Ethan and Jacob: Wish You Were Here
by SalientLane
Chapter 17
The hallways of the new school looked like every other hallway in every other school, just lockers and doors, but to me, they were a maze without an exit. The voices around me might as well have been underwater for all I cared to listen. At lunch, I pushed food around on my tray, not tasting anything.
"Hey, new kid, you gonna eat that?" a voice cut through the fog, but I just shook my head, pushing the tray away. Words didn't seem worth it anymore.
Evenings at home, I'd sit at the dinner table, fork in hand, silence a heavy cloak. Dad's job was going great—lots of money, lots of accolades. Mom tried to make conversation, but her eyes were always searching, seeing too much. She knew. Every night, behind my closed door, the tears came. No stopping them, even if I wanted to. And I didn't care who heard.
I was starting to look painfully thin. "Let's go, Ethan," Mom said one morning, her hand gentle on my shoulder. "We have an appointment."
Dr. Hudson had kind eyes that reminded me of Jacob's somehow, but his office smelled like antiseptic and something else I couldn't place. He asked questions. I answered some, shrugged at others. It felt like ticking boxes off a list. When he spoke to Mom, his voice was soft, yet it carried a weight that pressed down on the room.
"Mrs. Belanger, I believe Ethan is experiencing clinical depression." His words hung there, cold and official. I stared at the patterns on the floor tiles, tracing the lines with my eyes.
"Is there anything we can do?" Mom's voice cracked a little. She sounded scared, and I hated that. Hated that I was the cause.
"Of course," Dr. Hudson said, handing her a slip of paper. "This is a prescription for an antidepressant. It's quite common for adolescents. It should help with the symptoms."
I tuned out after that. Pills. They thought pills could fix the hole inside of me, fill the space where laughter used to live. But I knew better. There was no magic cure for missing your other half.
The white pharmacy bags crinkled in my grip, a sharp sound in the silence of the car. Outside, Chicago rushed by—a blur of steel and stone I didn't want to call home.
"I don't need or want pills!" My voice broke through the quiet, each word heavier than the last. The bags trembled in my hands. "There's nothing wrong with me that Jacob can't fix."
Mom glanced at me, her eyes a mirror of the ache in my chest. She started the car but didn't move, her hands idle on the steering wheel.
"I want to go home! I want to be with Jacob where I belong!" The words spilled out, unbidden, raw. Tears threatened, but I blinked them back. Not here. Not where anyone could see.
"You're not happy here, either." I said it more softly this time, a whisper of truth we both felt.
Her eyes were tired, sad. "Ethan—"
"Happy," I cut her off, as memories of Québec City flooded back—of Jacob's laughter, the two of us racing down cobblestone streets, our mothers sipping coffee and chatting like sisters. Those were the days when happiness wasn't a visitor; it was home.
"Vincent wanted this." She spoke my father's name like an apology. His absence was another wall in this city of walls.
I stared out the window, watching strangers live their lives while mine was paused, stuck between the pages of a chapter I didn't choose.
"How could you let Papa convince you to leave our only home, where we were happy?" The question came from a place deep inside, a wound that wouldn't heal.
"Jacob's mom, Sophie... You miss her too, right?" I didn't need to see her nod. It was in the way she held her breath, in the way her fingers tightened around the wheel.
Mom reached over, her hand finding mine, squeezing tight. Her touch was warm, but it couldn't chase away the chill inside me. Nothing could.
Except maybe one thing. One person.
But he was a thousand miles away.
The sound of voices, sharp like shattered glass, pulled me from sleep. The clock read 11:34 PM. I pushed the blankets away and crept to my door, pressing an ear against the cool wood.
"Vincent, you're never here!" Mom's voice cracked with a fervor I'd never heard before. "Ethan and I—we're fading in this place, can't you see?"
"Money isn't everything," she continued, her words slicing through the silence of our Chicago home.
I imagined Dad, his face stern, eyes probably fixed on some invisible point as they always were when he was thinking about work. Or defending it.
"We were happy in Québec, Vincent! Ethan is struggling, and so am I."
"Happy?" Dad's voice boomed back. "Is happiness going to secure Ethan's future? Pay for college?"
"College won't matter if he's too broken to attend!" The desperation in Mom's voice twisted something inside me.
"Broken? Mireille, he's just adjusting. We all are!"
"Adjusting?" I could picture Mom shaking her head, her hands wringing the air between them. "Look at him, Vincent. Look at me. This isn't living."
"Give it time—"
"Time won't bring Jacob back. Time won't heal this."
I slid down to the floor, hugging my knees. Their words became muffled, but the pain they carried was loud and clear.
"Your job isn't the only thing that matters, Vincent! We had a life, friends, a community. We've lost more than we gained."
"Enough, Mireille. We're not moving back."
Her response was quiet, but to me, it sounded like a scream. "Then we may lose our son, too."
Silence descended, thick and heavy. I crawled back into bed, the echo of their argument wrapping around me like a cold blanket. They couldn't see me, but I felt more visible than ever, a ghost in my own life.
A plan began to form, desperate and wild. Québec City shimmered in my mind—a beacon in the dark, calling me home.
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