Fadeaway by E. Vickers (sight word readers TXT) 📕

Dad chooses his words carefully. “There has been some information coming in through your ‘Find Jake’ page. I thought you’d seen it, but I can tell that’s not the case.”

I’m not following. “There hasn’t been anything on the page for days.”

He nods, and I hate that he knows something I don’t. “It sounds like Jenna deleted the entries before they were posted. She didn’t feel it was good to put the information out in public, but she shared it with the police. There are a number of individuals who say they’ve witnessed Jake taking prescription painkillers when he thinks nobody is watching. And one who says he walked in on Jake buying them in the bathroom at school.”

I’m actually struck dumb: by the fact that idiot online trolls have any part in this conversation, by the fact that the page I started to help Jake has so completely turned against him. I’m stung too by the fact that Jenna hid this from me, even if she thought she was protecting me.

“Jake didn’t rob the pharmacy,” I say, willing truth into the words. “And the sooner you and your colleagues figure that out, the sooner we’ll find him.” I turn away, disgusted. “I can’t believe I thought you’d help. You’ve wanted Jake out of the picture from the second you met him. Go back to watching your show. We’ll find him on our own.”

Even as I say it, I’m not sure who I mean by “we” anymore, only that I can’t do it alone.

My dad is wrong about Jake robbing the pharmacy. I have no doubt about that. But looking back over the last year—the mood swings, the terrible grades, the inconsistency on the court, and especially the things Jake said to me before the championship game—I’m sick as I realize he might be right about the painkillers. And maybe that’s why I got so mad.

Because what kind of pharmacist will I be if I don’t even notice when somebody I care about is suffering from something this serious? If I’m the one who practically forced him to take the pills in the first place?

Then I hate myself for making this about me, about this dream I have that Jake always supported.

Was I like this when we were together? Was it always all about me? Where was I for his dreams? Did I ever even ask what he wanted to do beyond basketball, or just go on and on about what I was going to do? Am I part of the reason he couldn’t see past senior year and college ball?

I open the text on my phone—the last four words Jake sent.

It’s not your fault.

He’s wrong. In my case, anyway. Kolt and Luke loved Jake longer and better than I ever did. They didn’t abandon him. And even though I know I shouldn’t feel guilty for walking away from a relationship that wasn’t working, I’m sick knowing how completely I shut out a person I loved who needed me.

And what am I doing to help? So far, all I’ve done is mess everything up. Sure, I’ve read every article online and pried every piece of inside information out of my dad. But hardly any of that has translated to actual action. And what have I been doing instead? Filling out scholarship applications and graduation paperwork, pretending I’m trying to distract myself from tragedy but really just doing what I do best: focusing on me.

No more.

Even though I fundamentally disagree with pretty much everything my dad said, a memory surfaces that makes me wonder how many conversations I read wrong—and if money might have something to do with this after all.

When we were watching so much Grey’s last summer, Jake actually walked away from the TV during one episode. I found him out front, lying on his back in the grass.

“Must be nice,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“To have enough money to go to rehab whenever you need it. To check in and come out changed after thirty days, as many times as it takes. Like a freaking magic trick.”

It took me a minute to make the connection between what we just watched and what he was saying. “Did your dad ever go?”

“Once,” he said. “We hadn’t even finished paying it off before he fell off the wagon again. My mom tried to get him to go back, but he never would. Too expensive. Too hard.” He closed his eyes, let out a long, slow breath. “They had started fighting about it again when he died.”

I couldn’t think of the right thing to say, so I filled the silence with the only words I could think of. “I’m sorry. I wish it had turned out differently. I wish he could have gone back.”

Jake’s smile was forced and bitter. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway. They’re happy to take your money, but they can’t make you change.”

“It’s not about the money,” I started.

“No,” he said, with a look that let me know just how thoroughly I didn’t get it. “When you’ve got it, it never is.”

I picture him now, needing help but thinking it’s out of his reach.

Maybe I still don’t understand. Maybe he’s too stubborn to accept help, even if I offer it. But I can at least try.

I spend the next two hours researching rehab facilities and programs and payment options. I print anything that’s promising, just in case. And when I’m done, I send a text to Jake, praying that maybe he’ll see it somehow.

It IS my fault, and I’m sorry. Whatever you’re going through, I am here.

Dictionary.com says

search means “to look carefully to find something missing or lost”

and warrant means “authorization, sanction, or justification.”

And search warrant means the cops can

dump out your brother’s drawers,

where the clothes still smell like him,

scatter the mail from thirty-nine colleges

you stacked on his desk,

grab the mattress so hard it rips

in exactly the spot he’d let you sleep

when you were lonely and sad

after your dad died.

I don’t think they would