Page 65 of Unloved

Finally, Samuel nods, answering my question, and I find myself putting his comfort and fear above mine. Needing to be closer to him, I practically climb into his lap, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss his temple. “I love you.”

His hands tighten around me as he buries his head in my chest. I feel the tears on my shirt before I see them, followed by the shake of his shoulders.

I press my lips to the top of his head, whispering how much I love him, telling him again and again and again.

For Samuel, old wounds are reopening.

A ten-year-old boy, in a twenty-two-year-old man’s body, processing childhood trauma through the eyes of an adult. He’s breaking, right here in my arms, and I can’t do anything else but act as duct tape and try to keep all the pieces of him together.

There is no way for him to think of Rhys without thinking about his father, and vice versa. The memory of one brought forth the reality of the other, and I don’t know how to make any of it easier for him.

We have no details on what triggered Rhys. We don’t know if it was an accidental overdose or if he was purposefully trying to end his own life. Neither answer is a comfort, but in order to know what to do next, we need to know what happened in the first place.

Eventually, Samuel raises his head, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, the blues transparent and tired. He presses his mouth to mine, the taste of his salty tears between us, and we just sit like that, in the silence.

As we’re sitting, wrapped around each other, a nurse walks back to the nursing station, and Samuel pats my back, then points over to her, and I nod.

Go see if she knows anything.

I climb off his lap and sit on my original chair, waiting for him to return. After a short exchange, Samuel drags his phone out of his front pocket and I figure I should do the same.

His first text comes immediately.

They’re moving him out of ICU now.

That sounds positive.

She wouldn’t give me too much information because I’m not family or his emergency contact, but she’ll let me know when we can see him.

By this stage, he’s taking his seat beside me, and I take the opportunity to ask him again how he’s feeling.

How are you feeling?

He pauses before answering, and I put a hand on his knee, letting him know he can take his time, I’m not going anywhere.

Samuel: I don’t know.

Samuel: Nothing.

Samuel: Everything.

He glances up at me and points in my direction, asking me how I am. And the truth is, I don’t know. I feel like I became more numb as time went on, because I really just have no expectations of how this is going to go once we lay eyes on him.

“I just want to be here for both of you,” I tell him honestly.

Holding hands, we sit side by side and continue texting with one hand, back and forth.

Samuel: And then who’s there for you?

I lean my head on his shoulder as I type.

Me: You’re always here for me when I need you. You both are.

Samuel: And how are we going to be there for Rhys? What if he doesn’t let us?

There is a real possibility that he won’t want us to see him this way. I always knew he struggled to ask for help, and this proved me right in the worst type of way.

“We’re not going anywhere.” When Samuel doesn’t confirm or deny my statement, I have to make sure I’m not assuming he’s still in this just because I am. “Are we?”

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