The Way We Get By

22 // Liam

Be an ally.

I hear Ramona's words echo through my mind as the engine of my still Volvo continues to purr. I stare out the windshield and try to prepare myself, and I try to think about what Ramona would do. She's always been better at this kind of thing, and I don't know if I'm going to be able to help Alex without her here. He trusts her more, for whatever reason.

John had called about twenty minutes ago and said that Alex was having a rough time. He asked if either Ramona or I could come out and talk to him, and while Ramona had wanted to, she had an urgent meeting to go to with Lucy's lawyer. So I'm doing this alone, just me and Alex.

I cut the engine to my car and listen as the machinery stops whirring before I slip my keys into my coat pocket. The front lawn of the group home has never looked so intimidating, now that my relationship with my son depends on how well I do in the next hour. If I fuck this up, he might not forgive me.

I remind myself to be considerate, gentle, and understanding—everything Ramona would be for him—as I step out of my car. The slush beneath my shoes crunches and squishes while I stalk towards the front door, up the porch steps, and right to the doormat. It doesn't help my nerves that I don't know exactly what is going on with Alex. John had said he was having a rough time, but he hadn't offered much more than that.

With a knock on the heavy wooden door, I pull on the collar of my jacket and prepare for whatever hell the world is going to throw at my family this time.

The door pulls open a moment later to reveal a cheerful John. His hearty smile and welcoming gestures put my worries at ease for a brief moment.

"Afternoon, Mr. Rivera," he states with a grin. I follow his gesture to step into the house, and I'm welcomed by the warm air inside and the faint smell of cinnamon, for some reason.

"Don't mind the smell," John dismisses as he closes the door behind me. "We had a bit of a fiasco with some cinnamon rolls earlier. Oven's been acting up."

A quiet chuckle escapes my lips while my eyes roam the foyer, yet my mind is still urgently pushing to see Alex. I'm sure he's okay, but that's not going to stop me from worrying.

"So I'll catch you up on Alex."

John steps past me and over to the empty nurse's desk in the corner. He picks up a file from the desktop and I follow with slow steps. My brow furrows as I focus on the file that reads, Alexander Rivera.

"Alex has been doing good in therapy. Group therapy has even been goin' alright."

I listen to his positive affirmations with a careful ear because I know the 'but' is coming. He wouldn't have called me here for nothing.

"He's been getting better at eating, better socializing—overall, I'd say he'll be okay to go home in
the next week or two, as long as we can get him into an outpatient meal therapy kinda group."

"A what?" I ask.

My body leans up against the desk and I stare at John with a largely confused expression. I've never heard of half of the things he's talking about, and I don't want to be uninvolved in this process. I want Alex to know that I'm here and that I'm trying; in order for me to do that, I need to know what's going on with him and how to help him.

"There's a program down at that psych hospital, Greenridge. They call it meal therapy." John turns to me and continues his explanation. "It's where a patient comes in once a day to eat a meal. They do this daily meal for a while 'til the patient has shown he doesn't need it anymore. And he can live at home with you while he does the program."