NUMB, Judy Colella [i am malala young readers edition .TXT] 📗

daughter was dead.

In the meantime, she’d have to inform the authorities. Kobienko had admitted to administering tests, MRIs – which meant he’d had to use well-equipped medical facilities. Surely there was a record somewhere of his having been in one of them with Atarah. Or not. Chara’s only real comfort was the man’s assertion that he hadn’t touched her, and would leave her alone until she had her child. That gave Atarah at least seven months before she’d have to deal with being raped as well as kidnapped and held prisoner. Wonderful.

She took a few minutes to get her emotions under control, to stop shaking, and went to talk to her husband. She hoped he was healthy enough to hear this without having a seizure or worse, but there were simply no alternatives. He had to know, she had to tell him, and they both had to try and rescue their daughter. Again.

*11*

 

 

How does one explain that it wasn’t the hard work of the psychiatrists, or a family member’s valiant attempts at communication, or some cosmic force that finally pulled away the fog of self-inflicted mental isolation, but a dream? A long, sometimes recurring, always progressive dream? Not only that, but the spectral and often ghastly presence of a dead wife who even from another plane made more sense than, well, more sense? One probably didn’t.

After waking up and finding his brother there, Jett had instantly recoiled into the deepest place in his psyche, the presence of an actual connection to his source of heartbreak far too real, too undeniable. Nonetheless, for the next three or four weeks he had allowed the physical therapist to work with him to get him walking again. Shuffling, actually, but no longer prone. Jax had gone away at some point – Jett wasn’t sure when, and wouldn’t think about it – and therefore missed his younger brother’s outward improvement.

Jett’s muscles were so wasted that getting off the bed unaided had been, at first, impossible. Only by a course of constant, painful exercise, had he at last succeeded in getting to his feet, but that, too, had been disastrous. He’d fallen instantly, his legs unable to support even his much-reduced weight. So the exercises had continued day after day, the rebuilding of muscle tissue so agonizing it often brought involuntary tears and always left him breathless. He liked it. A beautiful, excruciating distraction.

When he didn’t think about the pain in quite that way, but only as a necessity, his dreams were peaceful or non-existent. When he exulted in the pain and welcomed it in a reversion to his earlier way of escape, the nightmares returned. Atarah would scold him, rail on him, say things that made him want to physically rip his heart out of his chest, but in the end, convince him, at least temporarily, to get back to making himself well and strong again.

He was finally able to go unsupported to the dispensary to get his medication. Standing in line became less exhausting, but his mind was still wandering about, refusing to focus, and more often than not, he would need an orderly to accompany him back to his room so he wouldn’t get lost on the way. And on it went. Until.

Until Jax came back to see him again, joining him in the rec room where he continued to win the solitaire-type computer games. Jett didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last seen his brother, but he hadn’t given it enough thought for that to matter anyway. He still hadn’t spoken a word; he would still wake up screaming, but not as frequently, because the nightmares were fewer now. It was during this time that Jax returned.

One day that meant nothing more than any other, Jett looked up from the laptop and found Jax standing there, giving him a half-smile. He was sitting at a regular table now, and had gained about ten pounds. Still far from where he’d been, but an improvement. He tilted his head to one side, offering Jax a curious stare.

“It’s good to see you up.”

Why? Have you been talking to my wife’s ghost?

“I won’t use your name because you wanted to remain anonymous. But I will ask if you know who I am. Do you?” Jax pulled out the chair opposite and sat.

To respond in any way would mean a return to real life. Jett wrestled with this for several minutes. In the end, he thought about how he’d have to answer to Nightmare ‘Tarah if he didn’t, and decided that at last, it was no longer worth it. She was right – for her sake, not his, he needed to get over himself and the tragedy that had torn her from him.

So he nodded.

Jax’s eyes widened. “My God!” he whispered. “You – thank you.” His chin trembled. “You’re still there.”

Jett nodded again and closed the laptop. He’d stepped over a line of latitude and needed to keep going. He knew he couldn’t speak – the sound of his own voice when he cried out in sorrow was a pointed indicator that his vocal chords were no longer functioning right. Besides, his throat hurt whenever he did make a sound. So why bother? He didn’t need to be distracted by pain right then and could communicate silently.

“What can I do for you?”

A few seconds of considering, and he pointed at his throat, shook his head, then pantomimed a request for paper and something with which to write.

Jax jumped up so fast, he nearly knocked his chair over. “Be right back!” He headed for the nurse’s station at the far side of the room.

Jett watched him engage in conversation with the male nurse, who suddenly gave a soft exclamation that sounded like “Are you serious?” as he peered around Jax to stare at Mr. Nobody. And Mr. Nobody stared back, his lips curving into the first indication of a voluntary facial expression in almost five months.

When Jax returned to the table, he was carrying a small white pad and a pen, which he gave Jett, and sat once more.

A deep breath. Words. I haven’t said anything to anyone since coming here, but…this is Jax. And I promised. Oh, God. I can’t. I can. Damn it! His grip on the pen tightened, and he began to write. When he was done, he slid the pad back across the table.

Jax swallowed hard as he read, compressing his lips, his effort not to cry intense and obvious. Finally, he put the pad down. “I love you, too, bro. We all do. And…and we understand a little bit about why you, why you did this. We’re all hurting over it, but our relationship with her was nowhere close to the same depth as…aw, hell. Are you really back?”

Taking back the pad, he wrote again. “Yes. I wouldn’t lie. I don’t want to be, but who am I helping by continuing to pretend nothing happened? At least when I’m awake, that is. A lot of the time when I’m asleep, ‘Tarah is there, too. It’s really bad.”

“Why? What does she say?” asked Jax after reading and sliding the pad back.

“Mostly she yells at me. Tells me to stop making everything about me and how I feel. She’s right. I was doing that. I have to stop it. It isn’t fair. Killing myself would have been the ultimate act of selfishness, but what I did instead wasn’t much better. I’m sorry.”

This time, Jax let the tears come. “Damn, dude. Look, all that matters is that you’ve come back, so to speak. Are you…do you think you can come home?”

Jett wrote, “Not yet. I’m still too messed up, and I really need the physical therapy they’re giving me. It’s working and I think I’ll be able to leave in another few months.”

Nodding as he read this, Jax said, “I can see that. Any chance you’ll let Mom and Dad come visit now?”

Instead of writing his answer, Jett simply nodded. Then he got up slowly – he couldn’t move very fast yet – and came around the table. Something told him physical contact with his brother was all that remained to solidify this new resolve to recover. They were about the same height, Jett being about a tenth of an inch taller, but his inability to stand completely straight had him looking up a fraction. Whatever. Weird, but whatever. He gave Jax as tight a hug as he could manage, smiled, and turned away.

The efforts of this meeting with his brother had caught up with him in that last moment, and he needed to go back to his room and rest.

Okay, ‘Tarah. Let’s see what you have to say about me now, my ghost-love.

 

*******

 

When he left, Jax realized that none of the ready emotions always so easy to read in his brother’s eyes had been there. At all. His writing had been emotional by implication, but where was the rest of Jett’s heart? He suspected that his sibling had suppressed his feelings so hard and for so long, that they were buried too deep now for anyone but Jett himself to see.

He hoped this change wasn’t permanent. Part of Jett’s charm had been his open-heartedness, the fearless way in which he’d let everyone know what he felt without being hurtful or obnoxious about it. The iciness in his brother’s eyes and expression that had replaced the usual heart-on-his-sleeve warmth was eerie.

The five-hour drive brought him home in darkness. One or two members of the paparazzi were parked on the opposite side of the street in front of his parents’ house, and he hoped none of them would be stupid enough to approach him as he got out of his car in the driveway.

“Mr. Kinsley! Have you seen Jett?”

Looked like at least one was. “Fuck off or I’ll hurt you. I don’t like you guys, remember?”

Appearing shocked by Jax’s language, the man took a step back and didn’t pursue his question.

Even though he’d threatened them with physical harm before, Jax had never used foul language on these people until now. But it had been a long day, and for the first time in months, his brother had communicated with him. Probably the first time he’d communicated with anybody, he realized. That should have made him happy enough to simply ignore the reporter, but Jett’s strange coldness and the words that had said, by omission, just how badly his emotions had been damaged, were killing Jax. On top of that, he was tired from the long drive, and now he had to explain all of these things to his parents.

Yeah, telling the guy to “fuck off” had actually been something that was a lot kinder than he could have been right then.

When he came inside he found his parents sitting in the living room, each buried in a book. His oldest memory was of them doing that, and it made him smile. But then he thought about what he had to say, and the smile disappeared. He knocked lightly on the frame of the arched opening.

“Jax! You’re back! Why so soon? Is everything all right?” His father had stood, dropping his book onto the chair.

Celia had also put her book down but remained seated.

“Yes. It’s fine. He – he