The Best of Friends

by Lucinda Berry

Sawyer’s death was a terrible accident. Just like what happened to Jacob. Our boys were screwing around.

“You care more about what your damn girlfriends think than you do your own family. The boys used our gun, Dani—our gun. And the police know it.”

“Please, Caleb, just tell me what happened,” I whisper. It’s been seventeen days, and he still hasn’t spoken. Not one word.

Self-inflicted gunshot wound. That’s what the doctors in the emergency room said when they told us about Jacob’s injuries.

Jacob’s injuries and finger placement on the gun are all consistent with an attempted suicide.”

Becoming a mom birthed my biggest fear—losing him. Sawyer marked my entrance into motherhood.

Suicide contagion is a real thing in teenagers. Having someone close to you attempt suicide increases your risk.

Alcohol turns him into a special kind of monster—a perfectly articulate and well-poised monster. He doesn’t slur his words or stumble over his sentences. He walks straight and appears aware of himself and his surroundings. You’d never guess he was drunk. It’s why they’ll give him his keys tonight, because they won’t see the darkness that’s taken over his insides.

I always intended to go back and finish my degree, but fear stole my choices one at a time until I didn’t have any left.

The thing nobody tells you about grief is that time moves on. Or my personal favorite that nobody stops telling you—time heals all wounds. As if I want time to go anywhere.

I don’t want the cars to drive or the buses to come, because every minute feels like I’m leaving Sawyer behind and living the life he was supposed to have.

“I’m sorry that I always screw up, Mom,” he says. “You don’t always screw up.” He nods. “It’s okay. I know I do. I just—” I put my hand up to his lips to stop him from talking. “Please, Reese. Stop.” I fumble with his seat belt, releasing him from its hold. “Just come here.” I pull him against my chest and circle my arms around him. He clings to me and starts crying. The parking brake digs into my ribs, but I ignore it. “I’m the one who is sorry,” I whisper into the top of his head while he cries. “I’m so sorry.”

Paul is adamantly opposed to giving kids psychotropic medication, and Reese’s ADHD diagnosis from his pediatrician about a year ago did nothing to sway him on the issue.

I knew it!!!

He was a mess when it came to anything school related, no matter how hard he tried, and I got nervous he wasn’t going to pass the high school entrance exams for Pine Grove.