, but hopefully I’ll be able to text you while I’m in there.
I really am sorry.
And I’ll be back once I’m better.
“Oh, God.” My whisper comes out broken, and my eyes fill up immediately. The pain and heartbreak I’ve been avoiding all day comes back like an unyielding tidal wave.
It’s so inconvenient that I did this while Mom’s driving and can’t hug me. I cover my face with my hands as sobs overtake me.
What am I supposed to write back? Should I say anything at all?
“What’s wrong, baby?” Mom asks, reaching blindly for my arm.
“He just—fuck, Mom,” I groan. I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t understand how this can hurt so much again. Why did this have to happenagain?
