Don't Tell (Don't 1)

“I’ve been trying to put my life back together,” he yelled.

I stiffened in my seat. My shoulders seized. My breath stuck in my lungs.

He exhaled, gripping the steering wheel. “It hasn’t been easy for anyone, Emily.”

“I didn’t say it was,” I seethed. “But you should know this stuff. You should have done more.” I flinched as soon as I said it. It was wrong. It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t the only one in the car who was scared. What I said was insensitive.

Instead of retaliating he reached forward and tapped the computer screen, filling the car with an electric guitar solo. It was too loud to make my calls to the medical centers or to Kelly. We didn’t speak another word until we arrived at the auto shop.

21

The guys my brother had gone into business with weren’t much help. Other than a spare key to his apartment they couldn’t give us any leads.

We left the auto garage and my father drove us to the one-bedroom place Garrett rented on the sound-side of the island. He had a parking lot view. We climbed the steps to the second floor.

“Garrett?” I knocked on the door before trying the key. “Garrett, it’s Emily.” I stepped inside, Dad right behind me.

I walked over a drawing and then another. I looked down. The floor was covered in art work.

“What the hell is this?” There was anger in his voice.

My father bent to pick up one of the sketches. He held it forward.

I moved toward the bedroom. The covers were strewn across the bed, but it didn’t look as if Garrett had neglected the apartment. I’d seen the state of his room when he went on one of his tirades. It wasn’t like this. The hamper was empty. The bathroom was clean. I checked the trashcan—no needles.

I met my father in the living room. He was busy shuffling through Garrett’s art.

“Does he do this often? Draw like this?”

I nodded. “Always.”

He stacked the sketch paper and sat on the couch. “Did you see anything in his room?”

“It’s surprisingly neat. I don’t know what that means. If it means anything.” I pulled up a milk crate and took a seat. I was relieved I hadn’t found any drugs.

Quiet seconds passed. “Dad, why don’t we split up? I’ll get a car and I’ll drive around here. You can try New Bern or retrace where you’ve already been. I think it would be better.”

He stared at the trunk Garrett had turned into a coffee table. “It’s true I don’t know him like you do.”

“That’s not what—” I hadn’t planned on lecturing him about how much he didn’t know about his adult children. It was obvious. It was clear. We were all strangers.

He held up his hand and I pressed my lips together.

“He is my son, but I don’t know a damn thing about him.” He looked at me. His eyes clouded. “And what if it’s too late now?”

I shook my head. “No. We’re not even going to think that. Ever.” I glared at him. “Garrett is—he does this, Dad. He does this shit and it sucks. We worry. We get scared. But, it’s not the last time.” I never let myself go there. “It’s never the last time because he has an illness. And maybe when we find him this time you can start to accept that. You can figure out how to live with the fact that you have a son with bi-polar disorder.”

“I know about his diagnosis.”

“But you don’t like it. And Mom pretends it’s as trivial as if he were left-handed.”

“Of course I don’t like it.” He balled his fists. “This isn’t what I thought his life would be like. Or yours or mine.”

“You didn’t like it so you left?”

“I’ve been here. I’ve always been here if your brother or mother needed me.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to argue with him. I didn’t want to fall into that pit.