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Coming back home had definitely been a mistake.
I'd been on my best behavior since being home, even though that somehow garnered suspicion from my parents. Still, I tried in vain to rebuild the trust-bridge anyways. I'd tried so hard I even let myself think I was making progress, that things were finally looking up. Then they found Emma’s letters, and the bridge collapsed and burned. Permanently.
It didn’t matter how many times I'd insisted Emma was real—they were convinced that I’d written them, that I was certifiably crazy. Enough to be locked away until they could send me away. That’s also when talk of the mental institution had started. My uncles were now living in our house to keep an eye on me, but I knew they couldn't wait until the clinic called to say they had a room. For me.
My bags were packed and sitting by the door. My stomach flipped every time the phone rang. Every alternative plan I thought up spelled out failure and doom until finally, I was forced to accept the truth. There was no way out of this.
"...ake?"
Sleep wasn’t an escape either. The past few days, I'd woken in a cold sweat more than once and judging from the alarmed stares that followed me around, I had the feeling I wasn’t screaming only in my dreams. I never remembered waking up, though. Feeling half out of my mind, I now moved around my house-prison in a clumsy mess. I started losing my temper—while my parents seemed to think mentioning the clinic and how much it'll give you the help you need, Jake was a comforting thing to say. It wasn't. It only exacerbated the panic suffocating my mind, and it was too hard to breathe.
"Jake?"
I tried desperately to focus on the rerun episode of Friends, but my attention wandered more often than not lately. My uncles were out running errands, leaving me alone with my parents. I wondered exactly when I'd started feeling completely alone in a house filled with people. But soon, I wouldn't even be here anymore.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I told myself I wasn’t attached to this once-comfy corner of the couch, to my bedroom that used to feel safe, to this house that no longer felt like a home. I pretended not to feel Dad’s eyes on me from the kitchen table, pretended not to notice how Mom was fidgeting and pacing and struggling to stay in the room—with me. Like she was frightened to be left alone with me.
“Jake!” Dad was staring, his eyes wide and fearful.
“Yeah?” I asked through tightness in my throat—I didn't know when I’d started crying. Hastily, I wiped the moisture from my cheeks.
Instead of answering, Dad's gaze looked almost disturbed now. Maybe it was justified.
“Sorry, I wasn't paying attention,” I said. It was a feeble attempt to sound normal, make the problem sound simple, but I had to try. I always had to try. “I’m really tired.”
I was exhausted, that was true; it must've been why tears kept blurring my vision. I was tired of everything—my words always falling on deaf ears, my loved ones terrified of me, my heart aching for the group of people who accepted me, the group of people I belonged with. I wanted it all back, even the heartbreaking moments. I wanted them back.
Dad sent a look of distress to Mom, who approached with caution as though moving too fast would spook the wild animal.
“You need to talk to someone, Jake,” Mom cooed, which was abnormal for her—she really wasn't the most gentle woman in the world. “That’s why we’re doing this, honey. For you.”
“We only care about you, Jakey," Dad said. He thought for a moment before adding, "And we're here, too. As much as we can be."
That meant exactly what I'd suspected since Dr. Spangler's, since my uncles had appeared, since everyone had stopped meeting my eye. They didn't want to deal with me. They couldn't wait to pass me off.
I couldn't look at them anymore as a quiet sob forced its way through my lips. I couldn't even help it.
All I had to look forward to was being doped up in some mental institution, wasting away until any sense of my reality was wiped away, and anything about Peculiardom would be more like a fantasy I dreamt up after my grandpa died in order to cope. After everything I'd gone through, a life without knowing the truth sounded insufferable, desolate. Peculiardom was the only place I'd ever belonged. Why couldn't my parents understand that?
My chest ached, my heart desperate to beat away the pain but instead created more. I needed Emma—her embrace, her sure and loving reassurance. She'd tell me to remember who I was. She'd tell me that I would be okay, that I had nothing to worry about because of who I was. She'd probably even be there when—if—they ever let me out. I imagined how beautiful her face would look after all that time before the most horrifying thought struck me, paralyzing me with dread.
What if I couldn't remember her once my mind begins to slip?
I started choking on more sobs, and they wouldn't stop coming no matter how hard I tried to get a grip on myself. My parents gawked at me—the bomb that’d detonated, the destruction they were stuck with until that awaited phone call. I buried my face in my hands and sucked in a lungful of air through my fingers. Was this how Grandpa had felt? The thought stole my breath away. I was left torn between understanding his position with overwhelming guilt at the part I'd played, and feeling utterly betrayed and helpless and somehow like I deserved it.
Someone’s arms wrapped around me, pulled me into their shoulder—it was Dad. His hand ran up and down my back, the other held my head to his collarbone. We sat together a long time, so long that it seemed like he actually wanted to be there with me. In the couple months I’d been home, this was the closest either of my parents had gotten to me.
"I-I don't want to go," I cried into his shoulder, fighting hysterics. "I promise I'll be good, just please—please don't send me away... please."
He never answered me.
The room was still silent when I fell asleep.