Me, Myself, and I

right after the phone call

Much like the original owner, my car had both the audacity and fragileness of a newborn baby. Alex always told me this was a result of the way I drove, too hard on the pedals and too soft on my turns, something I had to have inherited from my mother, given my dad's steady and carefully plotted driving habits. But that didn't explain why the green paint chipped off, or why the tires carried that persistent leaking cauldron sound, or why I ended up having to bring it to the dealer to repair something every other month.

However, my car is also a tender being. Sitting in those seats was like a warm embrace, the dents mere beauty marks.

I scavenged my keys from the pocket of a jacket I hadn't worn in two weeks.

Muggy August air made the sky seem darker. I jabbed the keys in the ignition. The thing stuttered, hissed at me—because how dare I wake it at this hour— then settled at a gentle purr as I rolled it out the garage.

That's when I saw the smoke rising from the hood.

"You too?" I demanded.

More smoke in response.

Dad swung open the front door, pulling his tie into place, and frowned as I dropped my head to the wheel. He pointed to his Chevrolet, which he'd named "The Wildwonder". It still gleamed from its last wax.

I gave my car a parting glance as I trudged into his passenger seat.

"I'm wondering if that car is becoming a bigger hastle than she's worth," Dad said, pulling out of our driveway.

I frowned. "It'll be fine. I'll just call a mechanic tomorrow. We can't get rid of it."

"I know."

He kept his eyes on the road as he drove dangerously below the speed limit. Usually he'd talk so much to his passenger he'd forget what he was doing half the time.

Ben's face crossed my mind, that permanent frown paired with wide golden eyes that held too many questions and answers all at once. Then I was just seeing a windshield, the buildings were getting taller. I could already feel the hospital fumes choking the life out of me, potent as bleach, reopening scars.

"So are you going to tell me why he's in the hospital?" I said.

I hadn't asked, because he told me we'd wait until the morning. And I'd marched out to my car without question. It was a losing battle and he knew it.

Images popped up. Ben stealing something from a gas station. Wrecking his parent's car. Trespassing on some private property. Tripping on his own two feet. Nothing too impossible. Nothing I wouldn't be prepared for.

"They didn't really give me any information."

"Then why did they ask for us? How come you're letting me go?"

Dad was one of Ben's therapists. But I hadn't spoken to Ben since...well, I knew he wouldn't be asking for me.

He fidgeted more with the wheel.

"What aren't you telling me?" I said.

"You know as much as I do."

"Why aren't you looking at me, then?"

He glanced a moment. "I'm driving."

"Hasn't stopped you before."

And he left it at that. Because if I had the last word, there was nothing left for me to retort. Silence stretched between us until we were walking through the front door of the hospital.

This particular hospital had much duller walls and curtains than the one I remembered in Idaho. For good reason, I suppose. Hospitals serve best when they don't share a shred of good memories. It's a motivator to stay out of them, like putting vinegar in the fingernails of a kid who sucks his thumb. Problem is, there's always a work around. Wash your hands. Get accustomed to the taste.

Ben's parents met us moments after arrival. Stephanie had her hair in a high up-do, sporting a dress that they ought not to sell to anyone over fifteen. Bill, secretary to the mayor of Delcoph, seemed like he took a wrong turn on his way to a wedding. They spoke to my dad in whispers. I was five again.

When I walked into the waiting room as instructed, my dad and Ben's parents weren't behind me.

Ben used to tell me about his family. All the small details that would usually pass right through me. Anecdotes and tall tails that I'd interrupt and question. I'd attached those little movies in my mind to the faces in pictures he showed me, and they flashed again when the waiting room door opened. Three older brothers with strikingly different features sat in opposite corners.

- The oldest, Micah Wood Junior. Happily married, divorced, and remarried over the course of three months. To the same woman. Once tried to bribe a college to admit his children. I questioned Ben on this one since he had three girls in elementary school.

- The second, Nick Wood, now wearing a bedazzled fur coat, with cheetah print boots and a thin, lacy scarf around his collar. He had his first modeling gig at eight. Which I questioned because apparently it was in Paris.

They didn't move when I walked in. Nick remained lounged with his feet on the couch backing. Micah sat with his hand held by non-ex-wife, his three girls out cold on their laps. Sat in their corners as if nothing on scene had changed.

Instead, I was greeted by:

- Kyle Wood, a super-senior at some out-of-state college. Ben had more stories about him than anybody. House parties, ex girlfriends, falling off the mansion roof. I never questioned any of them.

I supposed "greeted" is a strong word. No, Kyle Wood did not greet me. He closed our distance in three strides, muttered something profane, and chucked a newspaper at my chest. His eyes were pocketed deep, lines on his forehead pressed together.

I lowered the paper, handed it back without a glance. "What's your problem?"

I'd only met Kyle twice. He'd hardly ever spoken to me. If anything, he'd taken the hit pretty well when I'd called him a sexist pig for some hookup story he'd told Austin and Ben. Now I was on a stovetop he'd lit.

"It's you, isn't it?"

His eyes daggers, he shoved the paper back in my shaking hands. My adrenaline kicked in as I unfolded it. I couldn't feel my toes, my legs, my hands, my shoulders. Everything seemed to melt; I was indeed on a stovetop.

The thing wasn't in English. My focus drew instead towards the giant photograph taking up three-quarters of the front page, with a knife-holding Benjamin Daniel Wood sitting beside a mysterious hooded girl. That mysterious girl knew about the boy's suicide contemplation. But against her better judgment, she kept it a secret. She thought she knew how to fix these things better than the people with lab coats and medical degrees, since they'd failed so drastically the last time they were entrusted. She was an idiot, a child who knew nothing about the world yet all too much at the same time. She thought she knew how to fight someone else's crippling depression with friendship, coffee, and a few shared moments. She was stupid. She was ignorant.

She was me.