His mouth curves into a sad smile. “I don’t know if Sam and Anna are still searching. It wouldn’t surprise me. I don’t know where I’d even begin to look.” He tugs on the ends of his messy hair. “She could be anywhere, you know? She could be happy as hell living a life without me in it. Or maybe she’s dead in a ditch.” I see the torment as it swirls around his face, darkening the hazel of his eyes.
My breath hitches at the thought. “Don’t think that. Have you ever thought about lookin’ again?”
“For Lily?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know how it works. But don’t they have private investigators—or whatever they’re called, that can do that? Hunt people down?”
“Huh.” His fingers scratch at the scruff on his jaw. “I’ve never thought about doing that. I’m not sure I’d even want to find her. Does that make me a shitty person?”
“No. It just makes you human, Chase.”
“I just—I’m so angry at her for leaving. Part of me feels like she’s had plenty of time to find her way back. She hasn’t, so I have to assume she wants to be left alone. And that makes me a piece of shit brother.” He stabs his finger into his chest. “I should be turning the world upside down, right?”
“Maybe.” I raise my shoulder as I bite into a tomato.
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Your sister was never known for her humility, Chase. You of all people should be able to relate to that. Maybe she wants to come home and feels like she can’t. Or maybe you’re right, and she wants nothin’ to do with you.”
He flinches, and I regret how blunt my words come across. But it’s the truth, and he should hear it. I reach across the table and grab his hand. “But… maybe Lily doesn’t know what she needs. Or maybe it’s not about her at all. If findin’ her will give you peace, then it’s worth doin’.”
His eyes soften as he listens to me.
“At least talk to your folks. Maybe they know somethin’,” I implore.
He nods, picking up my hand and kissing the back of it. We don’t speak of it anymore, changing the subject to something lighter. Something that doesn’t take us to the darkest parts of who we are. I grab the surface level conversation and hang on tight.
I have a feeling that tomorrow, we’ll be back in the dark again.
43
Chase
It wasn’t a spur of the moment decision to bring Goldi with me to a Nar-Anon meeting. I almost didn’t ask her, afraid that she’d take it the wrong way. I wasn’t wrong, she did get defensive, but at least she’s here. I’m grateful as hell for it. But I’m also antsy as fuck. I rearrange the metal chairs in a circle, to a semi-circle, then back again.
We arrived before anyone else, but now there’s a couple of families filtering in. Goldi’s been lost in one of the newcomer pamphlets, so I leave her to read in peace while I finish getting everything ready.
There’s a group of about twenty tonight. Some adults, some entire families, a few lone teenagers. I envy the teenagers who are here of their own volition. If only I had been here, back then.
It’s been a while since I’ve told my story, but tonight I’m planning to share. I want to show Goldi the parts of me she’s never seen—the pieces that were too broken to love her when I was a boy. Needless to say, I’m fucking nervous as shit. Telling a bunch of anonymous strangers was hard enough, but to lay it all on the line in front of Goldi? That’s a whole different ball game.
I dive right in before I lose the nerve. I talk about Lily, even though most have heard the story. I talk about my mom and the wounds she caused that will never heal. I hear the murmurs of agreement when I speak of the weight of responsibility laid on my shoulders at such a young age. How it’s still a struggle, every day to remember that my mom’s demons were her own. That the guilt I feel is misplaced. That it was never my job to make sure she was happy. I meet Goldi’s eyes as I strip off my armor and show the naked man underneath. This is raw. This is real. This is me.
I talk about all of it, and then I listen. I listen to others share their grief. Some speak with hope, while others speak from loss.
It’s easy to think about the addicts. Easy to sympathize with their disease, mourn their deaths. It’s simple to put out a tweet about what a tragedy it is, and how we need to do something about the drug crisis. But nobody remembers to think of the people left behind. We’re expected to dust off our knees from where we fell, and move on with our lives like we aren’t ripped to shreds. Like it isn’t taking fucking everything to simply breathe through the pain.
We are the forgotten. Even though we’re the ones who are left to struggle.
This moment right here, with strangers coming together and laying their souls bare—this is why I brought Goldi. So she could see that she isn’t alone. She isn’t invisible. She isn’t to blame.
Goldi sits in her spot long after the last person leaves. I make my way over, the metal legs of the chair scraping as I sit across from her. Her face is dry, but her eyes tell the story of her tears. She opens her mouth then closes it, her lips pressing together.
“I don’t… I didn’t…” She clears her throat. “I didn’t think it was gonna be like that.”
I nod because I fucking get it. I felt the same way at my first meeting.
“Those people,” she says. “What they’ve been through…” Tears well up again, and her palms press to her eyes. She drops
