He takes a few deep breaths, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I hate Sundays.” He is pacing now, back and forth, then in circles around me.

I blink, trying to piece things together. I know about his father’s drinking, the volatility of his home life during and after his parents’ divorce, the hypervigilance and anxiety that came from that kind of uncertain and traumatic childhood—and I’m convinced that our relationship will be enough to save him. That together we’ll get past his childhood, that with someone to take care of him and look out for him, he will survive and thrive. I’m sure of it. My naïveté is staggering in retrospect, but at the time, I believe my plan will work.

Back then it is easy to comfort him, to distract him from himself, to make things better. When he is calm I take his arm again and lead him away from the restaurant and back up University Place toward my building—into the lobby, past the doorman, and up in the small creaky elevator, into my apartment. After an hour in bed, he is better. Back to normal. He gets up and gets dressed, opens the refrigerator, then closes it. “Where should we go? I’m starving!” he says. Like nothing happened.

But something did happen. Because now I’m the one who can’t move. I’d felt so good after the movie, but taking care of Gary took everything out of me. It’s like we’ve traded places. Glenn was right when she said that he’s too complicated—maybe I am making a mistake, maybe saving him means risking getting pulled under myself. But it already feels like it’s too late. I already feel like I’m in too deep. He already needs me. How can I leave?

Helping the drowning is noble work, the most noble journey, but it can cost you almost everything. I think of Teddy, our one true joy. How can I say I would have chosen differently when Gary has given me this beautiful boy, this good life? How can I be anything other than blocked when I feel so conflicted and confused?

Leaving Early

It’s only nine o’clock, but it feels like a million hours go by as I wait for Gary to come back up from dinner. I haven’t been high since college, and while I didn’t like the feeling then, I realize I actually hate it now. Whatever was in that joint is nothing like the harmless low-tech pot we used to smoke. I’m wired and exhausted, anxious and paralyzed, almost like I’m tripping. I have no idea when Andy left the room and what we talked about before she did. I’m trying to get my hands to work on my phone—trying to text the People Puppets to make sure everything is okay back home—that Teddy has left his room at least once and that Phoebe has worn the dog for at least an hour—but while I’m fumbling I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve lost track of time. All I sense is that at some point this evening I had a desperate urge to draw.