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Grade
9

“Here,” I say to Ace, “for the journey.” I throw him the tan “Life is Good” t-shirt we found for him in Youngstown. It's the little reminders like this that'll hopefully keep him sane, okay, happy.

“Thanks, Cass.” Ace replies, tracing the shirt with his thumb. His voice is slow and smooth like water flowing down a brook, the kind that used to charm all of the teachers.

He was the “brilliant” kid back in grade school. Every single parent-teacher conference that Dad went to, brilliant seemed to be the word of the hour. But Ace's brilliance always came with a minor downside.

Unruly, distracting, they said.

But they always brushed it off.

Boys, they always want to play. It might just be a boy thing, nothing big to worry about.

For a long time, that's what everyone thought it was -- just a boy thing. It was just a boy thing for Ace to flaunt $250 in kids faces to then buy pizza for the entire class. It was just a boy thing that he smashed my cello, the one I spent a year working at Burger King for. It was just a boy thing.

"Once boys get something in their head, who knows what they'll do."

That's what Ace's school therapist told me as I stood in her doorway crying with the bridge of my cello in my hand. That's what she told my Dad when he told her how Ace had stolen his credit card and had chalked up 500$ worth of clothes on it.

Shortly after those incidents, Ace got tested for mental illness. My dad and I thought that we could finally live our lives in peace. Finally we can put a label on Ace, so that when people look at us like we're the ones who are wrong, we have something to blame. But no. Ace received no diagnosis, and going into his high school years we still had no answers.

        Dad and I never gave up, asking everyone we knew if they or someone they knew could tell us anything different. We took Ace to get tested multiple times by countless doctors that all had the same weary stare with the same drooping answer, no diagnosis. And so we lived with Ace's antics and unpredictability all the way up until his junior year, when he hopped on a train to Chicago. He stopped at a motel, tried to get a room, and ended up getting sent to juvie where he stayed until Dad came to pick him up. That time, we were determined to get an answer, and when we went to a new doctor suggested by my teacher Ms. Bordeaux, we got one.

“Ace is bipolar.”

We found an inpatient treatment center in Bridgeport, 45 minutes from where we lived. We'd heard some good things about it from people around town and at the Stone Center, the local place Ace goes to every day. Once we had talked it over with Ace, it was decided that he would attend their six month program in place of senior year.

And now here we are, saying our farewells to Ace.

Dad smooths Ace's loose curls away from his forehead, and their eyes meet. Like they are having a conversation in a room with closed doors and drawn blinds. For a moment we three are not family. For a moment they only have each other.

“You'll be fine? Behave well?” Dad asks, still locked into Ace's stare. Ace snorts and chuckles, replying,

“Yeah, Dad. I'll try.” Mr. Mathis, Ace's new mentor, beckons for Ace to hop into the car, the silver Volkswagon fresh from the car wash. Brushing against my shoulder, Ace throws a kiss on my cheek, and the sun glints in his eyes like a sparkler. Ace throws on the shirt I gave him before ducking into the car. He manages a small wave as he pulls out of the driveway, and as the car shrinks smaller and smaller down our sun-tanned road, I hear him call,

“Don't worry about me.”

Yeah, Ace. I'll try.

 

*****

 

It's been four weeks today since Ace left our house. Four weeks since I heard that chocolate smooth voice, four weeks since I saw those curls soft as ribbons, four weeks that I've had “for sures” in my life. That when I came home from school, my house wouldn't be burnt down, reduced to embers and echoes. That when I went upstairs, there was no need to check the number of suitcases in the attic and if the clothes in Ace's closet were still there.

Four weeks where I finally was able to let go.

Of course, I'll can’t let go completely. He sends emails to us sporadically; we've gotten three since he left. He says life at the center isn't that bad. He's met a guy named Peter who's from our town, and they play basketball on the courts together after lunch every day. Mr. Mathis is taking good care of Ace too, they even went out canoeing on the Arbor River together, just the two of them.

Maybe getting away from us was best thing for him.

Right now, I'm sitting on the couch watching 60 Minutes with Dad, him chomping on a bowl of dried oats with a glass of lemonade. I'm not much better, eating Top Ramen with milk. The structure in our lives has broken apart quite a bit since Ace left. This is just a typical dinner, these days.

“Any ideas about your birthday, Cass?” Dad asks, stuffing a fistful of oats into his mouth. I shrug, turning my attention back to the news. I haven't really planned out anything even though my birthday is so close. “It's in three days! Don't you have any idea of what you want to do? Special dinner? Party with friends? Whatever you want.” At school, Rachel and Keith have been pestering me about having a party with the lunch table crew after school on Friday, but I've been trying to avoid the topic. I don't really know if being with all of my friends for my birthday feels right this year.

“How about something just the two of us?” I ask, with a hint of uncertainty in my voice. Is it sad that I want to spend my birthday with my dad instead of my best friends? Dad's eyebrows raise in confusion, his ears tilting to listen. I sigh, sinking my shoulders. “Okay, I get it, we live with each other 24/7, but after all that's happened with Ace, I kind of just want it to be us. But that's okay, right?”

“That's fine, it's great. I just want to do what you want Cass.”

“How about Ray's for dinner?”

“The one in Bridgeport?”

“Yeah. I mean we are going to visit Ace on Monday anyway. Spending the weekend in Bridgeport would be nice. We can go kayaking in the river, too. ”

“Well Cass, you've got a deal. I'll call to make the hotel and dinner reservation right now.”

And so my birthday plans are set. But we still need one more present to bring to Ace on Monday.

Mr. Mathis called Dad last Wednesday to talk to him about Ace's progress.

It's amazing, he said. Your boy Ace, he is responding extremely well.

In the next month, he might even be ready for discharge! At the Center, they have a weekend camping trip up in the Fugit Mountains for the kids who are doing especially well, and Ace was invited to go! He always loves being high up, watching everything happen from above. Because when you're high above everyone else, there is no one with a long enough reach to bring you down.

Dad already has two presents for Ace, the quilt from Ms. Bordeaux and the Beats headphones from us. Originally, he wanted to bring ten presents for Ace, but I was able to convince him that three was the magic number. Sometimes, Dad goes overboard to make up for all the stuff that Ace and I went through as kids. It's enough Dad, I'll say, you're enough for us.

I ended up finding a robotics kit at 936, a robot repair shop downtown. Ace always dreamt of being on our school's robotics team, but his behavioral record was enough for the school to ban him from joining any clubs. Dad and I would bring him the stuff when we could, but between the expense of his meds and his daily visits to Stone Center, we never had money for much. 

 

*****

 

The wrapped up presents are sitting in the trunk of the car, nestled between crumpled maps and paper bags. We made it to Ray's, finally, after an accident on the highway put us back an hour. Luckily, Ray's decided to keep our reservation after being reminded by Dad that it was my birthday. Just from the name, you'd expect it to be more of a trucker type place, but it's surprisingly formal. I had to scrounge up a dress that I haven't worn since the 8th grade formal; yes, it's that fancy. Their crab cakes make everything worth it, though.

We scurry in and are seated at a booth by the window. The streets are lonely at this time of night; the street lamp only illuminates a few silhouettes as they pass by. A soft breeze makes the trees shiver, moving their branches ever so slightly.

The night is calm, calm like our house these past few weeks. The calm I wished for my last birthday.

But it's the calm that doesn't ever last long. Dad's phone blares from his pocket, and with a heaving sigh he takes it out and glances at the screen.

Fear and sudden urgency flood his eyes as he jumps from our table, throwing his coat on and grabbing my hand as he pulls me toward the door. People raise their eyebrows at the spectacle, of us leaving our meals untouched, running out with no explanation. They glance at me, sorry I have a madman for a father.

Stumbling down the sidewalk, the braids in my hair beginning to loosen, I manage to croak,

“Why Dad? What's going on? Why?” His voice ragged and out-of-breath, he says,

“It's from Mr. Mathis. It's Ace. Oh god Cass, they can't find him. Cass, he's missing!”And we are like lightning, our car dashing through the street, darting around corners, narrowly missing street signs. There is no one in our way, no one...and then there are sirens. Sirens of a squad car, chasing souls into the night. A battered pink Sudan runs past us, quickly followed by the squad car. They swerve, curving the moonlight as they go past. The driver in the Sudan looks back for a moment, eyes locked on the police. He looks manic. I see the glint of his eyes, the mysterious craze that's washed over his face. It’s too familiar.

Dad and I, for a moment, are the same voice, same mind. And we whisper:

Ace. 

Just like that, we are one in the chase. Just as the two cars disappear around a corner, they come into few again. Soon we are spiraling up a hill, like ice skaters we glide over the cement, the top of the hill in our sights. 

I feel a small rumble in the backseat. A few small tremors that turn into full on earthquakes in a matter of seconds. We are lurching up the hill, plumes of smoke erupting from our trunk. The tremors subside, and there is a brief silence in the air, followed by a push that sends us back down the hill into the grass. 

My ears stretch, reaching to hear any sign of the siren. It seems only a faint echo now, almost as though it has stopped ringing completely.

Suddenly a hand grips my arm, and my gaze rises to my father's face. He bleeds terror like blood. Like it is what he is made of. Like it runs through his veins.

“Cass, you’ve got to run, you have to catch up! With my legs, I can’t. There’s hope, Cass. Please. Go.” 

Against the pavement my feet were like fire, zipping across the landscape, tearing apart the land at the seams and consuming it with determination. Bram's heartbeat fills the air, a hammer splintering the inside of my head with each pulse. He is close.

Reaching the top of the hill, there are three cars facing each other, the two police cars and the Sudan. The guns hiss threats at me, squirming in their cases. None of them have heard or seen me yet, and they won’t. Not unless something really bad is going to happen. I duck behind the Sudan, looking beneath the car to the six feet shuffling in front of me. Their shouts rain down like meteors crashing down from the sky. Bram is spewing insults at the officers like they are his language. And all of a sudden, I hear Bram’s heels digging into the cement. Now, his words are tripping over themselves, with every syllable they quicken. The sound of Bram's breaths filling the entire sky. They are persistent, they are urgent. 

His feet disappear from my view beneath the car, and without a second thought my legs push me upright. He is running down the road, each stride so afraid yet so invincible at the same time. 

But each step he takes is one too many.

Because the two policemen whip out their weapons like it's in their nature and shots fire, the bullets weaving through the darkness like they have eyes. As they collide with my brother, they send screeches into the night. But I realize that the screeches belong to my brother. 

"Ace!” I call, my voice made broken glass. “Ace, Ace!” The silence that follows each word hits like a fist in my heart, ripping the fabric of my soul to pieces. I run towards him, the indecipherable heap on the ground. The police watch me, keeping their guns silent

Falling beside him, I just shatter. My tears are knives, carving gashes into my cheek as they plod down my face. Each staggering breath I take only suffocates me more. I am caving in on the inside, each molecule in my body collapsing, too weak to carry on. 

My hands are coated in his blood, and it is filled with his future, his dreams. Reminding me of all the things that Ace still needed to do.

There are so many people I can think of that failed him. Why didn't his grade school teachers ever see that maybe he needed a little extra help? Why didn't his therapist see that maybe, his problems were different. Why didn't Mr. Mathis watch him more closely?

But look at me. The one who failed at being his sister when I should've been, failed at being his protector when he needed me.

I am the one who truly failed Ace.