The Redemption (25 page)

She bites her lip. That shadow of a smirk I saw earlier, if indeed it was ever there, is long gone.

“And then I thought about Josh and that made me bawl like a baby—to think I was doing this to him on the very day Dad had just blown his brains out. God, it was so heartless of me, but I didn’t care. I thought only about ending my own torture and not about the torment I’d be inflicting on Josh. I still can’t believe I was willing to fuck up Josh’s life beyond repair just to make myself feel better.” I twist my mouth, trying not to choke up. “I guess I’d convinced myself I was doing him a favor by finally setting him free.”

“Oh, Jonas.”

She looks so fucking sympathetic. But is that sympathy or
pity
? Am I transforming from the boyfriend she loves and respects into a pitiful charity case right before her eyes?

“So what happened next?” she asks. “Since you’re sitting here right now, I’m assuming suicide-by-cop didn’t pan out?”

“Not for lack of trying, though. You know the Montlake canal bridge?”

“Of course. Right by campus.”

“I was racing down Montlake toward that bridge with all those cop cars chasing me—I was fucking O.J. in the white Bronco—and I was laughing and crying and totally freaking out the whole time. A total madman. It was just so bizarre, like an out of body experience. And the bridge started opening to let some barge go through in the canal below and the cops started making a perimeter around me, drawing their weapons, and I just...  I didn’t even think about it. I just gunned it.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

“You drove that fancy Porsche right off the frickin’ bridge?”

“Yep.” I make a movement with my hand, imitating the falling trajectory of the car. “Plink.”

She winces. “Oh my God, Jonas. How are you even here right now?”

“Eh. It turns out that bridge is renowned for being the worst bridge in all of Seattle for committing suicide. Not high enough. And the car broke my fall in the water.” I pause, trying to remember my free fall, but I can’t. “By then, I wasn’t in my body anymore. I’d
departed,
so to speak. I guess it’s like how the drunk guy’s always the one who survives a head-on collision.”

“Huh,” she says flatly, as if I’ve just told her some fascinating bit of trivia about the average IQ of a turtle.

She’s not reacting the way I thought she would. I thought we’d both be crying. I imagined myself trying desperately to convince her I’m fine now, that I’m a beast, that I’m still the same Jonas she knows and loves. But she doesn’t seem to be on the verge of tears right now, not like she was earlier when I talked about Mariela and Miss Westbrook. She doesn’t seem even remotely tempted to turn her back on me. She just seems oddly
fascinated,
and sympathetic, of course, but not particularly emotional.

“So, yada, yada, yada,” I continue, “I didn’t die—couldn’t even do that right. I was surprisingly uninjured, in fact. A couple of broken ribs. A concussion. And when they pulled me out of the wreckage, I was so uncooperative, so out of my mind, so violent, they threw me into a juvie-psych facility on suicide watch. I don’t know how long I was there. Could have been a week. Could have been a month. I really don’t know. I just remember being tied up like fucking King Kong and thrashing around.”

“How’d you get out?”

“Uncle William eventually got his lawyers on it. I got off with probation and restitution and involuntary psychiatric containment until I was eighteen. I guess my dad’s suicide that same day and my prior medical history were considered ‘extenuating circumstances.’”

Sarah looks at me intently, studying my face. She’s totally unreadable to me right now. I pause. I keep thinking she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t.

“So is that everything?” she finally asks, her face somber.

I nod, scared to death of what she’s going to say next. Is she going to leave me? Is she going to say she doesn’t respect me anymore? That I’m not the man she thought I was? “Yes.” I swallow hard.

“
That’s
‘The Lunacy’?”

I nod again. I can hardly breathe.

She exhales loudly and smiles. “
That’s
the big reveal? The dark and horrible secret that’s going to make me run away screaming and never come back?”

I don’t understand the smile on her face. Is she laughing at me?

“Well, yeah.”

 “You torched your daddy’s fancy car collection, went on a joy ride in the prized Porsche he never let you touch, and then drove his car off a bridge in a desperate attempt to stop the pain that had tortured you relentlessly for ten years?”

Well, fuck. That’s a gross over-simplification if I’ve ever heard one.

“That about sums it up, right?”

“Well, yeah
.
But, I mean, Sarah, maybe you don’t understand. I had some sort of psychotic break that landed me in fucking restraints in a psych ward. That’s kind of a big deal.”

She shakes her head like she’s chastising herself and crawls over to me on the bed. She takes my face in her hands. “I’m so sorry I tied you up, Jonas. I had no idea—”

“How could you know? Any normal guy would have been counting his lucky stars to get tied up by sexy little you.” I shrug apologetically. “I’m sorry I’m not a normal guy.”

She kisses me.

We’re both quiet for a minute. My stomach is churning. I’m freaking out about whatever she’s going to say next, but I wait.

She seems deep in thought.

I want to argue my case, tell her I’m all better now, that she can trust me—that I haven’t had a major problem since I was seventeen—unless you count joining The Club for a year as a major problem, I guess—that I love her and would never harm her. But I don’t speak. My thoughts are spinning out of control. Is she going to leave me? Does this change everything? Does she still love me?

“I thought you were about to tell me you punched a nun or threw a puppy off a cliff. I’m so effing relieved.”

Relieved?
I can’t believe my ears. Maybe she doesn’t understand everything I just told her. “Sarah, did you hear me? I crashed into parked cars, drove on the sidewalk. I easily could have killed a kid, a mother, some sweet old lady...  and then I
purposefully
drove my car off a fucking bridge, laughing like a maniac the whole time. Did you hear any of that? I came this close to killing some innocent kid who happened to be standing on the sidewalk eating an ice cream cone.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Only because I got lucky.”

“Aha! That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you describe yourself as lucky.” She smiles broadly. “You see what just happened there? Life is nothing but the story you tell yourself in your own head. So instead of constantly telling yourself The Story of How Jonas Went to the Insane Asylum and Was at Fault for Every Goddamned Thing That Ever Happened to His Entire Family on an endless, self-defeating loop, change your story to The Story of How Jonas Got Super-Duper Lucky One Really Sucky Day.”

My mouth hangs open. Why is she being so difficult? This stuff is horrible. Why can’t she see that? “Sarah, I’m not sure you understand. I tried to kill myself mere hours after my father killed himself—Josh be damned. How could I even think of doing that to Josh? I was heartless. Selfish. Despicable.”

“I think everything you did was perfectly understandable. Sad. Regrettable. Heartbreaking. Outrageous. Yes, pretty fucking crazy. But totally and completely understandable.”

Mind officially blown. I shake my head. “No, Sarah. You’re taking the ‘understanding girlfriend’ thing too far.” She’s just not getting it. I’m damaged. I’m worthless. “Here’s something else you don’t know: I’m told I punched the first guy who tried to pull me out of the Porsche in the water. I mean, talk about an asshole.”

“Oh well, out of everything you’ve told me, that’s the last straw. Sorry, baby, I’m outta here.” She smiles.

“How are you so jovial about all this?”

“I’m not
jovial
.” She exhales with obvious frustration. “That’s not the right word.” She squints at me.

I squint back. Why doesn’t she get it? I’m hopelessly defective. Horrible. Worthless. Doesn’t she understand what she’s getting into if she stays with me? I’m not normal. At some point, I’m going to fuck this up.
Everything I touch turns to blood.
 

“Are you happy?” she asks.

I pause. Is this a trick question?

“I mean are you happy with me?”

“Oh.” Well, that’s an easy one. “Yeah, of course. I’m happier with you than I’ve ever been in my whole life.” Actually, happy isn’t the right word for how I feel when I’m with her. “I’m beyond happy,” I say. “I’m
crazy
happy. It’s like I’ve got a serious mental disease or something.” I grin sheepishly.

She grins back at me. “Same here. It’s madness, I tell you
.
” She twists her mouth to avoid a smirk. “So, considering my current state of madness, why the heck would I purposefully buy myself a big ol’ steaming pile of wretched unhappiness, especially about something that happened thirteen years ago? Why wouldn’t I just continue to be happy?”

I’m dumbfounded. I can’t answer that question.

“Hmm?”

The woman makes a good point.

“And more importantly, why would
you
want to be anything other than crazy-happy? Wouldn’t you just rather enjoy your happiness?”

I feel my lower lip trembling, so I bite it.

She cups my cheeks in her hands again. God, I love it when she does that. “Do you foresee trying to kill yourself again in the near future, love?”

I shake my head. “No. Never.”

“Well, okay, then. Good.” She drops her hands.

I wait but she doesn’t say anything else.

But I’m confused. What does “good” mean? Is that all she’s going to say? “So that’s it?” I ask. “
Good?
”

She sighs. “Yeah. Good.”

I’m incredulous.

She leans in and kisses me softly. “Jonas, failure isn’t falling down—it’s not getting back up.
And you’ve gotten back up more than anyone I’ve ever known. I’m proud of you. I see your triumphs, not your failures. I see your goodness. And sweetness. And generosity of spirit. The beautiful kindness that glows inside of you. And I love you for all of it. Just like Mariela did. Just like Miss Westbrook did. Just like your mother did.”

That last one makes my eyes water, so I close them. I’m blown away. Is she really going to make this so easy on me? So poetic? So beautiful? She’s making me out to be a fucking hero?

“I do have one question, though.”

Ah, here it comes. I nod, bracing myself.

 “How did you get from Lunatic-Driving-Off-a-Bridge Jonas to Hunky-Monkey-Ass-Kicking-Sexy-Beast Jonas? How’d you get from there to here? I’m fascinated.”

Shit. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out whether to tell her or avoid the topic altogether.

Sarah’s eyes are patient. Warm. Curious.

“You really want to know?”

“Duh.”

I don’t like this part. I’ve never told anyone about this, not even Josh. All he knows is that I had some “treatments.” I’ve never told him what finally made a huge difference for me. I pause.

 “Was there some kind of turning point?” she asks. “Did you have some kind of epiphany? Something specific that helped you turn things around?”

Damn, my baby’s nothing if not persistent. I nod.

“Well, what was it?”

I twist my mouth.

“Come on, Jonas. You can tell me anything.”

I exhale.

“Come on, baby. Trust me.”

Jonas
 

My pulse pounds in my ears. Shit. I really don’t want to tell her this. I know how bad it sounds. I know how much stigma is associated with this. But I’ve told her everything else, haven’t I? I can’t stop now. Fuck it.

“I got a whole bunch of ECT treatments,” I say quietly. “Do you know what that is?”

She shakes her head.

“Electro-shock therapy.”

She pauses. “You mean they shocked your
brain?
With electricity?”

I nod.

“Wow. That sounds barbaric.”

“No, it wasn’t like you think. It’s not like
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
They drug you first. I don’t even remember it. It  helped me.”

“They did this to you when you were
seventeen
?”

“Yeah. I guess ECT is what they do to you when they’ve tried everything else.”

“And that helped?”

“A lot. I don’t know why, but it did. And then there was one additional piece of the puzzle. Something life-changing that happened right after my treatments were completed.”

She’s utterly captivated.

“On my eighteenth birthday, Josh sent me
The Republic
by Plato. His note said, ‘I was forced to read this instrument of torture for Philosophy 101. I’d rather pry my fingernails off with rusty pliers than read it ever again. You’re gonna love it, bro. Enjoy.’ And he was right. I loved it. It introduced me to philosophy for the first time and got me reading everything—Locke, Descartes, Aristotle, Heraclitis, Nietzsche, Sen, Camus, Santayana, whoever. But, in the end, I kept going back to Plato. He was the forefather of modern thought—the one who inspired me to visualize the divine originals and conquer myself. ‘For a man to conquer himself is the first and noblest of all victories.’” I exhale. “Are you sure you want to hear all this?”

“Are you
crazy
?” She laughs. “Of course, I do. I’m hanging on your every word.”

I pause.

“Come on, Jonas. Continue. I love hearing about this stuff.”

I exhale. “All my treatments were over. All charges against me had been expunged from my record thanks to me being a minor. Josh was at UCLA and Uncle William was busy trying to keep the company afloat after my father’s death. So I just said,
Fuck yeah, Plato, let’s do this shit.
I threw on a backpack and went to visit Plato in Greece—which is where I got my tattoos, by the way—and from there, I traveled all over Europe, wherever the fuck I wanted, all by myself. I climbed, hiked, explored, whatever. I listened to music and read my books and just figured my shit out.”