“Of course,” Caleb says, his fingers still anchored between mine, warm and strong.
“He was pretty good at it,” I go on, trying to remember how to get back to the main point of the story. “Took all the art classes in high school, did really well, and for a while he talked about applying to art school or something. But I guess he wanted Dad’s approval more because one day he came home and he’d enlisted.”
Caleb changes lanes, speeds up, passes a big rig. I look up at the driver for a moment, and he’s staring straight ahead, dead-eyed.
“He did two tours of Afghanistan, and on the second one he tore his rotator cuff, blew out his knee, and compressed three vertebrae in his lumbar spine when they took fire and he dragged his best friend’s body behind a wall while wearing fifty pounds of equipment,” I go on. “He left active duty. Started drinking. They gave him fistfuls of pain meds at the VA and not much else.”
I don’t tell Caleb that last year, when I went home for Christmas break, Javier woke me up nearly every night, screaming. I don’t tell him that he used to disappear for two or three days, then come back wearing the same clothes, rings around his eyes, smelling awful and looking worse.
“I see,” Caleb says.
“He got addicted,” I say, simply. “What he got prescribed wasn’t enough any more, so he found it on the street until my parents put him into rehab. Which worked, until it didn’t, and when they found out that he’d been using again my dad kicked him out and cut him off. And now we don’t know where he is.”
Caleb looks over at me, and I can see the disbelief written on his face, the disgust, the horror. I can’t say I blame him.
“My father believes that the only real love is tough love,” I say, and I try to keep my voice from shaking. “My mom had to fight with him over sending Javi to rehab in the first place. He’s the kind of person who thinks that all help is weakness, that if Javi really wanted it he’d be able to magically will his way back to being better instead of needing sissy bullshit like therapy and rehab and psych meds.”
I take a deep breath, even though I feel like someone is strangling me.
“And now I don’t even know where he is so I can tell him that Mom is in the hospital,” I finish. A tear splashes down my cheek and I wipe it away, exhale a long, shuddering breath, close my eyes and lean back against the headrest. “I guess Bossy and I will start calling all the shelters and halfway houses tomorrow, but they hadn’t heard of him last month, so I’m not really expecting a miracle.”
Inhale, exhale. I bite my lips together and try to keep myself from crying more, because Caleb’s seen enough of my tears by this point in the night. He’s already volunteered to be my driver. He doesn’t need to be my therapist, too.
“I’m sorry, Thalia,” he says, holding my hand even tighter, the pressure warm, steady, reassuring. I’m sorry isn’t enough, but what is? What could someone possibly say that could fix this?
“Thanks,” I say, and then I realize the car is slowing down. I open my eyes as we decelerate, coming to a stop sign at the end of an exit ramp off of I-81. Caleb looks both ways, then turns right and right again, into a gas station so brightly lit that I have to shield my eyes.
He doesn’t say word, just parks across three parking spots, gets out of the car. Bewildered, still trying not to cry, I watch as he crosses in front of the car to the passenger side door.
He pulls it open and I look up at him, one hand stretched out, and I stare like I’ve never seen a hand before, utterly uncomprehending.
“C’mere,” he finally says.
I unlatch the seatbelt. I unwind from the car, still blinking in the bright lights, stand, and then his arms are around me and my head is buried in his chest, and all I can think is oh.
Then I cry, and Caleb doesn’t say a thing. He just stands there and holds me.
I don’t know how long we stay like that. Too long, probably, but he never tries to back away, never tries to let me go. He just stands there and holds me while I cry because I’m scared for my mom and furious for my brother and afraid that I’ll never see either of them again.
“I’m sorry,” I finally gasp, coming up for air. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry —”
“Don’t be,” comes his calm, steady voice.
“I’ll be sorry if I want,” I say, petulant, and that gets a chuckle from deep in his chest.