by Sharon Hinck
“No.” Dad cleared away the gravel in his voice, his voice firmer. “Absolutely not. Your classes are important. You have to keep living your life. I’ll call you as soon as we find him.”
We argued for several minutes, but Dad won out. I had three major papers due the next week and a test coming up, and besides, I was tired. Tired of my life hitting freeze-frame each time Alex was worse.
“Promise you’ll call me as soon as you hear from him?”
“Yes, of course. He’ll be all right. I’m sure he’ll show up here at home anytime now.”
But he didn’t. Not that week, not the next month, not the following year. He had completely disappeared.
The social worker who had managed his case for years met with our family that spring. “It’s more common than you might think. Men and women with mental illness don’t want to be a burden on their families. Or they don’t like pressure to take medication that has side effects. Or paranoia drives them to escape.”
“But what can we do?” My mom twisted her charm bracelet, the one with three little silver figures—a boy and two girls. Alex, me, Cindy. “What will happen to him?”
The social worker closed the file. “Some live on the streets. Some find a place to stay with friends. Sometimes they find their way home when they’re ready for help.”
Impotent rage burned in my chest in the face of her matter- of-fact pronouncement, even though I knew my anger was unfair. She was being honest and trying to help us understand that there were limits to what love could solve—even love as zealous as ours.
My parents spent their fund for a twenty-fifth anniversary trip to hire a private detective, but he came up empty. We didn’t grieve, because we refused to believe Alex was dead. Mom bought him a Christmas present each year and tucked it away in the attic after the New Year came and the holidays passed without word from him.
Friends at church finally stopped asking if we’d heard anything, which was a relief. At a class reunion some old friends asked what my brother was doing. I stammered that he’d disappeared while I was in college, and we’d never heard from him. The shock on their faces sealed my feeling of shame. My own brother had disappeared into the mists of mental illness, and I hadn’t been able to stop him. He’d never called, never mailed a birthday greeting, never sent a postcard. Even if he had wearied of Dad and Mom’s efforts to help him heal, he could have reached out to me.
The joy of my wedding day was tempered by the knowledge that Alex didn’t even know I was getting married. Alex might not even know who we were anymore, or who he was. He might not be alive. What were his chances of surviving? If he’d stayed in our small farming community, we would have heard. Had he hitchhiked from the regional hospital to Milwaukee or Chicago or St. Louis? Was he sleeping under a bridge somewhere?
A few years later when Bryan was born, enough time had slipped past to soften some of the shadows. Alex’s absence had become a family trait like pointy chins or big ears. It was part of our identity. The pain never left us, but it dulled into something manageable. Sometimes I’d meet someone new and they’d ask if I had siblings. “A brother and a sister,” was easy to answer. If pressed for more information about where they lived or what they did, my tone would flatten slightly when I’d explain, “We don’t know where my brother is right now,” as if he were backpacking through Europe for a few months rather than missing for more than a decade.
Now I was safe on the east coast. Miles and years from all that pain and confusion. And my mother’s voice brought it all back through the crackling recorded message. Still huddled on the kitchen floor, I hugged my knees as waves of fear raced through me. Every atom in my being wished I hadn’t heard her message, but it was too late. Now I had to know. No matter how bad the news might be, I had to know.
I pulled the phone down to my lap and dialed my parents’ number. My mother answered, the sound of clattering dishes in the background.
“Mom, I got your message. What happened?”
“Well, it’s about time you got around to calling. You’d think in this day and age a body could get a hold of their child when something important comes up. With all those cell phones and instant messages and gizmos, does it do any good? No. I’d be better off sending the Pony Express—”
“Mom!” I took a deep breath. “You said you needed to talk to me about Alex?”
She sniffled and let out a strangled sound.
I braced myself, pressing my back against the kitchen cabinet for support.
“It’s a miracle!” she cried. “He’s here. He’s back.”
Whatever I thought I’d prepared myself to hear, that wasn’t it. “What? How? Are you sure?” Ridiculous words broke from my choked throat while the emotional center of my brain waved a hand to say, “Excuse me. I’m confused. What exactly am I supposed to feel now?”
My mom giggled, sounding as young as my sister. “Of course I’m sure. He’s sitting at our table. Here. I’ll give him the phone so you can talk to him yourself.”
“No, wait. Mom—”
“Penny?” The man’s voice was strained, quiet. A stranger. “How’ve you been?”
Every muscle in my body tightened. “Fine.” I’m married. I have a son. I’m living in Virginia, and Tom’s at sea. All of which you’d know if you’d bothered to pick up a phone once in all this time.
He drew a slow breath, seeming to reach for something to fill the years between us. “Mom showed me some pictures. I can’t believe you’re an old married lady and a mom. Good for you.”
My jaw clenched in an effort not to scream. “Where. Have. You. Been? Why did you . . . Why?” The last word came out as a whimper.
He sighed, the bravado out of his tone. “I’m sorry, Penny. I didn’t mean to shock you.”
The sorrow in his tone finally gave a hint of the familiar. I could almost believe it was melancholy Alex . . . or his ghost. “Why didn’t you . . ? Do you have any idea how . . ?” I pressed my head back against the kitchen cupboard. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Sis, you don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to do anything. I just wanted you to know I’m here. In case . . . well, if you decide you want to . . . you know. Talk sometime?”
“Talk?” A stupid, tiny word that could never hope to explain away a dozen years of silence. I tried to muster some warmth, some joy, but my shock was too overwhelming. Everyone knew the prodigal son’s brother was a stick-in-the-mud. I didn’t want to be painted with that brush. Yet, I didn’t know what to say to him after all this time. “Are you . . . well?”
He laughed. “You mean, am I still nuts? Only enough to keep life interesting.” More clatter sounded in the background, and a baby squawked. Cindy and her kids must be having supper at my parents’ house. One big happy family. I felt more alone than ever.
Alex cleared his throat. “I’ve missed you.”
Hurt speared through my veins. “Then why didn’t you—” I cut myself off as tears threatened. I would not go there. I couldn’t afford more emotional chaos in my life right now.
“It’s a long story. Look, I’ve been catching up with Cindy and the folks, but what would you think if I drove out to visit you sometime next week? I’d rather see you in person.”
“I . . . I don’t know.” The background noises changed, and I heard a dull click. Alex must have stepped into the pantry and closed the door behind him, the same way we all did when we were kids trying to snatch a private conversation with a friend. In spite of my emotional vertigo, I smiled.
“Sis, you know how everyone can be here. It’s hard to talk right now. But I’d really like to see you. You were the one person who . . . I thought about you a lot . . .” His voice trailed off.
“It’s not really a good time. I just . . . things have been . . .”
“They told me. The holdup. I’m sorry.” Genuine compassion breathed through the words. More than I’d heard from anyone else in my family in the past few weeks.
Suddenly the ambient s
ound shifted, and I heard the pantry door crash open. “Honey, the food’s getting cold.” Mom warbled querulously in the background.
“I’m coming,” he said. Then he apparently turned back to the receiver. “It was great hearing your voice, Pen.”
“Alex, I—”
“Mom’s giving me the look. I better go.”
“I made your favorite tuna casserole.” Mom’s voice carried from the kitchen.
Alex sighed. “I never liked tuna.”
In spite of the tension, I snickered.
He chuckled in response. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’d love to visit, but only when you’re ready.”
Past my confusion and shock, a ribbon of warmth curled around my heart. Alex had always been troubled, but he’d been real. When a boyfriend had dumped me in high school, my mom had told me to pretend I didn’t care. Alex had let me bleed the pain all over him until my obsession cleared out of my system like a bad virus. Trapped in his own realm of potent emotions, he never belittled another’s feelings.
“I guess you could come out here. I’m not promising anything.” Emotion clogged my words.
“I understand. Thanks. I’ll call you in a few days.” His volume dropped to a whisper. “Take care of yourself, sis.”
I hung up the phone and shook my head. Alex. After all this time. What had he been doing? Where had he lived? Did he find help for the depression?
And why had I agreed to his coming out here? I was already on overload trying to function. Trying to cope so I wouldn’t become like Alex. Seeing him was such a bad idea. I couldn’t handle more upheaval, could I?
Lord, calm my heart. Thank you that Alex is alive. Give me strength.
Sleep wasn’t planning to meet me anytime soon, so I made cocoa and settled in front of the computer screen.
Dear Tom,
Something unbelievable happened.
Alex showed up. He’s at my parents’. I know this is supposed to be good news, and it is. Of course it is. I should be thrilled. My brother’s alive, and he seems to be doing okay.
But instead of feeling happy, I’m scared. It hurt so much—all his struggles back when I was in high school and his disappearance when I was in college.
I don’t know what to say to him, and I’m not sure he can make up for all the years he abandoned us. I’ve gotta figure out how to handle this because he’s driving out to Virginia next week.
Yeah, yeah. I know. Penny the pushover. He asked and I didn’t know how to say no.
Pray for me, okay? And for our whole family.
I’ve been listening to our John Denver collection and dreaming of you, Rocky-Mountain Boy. I have to skip over “Sunshine on my Shoulder.” Ugh! That one’s a little too sweet, even for me.
I admit “For Baby (for Bobby)” still makes me cry, like when we sang that to Bryan when he was little.
I miss you. I can’t imagine what this separation would be like if we didn’t have e-mail.
Your DVD messages have helped, too. I listened to the third one, and it meant a lot to me. Made me feel stronger. How did you know what I needed to hear? How did God know exactly what I would need at that moment? To be honest, I haven’t been bouncing back from the shooting very well. The victim center group is helping, but I guess I’ve got some post-traumatic stress going on. I know you’ve studied all about it, but whatever your books said, trust me, it’s worse. But I had a good talk with God about it the other day, and I think it’s getting better.
No matter how well a day goes, we have a huge gaping hole in our family without you here. Bryan and I can’t wait for your return.
A million hugs, and a few too-passionate-for-a-chaplain kisses. Your Penny
This time I didn’t delete the e-mail. I read it a few times and decided it didn’t sound too weak or needy, so I hit Send. I’d finally had the courage to share some of the struggle with Tom.
Still wide awake, I began my search of Navy-spouse blogs, hopscotching from one to another via recommended links. I also found several sites about post-traumatic stress and nodded in identification as I read about experiences that the bloggers shared. When I paused to stretch out a kink in my back, I was surprised to see that it was two in the morning.
I took a moment to check for new e-mails, not that there was much chance Tom could have replied already.
But he had! My fingers flew to click it open. Auto response. Communications will be unavailable until further notice. I’ll respond to your message when they are restored.
chapter
19
DESPAIR CAME OUT OF my throat as a low moan. Tom had warned me that there would be times during his deployment when communications would be locked out. They might be doing maneuvers. They might be headed for a hot zone. I understood the need for security. But this couldn’t have hit at a worse time. My body slumped with exhaustion, but my neurons fired off fragments of loud, chaotic thoughts. A cold, empty bed held no appeal, and sleep would probably evade me again. Instead, I opened my browser. Yahoo! Games sprang open to the book-marked Spider Solitaire. I sighed with the pleasure of the familiar and rested my chin in my left hand while the right guided the mouse. The cards flipped and moved, and the patterns created a mental Novocain. I played the game over and over, enjoying the way my nerve endings deadened more and more with each repetition.
Just one more try. Almost won that one. Let’s try it again. Seven onto eight. A full row of hearts. Again. Again. I slipped into a gambler’s trance.
After winning a long round, I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. Three thirty? That couldn’t be right. I stretched and turned off the computer. Some folks might criticize all that wasted time, but it was either that or tossing in bed for hours. Solitaire was healthier than sleeping pills, wasn’t it?
When I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, black and red cards flashed across my mind’s screen. Maybe I had played too long. I pushed out of the chair, stumbled to the bedroom, and collapsed on the bed without bothering to change into pajamas. Alex used to struggle to sleep at night, too. For the first time, I realized how much that must have added to his loneliness. Since the shooting, my body rebelled against the same schedule as the rest of the human race. Tired all day, restless all night.
I began the drift down toward unconsciousness. Suddenly, my muscles gave a reflexive jerk and startled me awake. With a deep breath, I coaxed my limbs to relax again, and thought about a verse from Psalms, letting it chant soothingly to my brain cells.
Hovering on the edge of sleep, I might have dozed for a few minutes. Then my heart suddenly lurched against my ribs, stuttering into a frantic race that jarred me awake. Adrenaline surged through me in pulsing waves with nowhere to go. No nightmares had triggered the sensation. The terror was just suddenly there. I hugged my pillow and prepared to ride out the feelings. Cold sweat and shakes shut out all logical thought. I wanted to pray, but all I managed to say was, “Jesus. Help. Please. Jesus, help.”
Again and again I said the words, grabbing the hem of His robe, ignoring all the scornful disciples who stood in my way on a dusty Palestine road.
This isn’t fair. There wasn’t even a trigger this time. No sound of a gun, no sight of a teenage thug. Just a panic that jumped from zero to sixty in a millisecond.
When I thought the horror couldn’t grow worse, my mind added a torment along with the physical sensations. The orange peel texture on the bedroom ceiling created shapes in the darkness. Distorted memories flickered through my mind. Bryan’s disappointed eyes. The old woman in the lavender blouse falling backward. The swirling red police lights. Camille’s bruised face at the support group. Blood spreading across the glossy linoleum like a child’s finger painting.
I was strobing into madness. More images battered me as I squeezed my eyes shut and worked to take slow, deep breaths. It seemed like hours before the adrenaline stopped sending “fight or flight” messages through my nerves and let me sink back into sleep. But even there, tortuous images chased me.
Ships exploding. Tom sinking beneath waves. Bryan tumbling and tumbling . . . the thud of his body hitting the ground beneath the jungle gym. The man with the gun. Blood coloring the sand. “No. Please, no!”
“Mom?” Bryan cried in fear, tugging on my arm from his crumpled place in the wet sand.
“Mommy? Wake up! Please.”
My eyes flew open. Bryan stood beside the bed, his hand clutching my arm. His tears caught the mottled gleam from the night-light.
“Oh, sweetie. You’re okay.” I reached for him.
He hesitated. That moment of uncertainty broke my heart.
Then he stepped into my arms. I held him, patted him, and made shushing sounds to comfort us both.
“You were screaming.” His words sounded grumpy, spoken with his mouth pressed against my shoulder. But the tremble in his small bones held more fear than anger.
“I’m sorry. It was just a bad dream. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You were screaming,” he said again. Plaintive. Declaring the injustice of it. A mother was supposed to reassure and comfort, not jar her child out of bed with hysterical screams.
I carried him back to his bed and sang his favorite Sunday school songs until my voice went hoarse. Long after he fell asleep, I continued to stroke his hair and whisper promises to him.
The next morning was a crazy scramble to make Bryan’s lunch and find his library books that were due. How did one of them end up under the bathroom rug? If I hadn’t stubbed my toe against it, I never would have thought to look there. Throughout the morning rush I kept kicking myself. Why didn’t you lay out his clothes last night? Why didn’t you check to make sure his bag was ready? You should start making lunches ahead and freezing them so it’s easier to pack them each day. You’re failing as a mom. Maybe you should send Bryan to stay with your parents.
We only had time for a quick prayer on the front steps. Jim-Bob now pressed close to Bryan every morning and expected to be blessed as well. I placed one hand on each boy’s head, bemused by Jim-Bob’s insinuation into our family tradition. “Dear God, thank you for giving us the gift of life. Keep these two fine young men in your care today and bless their time at school.”