“Where is he now?”
I suck in a deep breath. I had sometimes wondered if I should’ve reached out to my father, but before I even attempted to make a decision, it was too late. “Dead. He died in prison of a heart attack or something like that. He was doing time for drugs. Not just little shit. He was involved with a crime organization, busted in the middle of a huge drug deal. I wasn’t even born yet; my mother was pregnant with me when he got arrested. Gotta love the eighties.
“Anyway, I was never a part of my father’s family. You can’t miss what you’ve never had. I don’t even have his last name. My mother gave me her maiden name when I was born and paid for Sean’s last name to be changed when he was a kid. My mother worked hard to make an honest living, hoping her sons wouldn’t end up like their father.”
“I know your brother was arrested and did time. How about you?” Jenna asks, tilting her head, waiting for my response.
“Have I ever done time in jail?” She nods. “Nope.” I answer.
“Were you ever arrested?”
“Enough about me. Let me hear something about you.”
“Logan,” she says, stressing my name as it rolls off her tongue.
Fuck my life. “Yeah. I was arrested. Once,” I confess.
Jenna’s eyes widen. “For what?”
“DUI,” I respond blankly.
“But your brother and the reason behind his jail time… Why?”
Huffing out, I scoot forward, lean over the table, and fold my hands. “Look, after Sean’s death, I lost it. I was pissed. Angry at him. At myself. At everyone. I wanted to feel numb and liquor and weed wasn’t doing the trick. I’d never done drugs before. I mean, I’d smoked pot before, but never any hard-core shit. So, I met up with a few friends who did all of that. My boy Joe said he had something for me that would get the job done. It was this tiny grey pill. Some new drug dealer, experimental shit. It was a mixture of different drugs; they called it the blackout dose. He warned me it was strong and to wait until I got home. I did.
“As soon as I got home, I tried it. It took probably fifteen minutes before it hit me. I don’t remember anything after that. I completely fucking blacked out. Go figure. What else should I have expected with a drug named that, right?” I shake my head, going on. “I woke up twelve hours later. It didn’t take long before I got addicted to it and needed it to sleep every night. But I always made sure I was home before I took one.
“Then, one shitty day or night—I don’t even remember—after I left a bar, I was completely wasted. Even though I was drunk, I still felt everything. The memories of Sean were too hard to bear and I just wanted to feel numb again. I got behind the wheel of my car with no business being there in the first place. I remember digging into my pocket, popping the pill in my mouth, and driving off.
“After that I woke up in a hospital, groggy and in a daze. I felt lost. I had no idea how I got there. Then the entire night began to piece together. The first thing I remember thinking was that I’d killed someone. I’d done the same thing Sean did. I killed someone. But I didn’t. Thank God, I didn’t. I just killed myself.”
“What do you mean?” Jenna asks.
“I died. At least that’s what the doctor and my mom told me. Apparently, when I drove away from the bar, I didn’t make it too far before I blacked out and drove straight into a light pole. I had a few broken ribs; my arm was literally broken in half, hanging. I dislocated my hip and fractured my skull. But I had my seatbelt on.”
I laugh at that. “My fucking seatbelt. There must’ve been an angel with me that night because I don’t even remember putting it on. I remember popping the pill and then driving off. Not the seatbelt. Anyway, I’d lost a lot of blood by the time the ambulance came and took me. I was bleeding internally. My rib had punctured a lung. When I got to the hospital, they took me into surgery immediately. I died on the table for approximately forty-two seconds.
“Some say when you die, you see a light. I didn’t see shit, nothing but blackness. And then, by some miracle, I was revived. After that, I didn’t want to experience the blackouts anymore, especially after seeing how much pain I caused my mother. I was being so selfish, trying to rid the pain without realizing there were others who were suffering too. So I got my shit together.
“After I got better and left the hospital, I was arrested for destruction of city property, DUI, and other stuff. I was bailed out within hours, but the charges stuck. Since it was my first offense, I had to do six months of a rehabilitation program and my license was suspended for a year. Actually, I just got it back six months ago.”
Yeah. Now she’ll probably run as far away from me as possible. That was my past. I’m not like that anymore.
Jenna’s features distort in confusion. “You don’t do drugs or anything anymore?” she asks.
“No.”
“But you drink?”
This is difficult to explain. “Yeah, I do. I’m not addicted to alcohol. I know that’s what an addict would say, but I’m not. I never was. I drink from time to time, socially, but I don’t turn to booze to solve my issues. When I’m dealing with something, I work out instead. I take out all my frustrations at the gym.”
“Oh,” she says.
I lean forward, lowering my head in an effort to coax her into looking at me. Her eyes meet mine. Finally. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now. Tell me if what I just told you changes your opinion of me. One thing you’ll learn about me, Jersey, is that I’m very honest and I don’t like to sugarcoat anything. What you see is what you get. And I’d like it if you could be that way with me as well, okay?”
“All right.” She straightens her shoulders, her eyes boring into mine. “What do you want to know?”
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask.
“That you’re not perfect,” she responds, deadpan.
I snort. “I’ve never claimed to be.”
“I know. I like that about you.”
“You like that I’m not perfect?” I ask, waiting for her to clarify.
“Yes. It makes you real, authentic. I’m not perfect either.”
“So are you saying you have a dark side you’re withholding from me?” I ask playfully, but the look in her eyes transforms my smile into a thin line. “What are you not saying?”
“Judgments are given so easily; learning about a person and their struggles is far more difficult.”
“You’re right—judgments are easily given. But I’m not judging you, Jenna. I would never do that. I genuinely want to learn about you. If you allow me to, that is.”
She seems to be struggling with her own thoughts. Her eyes are downcast as she brings a shaky finger to the side of her temple, rubbing it as if her head aches. “Excuse me. I have to use the restroom,” she says before she stands and walks away.
Jenna
Pacing back and forth inside the bathroom, I try to breathe. I’m having an anxiety attack; at least it feels like I am. Why is it so hard to just come out and say it? Logan could walk away right now and it wouldn’t hurt too bad, would it? Then again, he shared personal things with me about himself, which I’m sure wasn’t easy for him to do.
“I’m schizoaffective.” I say it out loud in the empty bathroom. “I’m schizoaffective.” I allow it to roll off my tongue.
I can’t do this.
How will he look at me? Logan says he won’t judge me, but I know the truth. It’s never easy to look at someone the same way after hearing news like this. It’s different when you tell someone you’re dying because of an illness. Then, you just get the sympathy treatment. When you tell them you have a mental illness, especially when it’s associated with schizophrenia, you get the is-she-going-to-jump-out-and-stab-me-because-she-must-be-crazy look.