A Chance to Reappear

Chapter 2

I'm not going to tell you about a weeklong inpatient visit. If you want to know what that's like, just read "It's Kind of a Funny Story." But today is my first day back home and it's just me, my mom, and daytime television echoing through a large, minimalist decorated house. She doesn't say much, let's me do my own thing, as long as I'm in her sights. She knits, her latest fad, I draw, but don't let her see, Dr. Phil bullies children, their parents enable it.

I'm not really a graphite person, but it's what I can get away with in a living room that's mostly white. I prefer to paint, usually in a wide array of color and abstraction, something very far from the person I present myself as. Mom knows I'm an artist, always have, but the last few years, I've hidden or destroyed every piece I made. I avoided school art shows, and when I couldn't, told no one about them and didn't even show up to the reception myself. When bringing stuff home, I hid the canvases deep in my closet, or shoved them precariously under my bed. Anything to keep them from being found. Art wasn't looked down upon in my family—both Zoe and I were brought up playing instruments—but the visual arts I didn't like to share with anyone. It was all too personal.

So, I draw, or more doodle, in an old sketchbook with barely any entries. I draw Dr. Phil on the television with his uncomfortably bushy mustache. I draw my bare feet outstretched on the glass coffee table. I draw the Target manufactured art we have hanging on the walls. I draw my mother, knitting with furious intensity, not having a clue what she's doing.
And for once I want to show off my art.

And I do.

"Hey, uh, Mom," I say quietly, the words feeling heavy and foreign in my mouth. In an instant, she's ready to hop to action, ready to fulfill any need or wish I have. But I don't say anything, just showing her the graphite drawing (doodle) in my sketchbook.

I don't expect her to break down crying.

"I found every one of your paintings," she cries, holding her knitted disaster up to her cheeks like a tissue. "I never knew you continued with art... I never knew a lot of things!"

A few more unintelligible words leave her lips as she excuses herself. She leaves. I am alone. I don't realize I'm crying until I realize my drawing is smudged with several fallen tears. I put the sketchbook to the side, wipe my face, and pick up Mom's knitting.

The yarn is an ugly shade of orange, a sign that Fall is coming and soon Zoe will be downing pumpkin spice lattes like it's nobody's business. It's only mid-September, but white women lose their minds over Fall. I pick up the needles and the book, trying to follow her pattern, but after a few messed up loops, I give up.

Who would've thought that Connor Murphy, nicknamed a "School Shooter," would be trying to learn to knit to comfort his mother?

Maybe I've finally lost it.

Mom returns. Her face is still red and blotchy. I feel like it's been raw from tears for the past week, which is probably true. She falls onto the couch, throwing the knitting onto the floor, and takes me in her arms. She pets my head and squeezes me tightly, breathing heavily, but no longer crying.

"I know you don't want to hear this," she mumbles into my hair, "but I love you and I will do anything to get you better."

"I know, Mom," I say shakily. "I know."

"I don't know if this is something I should bring up," she pulls away, worry painting her face, "but this was found in your pockets and it's been eating away at me..."

She pulls out a crumbled piece of paper, unfolding it gingerly. I recognize it. Evan's letter.

"Did you write this?" she asks, doing her mightiest to not cry. "Is this your... note?"