A World Without You (22 page)

Phoebe

I'm still thinking
about the videos when I wake up the next morning and stagger downstairs for breakfast.

Bo's already sitting at the dining room table, shoveling sugar-drenched Cheerios into his mouth. I almost ask him about Sofía, but I can't think of a way to bring it up without being morbid.

“What?” Bo asks, his mouth full.

“Nothing,” I say, looking away and grabbing the box of cereal.

Bo's spoon clatters on the table, and he scoots his chair back, ready to leave. The sweet dregs of his sugary milk are still on the bottom of the bowl. I will never understand how he can possibly skip the best part, but Bo never finishes the milk.

Rather than leaving as soon as he stands, though, Bo stares at me and then sits back down.

“Hey,” he says.

I look up at him, instantly on edge.

“I just . . . are you like me?” he asks.

“What?”

“Are you, you know”—he pauses—“like me?”

I shake my head silently. No. I'm not like Bo. If there's one thing I've learned since Bo went to Berkshire Academy, it's that mental issues are hard to diagnose, harder to treat. There's a lot of trial and error. There's a lot of hoping that this drug balances out this chemical in the brain or that this symptom being reduced makes up for this side effect. There's not a lot of clarity when there's something wrong with your mind. But at least when there's
not
something wrong, that's pretty clear too.

Bo's shoulders sort of sag with relief when I tell him there's nothing wrong with me, and my heart clenches. I've wondered before if Bo resents me for being “normal,” but now I see that beneath whatever jealousy he might experience, there's also worry.

For the first time, I feel like Bo really cares about me. He's been nice to me before, of course, but it's not like he was ever my defender at school or on the bus. He let me fight my own fights. I've seen Rosemarie tackle a kid who was calling her brother gay, but Bo never did anything like that for me. Then again, to be fair, I worked hard to make sure I was never in a position to need help. I never wanted to test whether or not I would get it.

I thought he didn't care about me.

But now it seems like he does care, at least when it matters. Maybe he's cared all along. He's just shown it in ways that I haven't seen.

Bo plays on his phone while I eat my cereal, but when I
start to stand up and leave, he drops his phone on the table. I look at him, surprised at his sudden movement.

“So, uh,” he says awkwardly. “How 'bout them Patriots?”

I laugh. “I think they have a real shot at the Bowl next year, Dad,” I say sarcastically.

Bo shrugs, smiling at me. “I dunno,” he says. “Just—how are things?”

Even though I can tell Bo's trying to keep it light, this whole conversation feels weird. I shift my empty cereal bowl from one hand to the other. “I don't know,” I say.

“What're you gonna do after college?”

I lift one shoulder up. How many different ways can I tell people,
I don't know
?

“I mean, you don't have to go to college,” he adds. “You could just, you know, leave. Backpack in Europe or camp across America or sit out in the woods and paint or something.”

I cock up an eyebrow at him. That's new. Everyone's asking me what I want to do in the future, but what they really mean is which college, which major, which career.

I sit back down. “It's not as simple as that, though, is it?” I say.

“Why not?”

Because I'm me and you're you
, I want to say.
Because you get to have the unknown.
That's why everyone keeps asking me what I'm going to do when I graduate—because they want some level of certainty with at least one of us. No one knows what Bo's going to do, but everyone knows what my future holds, even if I keep pretending like I have a choice. A nice, respectable, in-state college; a reasonable major that will lead to a career with a salary and a 401(k) and a savings account; a
retirement plan. I'm two years younger than Bo, and all I know is that whatever my future entails, there'll be a retirement plan.

“Listen,” Bo says seriously. “You can do anything you want. You really can. You can start a company or get a doctorate or hitchhike to Wyoming.”

“Why would I want to go to Wyoming?”

“I don't know,” Bo says. “I
really
don't think you should go there. And, um, I want to talk to you if you ever decide to hitchhike. Seriously. But if you do it anyway, just know that it'll be okay.”

I squint at him. He's really not making any sense.

“All I'm saying is, your future is full of possibilities.” Bo looks me straight in the eyes. “Trust me, I know.”

I snort. “You don't,” I say, my voice full of defeat. “Because you know what I really want?”

Bo looks at me, waiting.

“I want the freedom to mess up,” I say. Just once, I want to be the one who's allowed to screw up. I want the freedom to choose. Right now, I have no choice. I
have
to be this way. But one day, I'll be free. I'll be able to live my life without having to be perfect. I'll be able to do anything I want—or nothing at all. I'll wander around aimlessly. I'll make mistakes. I won't worry about being safe, being perfect.

I won't worry about disappointing my parents.

At least that's what I tell myself. Because being free? That comes at a price I don't think my parents can pay.

I was two when Phoebe was born.
I don't remember it at all, but I do remember the doctor visits.

Phoebe was born with a hole in her heart. That sounds like a huge deal, but it wasn't really. Turns out it's pretty routine. But when Phoebe turned three, the doctors decided the hole wasn't going to heal on its own, and she needed surgery. Before that, however, they did an EKG, and I got to watch.

Phoebe lay down on a hospital bed, and Mom clutched her hand like she was saying her last goodbyes even though everyone else, including Pheebs, was pretty chill about it all. Phoebe watched the cartoon the technician put on for her, but I watched the monitor. The technician rubbed a wand over Phoebe's chest, and a black-and-white picture of her heart showed up on the screen, contracting and expanding with every beat.

“What's that?” I asked, pointing.

The technician showed me the arteries and the different chambers of Phoebe's heart.

“And this is what's causing all the trouble,” the technician said. “This is where the hole is.”

“It looks like a bird,” I said, and the technician laughed.

With every heartbeat, the wings of the bird flapped. This was blood flowing over the loose tissue, but to me it was like one of those drawings little kids make of birds in the sky, the ones that look like elongated letter
m
's. I watched, mesmerized, as the bird's wings moved up and down, up and down.

They got her into surgery, and she was only in the hospital for a day, and then she milked my parents for ice cream for dinner until she was sick of ice cream, and that was that.

But sometimes I look at Phoebe and I think about how she had a bird inside her heart. On the outside, she's just like everyone else, but I like to think that maybe she carries within her something magical and free.

Phoebe

I can't sleep.

Instead, I leave my room, creeping down the stairs and out of the house. The stars stretch out in front of me, glittering over the tops of the trees. Our yard is small, but it feels huge, tucked away in a clearing and surrounded by trees on three sides. A car drives past slowly, the headlights briefly illuminating the trees and casting long, creeping shadows deeper into the woods. As soon as it's gone, the night returns to its cozy darkness. Even though the grass is damp, I sit on the little hill behind our house, staring up into the sky, pretending that all that's left of the world is me and a hundred million stars and the blackness of the night.

At first it's quiet outside, but then I hear someone walking toward me from the house. I look over and see my brother's silhouette, then I turn back up to the heavens.

“Hey,” Bo says as he approaches.

“Hi.”

He sits down beside me, looking back at the house instead of up at the sky.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Just thinking.”

He open his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, I say, “I saw you.”

He looks at me, confused.

“I saw you earlier this week, watching me with Rosemarie and Jenny on the porch. Why were you spying on me?”

“I didn't mean to spy on you,” he says.

“Don't do that.” But I mean more than just “Don't spy on me.” I mean, “Don't give me false hope about my future over bowls of cereal.” I mean, “Don't pretend that something's not wrong.” I mean, “Don't treat me like you treat Mom and Dad.”

I mean,
don't
.

“It's weird,” I say.

“What is?”

“When you're gone.” I'm still not looking at him. If it was daytime, I don't think I could say all this. But I'm so tired, and I can't spend my life pretending, like Mom and Dad do. “It's different. And now that you're back. It's all different.”

I wonder what Bo thinks life is like here when he's gone. Does he think we all just hit the pause button and wait for him to return? No, we keep living—but no one hesitates outside his room, questioning whether it's worth it to reach out or better to keep the silence. No one's on edge, wondering what mood he'll be in. No one hides. I get home and Mom asks me about my day at school, listening to my stories without being preoccupied about what she could be doing to help Bo. Dad sits in
the living room and watches sports because he wants to, not because he's trying to pretend there's nothing wrong. There's life-with-Bo, and there's life-without-Bo, and they're entirely different, and I'm getting whiplash trying to live them both.

“It's getting cold,” Bo says, interrupting my thoughts.

“So go inside.”

Bo stands and heads back to the house. I wish I knew how to connect with him. He's my brother; we should be close. We shouldn't just be going through the motions, awkwardly trying to find something—anything—that we have in common.

I jump up and run over to him. We walk back toward the house in silence.

When we reach the door, he stops, staring at the lock. It stands out in shiny gold tones against the brushed nickel trim. Dad replaced it last week, before he went to pick Bo up from Berkshire Academy.

“I wish you didn't have to go away again,” I say, staring at the lock. Maybe we could find some sort of identity as a family if Bo were here for more than just a weekend.

“I have to,” Bo says. “For your safety. I have to learn control.”

I blink, surprised that he's so self-aware. “That was . . .” I start, not sure if it's worth bringing up. “That was the most scared I ever was,” I say in a quiet voice. “The night before they took you to that school for the first time. You had a fight with Dad. Do you remember?”

Bo nods, but he looks confused.

“Mom came into my bedroom while you were arguing. I was reading in bed, and I had my music cranked up really loud. I haven't been able to listen to that song since then. ‘The
Remedy,'” I add. “By Jason Mraz.” I want him to say something, anything, but he doesn't. “Anyway, Mom came in, and she just locked my door from the inside and then left again.”

“Why were you so scared?” Bo asks.

“I was scared because a mother shouldn't have to lock one child in a room to protect her from the other.”

My blood turns to ice water.

Phoebe looks up at me, and I see the truth in her eyes. That moment changed who she was, and it's my fault, and I didn't even know it. I've never thought of myself as someone to be afraid of. Sure, I know that learning to control my power is key, that the whole point of going to Berkshire was to be in control so I wouldn't hurt someone. And I know that, despite it all, I still have hurt people. It's my fault Phoebe broke her arm when we were young, and it's my fault Sofía's trapped in the past. But that night before I left for the academy, that fight with Dad hadn't been about me controlling my powers. It had just been us, fighting like usual: He was angry at me for being a freak, and I was angry . . . I was just angry.

The thing is, that was just a normal fight. Just words. Shouted words, yeah, but words. I had no idea that it scared Mom and Phoebe. I never once thought about Pheebs hiding
behind her locked door while I yelled at Dad. I thought she was too wrapped up in her own life to notice mine, even when it was loud.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

Phoebe's shoulder lifts in a half shrug.

“You're here now,” she says, as if that's enough.

“I'll be going away again soon.” I've felt it all day, the pull of the timestream, dragging me back to where I'm supposed to be. I think, if I let myself, I could float back to my own time and place as easily as drifting on the current of the ocean.

I consider going back inside to find my parents. To apologize or say . . . something. But I don't want to. I'm not sure how to look my mom in the eye after what Phoebe just told me.

“Yeah,” Phoebe says. “Break is almost over for me too.”

“Break?”

“Spring break,” Phoebe says. Her eyes search my face. “That's why you're home—for spring break. Dad's driving you back up tomorrow.”

“Driving . . .” My head is throbbing. Driving? Spring break? No—I'm here because I slipped through the timestream.

“Do you like it?” Phoebe asks.

“The Berk? Yeah. It's good.” My mind is reeling. This is spring break? But I didn't drive here; the timestream dumped me here.

“Bo?”

“Yeah?”

“I . . . I'm glad you're getting help. I was . . . I didn't think that school would change anything, but, I'm glad you're getting help.”

“Thanks.”

“I know Berkshire Academy must be horrible. But it's . . . it's for your health. They're going to make you better again.”

“I'm not sick!” I say, staring at my sister. “What the hell have they been telling you?”

“Sorry!” She raises both her hands and steps back, hitting the side of the house. “I didn't mean to say you were sick, just that Berkshire—it's, um . . . it's good, right? It's helping?” When I nod, she adds, “I'm glad. Of that. That's all. And you're happy? Even without that girl? Sofía?”

My hands clench into fists. “Look, Pheebs, you know my power. You know I can save her.”

“Power?”

“Remember the Titanic? When we were kids?”

“I remember playing the game on the tire swing in the front yard.”

I shake my head violently—
no
. We weren't playing. We were there. “You
know
,” I say, grabbing Phoebe's shoulders. “You know. You know what I can do.”

“You're scaring me,” Phoebe says in a very, very, very small voice.

I let go of her as if she were made of fire. “Tell me you know,” I demand.

“I know,” she says, but I don't think she does.

“I can save Sofía,” I say urgently. “Tell me you know I can save Sofía.”

“But Bo,” she says, her eyes wide and reflecting the starlight above us. “Sofía is . . . she's dead, Bo.”

I shake my head back and forth, my brain rattling around
inside, clattering against my skull. “No, she's not!” I say, and Phoebe flinches from my raised voice, cowering against the house. “Sorry. It was an accident. But don't worry, I'll save her. That's why I'm at Berkshire. To control my powers, so that I can save her.”

Phoebe's head cocks, and there's confusion in her eyes and something else. Sympathy? “Oh, Bo,” she says, her voice cracking.

A curtain near the door shifts—our father has noticed us outside, a frown on his face, and the curtain swishes closed again. In moments, he'll be at the door.

I grab Phoebe by her shoulders, whirling her around to face me. Her face pales, her eyes widen. “What have they told you?” I snarl. “About Berkshire? About me?”

“You know why you're there,” she says, but as her eyes drink in my face, she adds, “Right?”

“Why?” I demand. “You tell me. Why am I at Berkshire?”

“You're . . . you're sick. They haven't found a full diagnosis yet, but I've been researching on the Internet. The doctor you see, Dr. Franklin, he mentioned a dissociative disorder, but I think it's more complex than that—” She pauses, seeing the rage building on my face. “Berkshire Academy is designed specifically for teens with mental issues. They said it was a specialized environment, that they could help you better than the special ed programs at school, that they can treat you better . . .”

Already, I can feel the timestream pulling me further and further away. Phoebe is slipping through my fingers, evaporating before my eyes.

“It's all a lie!” I shout with all my might, flinging the words
across time and space. “It's a lie! I'm not sick! Don't let them tell you that! You know the truth!”

Despite the fact that I'm shouting, my words are nearly whispers. Phoebe's face blanches, and she grabs at me. Our hands slide away from each other, as if we were both made of water.

“I'm not sick!” I scream, but Phoebe can't hear me anymore.