For the wedding, Amanda’s family will come down from Pilot Butte, Saskatchewan, in Canada, and mine will trek across Wisconsin. Some of Amanda’s friends will make the journey as well. When I call Austin to give him the good news of our engagement and ask him to be my best man, he is so happy for me that he almost cries, something I’ve never seen him do.
I contact him later to make arrangements for the bachelor party, but he is completely freaking out because he just received a call, only fifteen minutes earlier, with news that his best friend, Kevin, a guy he met in college, died after overdosing on Zanax and OxyContin. He sounds like a wreck, but still agrees to come.
My bachelor party is held on the campus grounds a few days before the wedding, two and a half months after Amanda and I got engaged. When Austin arrives to it, he’s hours late and is barely able to stand or hold a conversation. It’s immediately clear that he is death’s door himself, shattered and unable to cope with his friend’s death, which has taken a toll on him. He has had to deal with the years of stress of having me as a brother, seeing my ups and downs and near-death experiences, and the loss of the two people in his life that meant most to him: Allison first, and now Kevin.
For the party, I’d planned to spend the evening having fun with the guys, eating pizza, shooting guns in the woods, and maybe even camping out; but after I see the shape my baby brother is in, I take him aside and spend the entire evening and night with just him. I try to boost his spirits by sharing my overflowing joy, how happy I am to be getting married. I tell him that Amanda is a wonderful woman, a good person. With a laugh and an elbow jab, I say, “She even has a college degree, man.” I do my best to make him smile.
For several years my family has refused to believe that I am a changed man, from the inside out, even though numerous churches and groups of family friends support me. Now, though, there is no denying it. I am getting married and have a truly bright, limitless future. I talk to Austin about this and my belief that higher powers intervened to save me.
I can tell Austin is overwhelmed by it all and as I explain it to him, he breaks down. He is ashamed and miserable, and unable to hide the fact that we’ve traded places. He is now a hopeless addict knocking on death’s door. I am shocked and disturbed; over and over I ask myself how this happened. Like Allison, I really had no idea that he was messing around with hard drugs. It’s obvious though that he’s on a mix of all sorts of stuff—but exactly what I can’t tell. My guess is that he’s drinking a lot and mixing alcohol with pills, but deep down I worry he might also be using the hardest drug there is: heroin. When we sit together by the campfire on the massive wooded campus, I try desperately to infuse him with hope that things will get better. I ask him how someone like me who was so bad could become, well, pretty decent. I want him to understand that change is possible and that certain steps can help.
“I know it’s God, I fucking get it, okay?” he says, annoyed that I keep dwelling on what I believe has saved me.
“That’s right, Austin. God alone is good, and He can help you, man. Did I deserve His help? No!”
My brother stomps his foot and grits his teeth, enraged. I realize that he wants, needs, to talk about is how he just lost his very best friend, so I shift gears and do my best to let him talk and console him. I tell him that he has to let go of the desperation his friend’s death has caused him, that his friend would want him to live a good life, not die the same way.
Austin won’t have any of it, and when I say something like, “You really miss your friend so bad that you don’t care if you live or die? He was that much of a friend to you?” he says “Yes,” grinding his teeth and stomping his foot once more.
It’s clear the kid is in bad shape and that he basically wants out. I can see myself in him because not too long ago I wore those same shoes. I take him for a walk in the cool of the summer night and tell him how much I love him, how much I cherish our relationship despite the fact that in recent years we’ve grown apart. I hold nothing back in telling him very directly that it was him, and our relationship, that gave me a reason to live for a number of years. When our family shunned and abused me, when we unexpectedly lost Allison, it was he, a young teenager who was always willing to spend time with me, who saved my life time and again. I didn’t have the Russos; I didn’t have God; I didn’t have friends. I had nobody but him.
I can tell Austin is trying his best to accept what I’m telling him, to pick up what I am putting down, but he is a mess, emotionally and physically. As we talk, he begins stumbling, left and right, back and forth, and then suddenly falls to the ground. I freak, afraid that he might have just had a heart attack or a stroke, something awful. He tries to get up, but can’t on his own, so I help him. I say, “I love you so much, little brother. I’m so worried about you. Please talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. I don’t want to lose you—I can’t.”
He tries his best to play it off and chuckles. He says, “I’m fine, really. I’m fine.”
I put my arm around his waist to steady him and we head back to the fire together while I repeat over and over again that I love him. I want him to know I’ve got his back, that he’s not alone. When we get back to the firepit, we sit together on the bench. We say nothing and tears stream down my face. When dawn approaches, we decide to head inside, but my brother stands too quickly and falls backward over the bench and flat onto his back. I help him up and walk him back to his room in the cabin, where my soon-to-be wife is still up waiting for us.
I’m so concerned by now and once I see that Austin is safely in his room, I tell Amanda everything that has happened. She then tells me something she observed the day before: Austin had fallen down the steps in front of her parents, whom I barely know and he had never met. He was able to get back on his feet by himself, but was speaking unintelligibly. The episode made Amanda’s parents downright frightened at the prospect of their firstborn child marrying me, the brother of the stumbling man.
The next day I go see my parents and tell them what happened with Austin and that I’m worried about him. They treat it like it’s not a huge deal, saying he just lost his friend and has been drinking a lot.
“Oh, no,” I respond, and the anger at the way they whitewash things creeps in. I want to slap them across the face the way they did to me so many times when I was growing up. Instead I try to keep it together. I say, “I wish that was the case . . . but he’s got to be taking pills with the drinking, and smoking weed, and more than just one type of pill at that. He might even be doing heroin.” I tell them I think he’s going to kill himself. I plead, “Seriously, I think he could die.”
We begin to argue when I say this. It’s something they clearly don’t want to hear. They try to convince me that Austin has been drinking while grieving but is otherwise fine and will get through this. I’m having none of it. I tell them I’ve seen people in rehab and jail who’ve had bad problems, but been in better shape than he is. I say the people I’ve seen in his condition end up dead. This comment really gets to my mom and her voice shakes when she responds. I can tell she’s on the edge of tears. She says, “What do you want us to do? He’s an adult and makes his own decisions.” My father stares at the ground, looking defeated and depressed.
“He can’t!” I protest, “He needs rehab.” By now I’m livid.
Lindsay and Tommy who are listening interject that it won’t be possible to force Austin to go to rehab because he has a college education and a lot of money. They say trying to do so will exacerbate the situation.
“Well, we’ve got to do something,” I respond. “This is not a joke.”
If I wasn’t so scared by the prospect of Austin losing his life, I wouldn’t have let the anger and sadness from having seen his disturbing behavior, which becomes an elephant in the room during my wedding weekend, overtake me. Later, when Austin goes missing during the rehearsal, my groomsman suggests that we carry on without him. I say, “No. Tha
t’s not going to happen. Never.” Austin is my best man—how could I do that? We wait for hours, the in-laws, my family, the bridesmaids, the pastor, the flower girls, the ring bearer, and significant others. Finally, he shows, after apparently having disappeared on a long drive alone. He doesn’t apologize; he just joins us without saying a word. With him there, the rehearsal ceremony commences and we go through all the motions as if nothing has happened.
The following day, the wedding is picture-perfect, taking place on a gigantic lakefront lawn in front of a big lodge and under a birch tree arch that I’d made and Amanda decorated. The guests sit on the wooden plank benches that I also made. It is truly beautiful and Amanda and I hold hands throughout the ceremony as she sheds a few tears. During the ceremony I focus entirely on Amanda, on my love for her and the step we are taking together.
That morning, however, was scary. My brother almost didn’t wake up in time for the ceremony. I woke him two hours before it and managed to get him up, but he fell back asleep after I left the room. Forty-five minutes before the ceremony, the smoke alarm in his room went off and when I went in I found him on the ground beneath his window, which he’d jumped out of in a panic after setting off the alarm. The room stunk of pot. I enlisted my dad’s help and he helped Austin get dressed. All Austin had to do was walk my future mother-in-law down the aisle and stand for the short twenty- to thirty-minute ceremony. I was confident he could get through it, and he did. The ceremony went off without a hitch.
After, at the party, Austin makes a short speech that he wrote himself. He speaks about how I’d always expected the best from him and wanted the best for him, and that the feeling was mutual. He says he is glad to see me doing well and getting married and that I’ll always be his only brother. He says that I’ve always been there for him and that he’ll always be there for me. After the speech, he goes to his room, not eating or dancing. On the way past me, he gives me a hug, and says, “If it wasn’t for you I’d be fuckin’ dead, for real.”
Thankfully, my groomsmen are there to support me. My dear friend Kurt slides over to take the seat of the best man. Kurt lifts my spirit, as always, and I put Austin’s comment aside for the moment, intent on having a good time. In the late afternoon, my new wife and I say goodbye to the guests and change clothes to embark on our honeymoon. We are giddy and relieved at the same time; the hard part is over. Planning the wedding on our own and crafting a large part of the decorations took up all our time for the past few months. Invitations, food, accommodating guests, planning the parties, planning the ceremony, going to premarital counseling, it is finally over. Now we get to go on vacation, to trail ride horses for a day, spend a few nights in a hotel suite and drink free champagne in Minneapolis, attend a music festival, and spend a week touring Door County, Wisconsin. I can’t wait to come together in the way men and women have dreamt about doing for so long.
On our way down the driveway of the little lakefront neighborhood, we see Austin’s car and pull up next to it. The driver’s side door is open and Austin is leaning out of it. It looks like he is puking his guts out. When he sees us coming, he pulls himself fully back into the car and shuts the door. I pull over and we get out and walk over to him. “You alright? What’s going on, man?”
“Yeah, um, I was just looking to see if my GPS would get a signal, trying to type in the coordinates to get back home.”
“Okay, well you can follow us out to the highway. It’s about ten or fifteen miles from here.”
Austin nods okay and as we walk back to our car, Amanda asks, “Do you think he can drive?”
“We’ll find out.”
While I drive the winding country roads, Amanda keeps a close eye on Austin’s car and I glance back frequently, looking in the rearview mirror. He is trailing behind us, but swerving badly all over the road and even into the other lane with its oncoming traffic. The road is filled with sharp turns and blind corners and he could crash at any moment. I put on my signal, turn off the road and into a parking lot, and he follows.
We both get out of our cars, and I tell him he’s in no state to drive. He disagrees and we start arguing, then he storms into his car and skids off on his own. Amanda and I debate for about five minutes whether to contact my parents or the police, but I decide to let him go and just be done with it, and we’ll go on our honeymoon. We continue driving toward the nearest town to get on the highway when we catch up with my brother, who is driving painfully slowly and swerving badly. As soon as he sees us, he quickly accelerates and then suddenly swerves off the road, sending his car flying over an embankment, sideswiping a tree, and going straight into a ditch. We watch in horror, and then see him somehow manage to get back on the road and drive the beat-up car into a farmer’s driveway.
I pull up next to his car and get out of our car once again. This time I walk quickly to his, calling his name and asking if he is okay. As soon as he opens the door, I demand he hand over the keys. He protests and says he’s fine, that he lost control because he was looking at his phone in order to follow the GPS. I call bullshit and plead for him to stay at a motel or at the wedding venue, anything to prevent him from driving. “No, I’m fine,” he says annoyed and defensive, and then gets back into his car.
With this, Amanda vents her frustration, saying things like, “You almost ruined my wedding! You’re not going to ruin our honeymoon!”
My brother glances at me angrily, as if I’ve betrayed him, and then begins swearing at her. He then gets out of the car as if to rush at her, but I stop him, telling him, “Don’t make me drop you like the bad habit you’ve become,” words that will stick with me and that I will always regret. He stops, and then the two of us continue arguing. Eventually, since it’s clear we’re not getting anywhere, Amanda calls the police. As she’s on the phone with them, my brother pushes me away and gets back into his car, speeding off once again.
The cops show up ten minutes later and take a statement. One officer calls Austin’s phone, another radios other officers and tells them to cut Austin’s car off at the highway ramp, but by this time, I suspect my brother has already passed it. It is the Fourth of July weekend and the cops are evidently short-staffed, unable to post anyone along the route we know he will be traveling. They also sort of brush it off as, well, just another drunk kid. He hadn’t hit anybody or caused any property damage, and just about everybody on the road has been drinking due to the holiday. I notify my parents, and try to forget it all as we continue on to our honeymoon.
Austin calls me a month later, this time sober, and tells me what happened once he arrived at our parents’ house that day. Apparently they saw the condition he was in and took his keys. They then sent him to stay for a couple months with Lindsay and Tommy, out in Washington, DC. While on the trip out there, he passed out. He was sick and dizzy for days. The withdrawals he experienced were that of a heroin user combined with a heavy drinker. At their place, he was able to stay clean for a month and take care of his niece and nephews. Afterward, he returned home to go to a concert with his girlfriend on his birthday.
His call comes a few days after the concert. He doesn’t apologize for his behavior at the wedding, or after, but I don’t care. I’m so happy that he seems sober again.
After he tells me about his time with Lindsay and Tommy, we talk casually for a bit, lightening the mood. I tell him about some new shoes I got and that I’m playing drums professionally, and he says he had some friends from college and his girlfriend come out to visit at my parents’ summer home. Then I ask him how is doing when it comes to using drugs. He says something that indicates that he has given up everything hard, but still smokes weed pretty regularly. He doesn’t admit that he is still taking pills and heroin. What I hear that day, or think I hear, is someone who is on the up and up, slowly getting his act together. It is a huge relief, like the weight of the world is being eased off my shoulders, and I hang up relieved. This is the last time we talk.
&n
bsp; Chapter 15
Two weeks later, I get frantic text messages from Austin’s roommate and his girlfriend. They say that Austin was found on a couch unresponsive and barely breathing. My phone had been off when they texted because I had been out working in the woods all day. When I turned it on and the messages came through, my legs gave way and I crumpled to the floor. There is also a voicemail from my parents, who say they are on their way to the hospital. As I sit on the floor, propped up against the bed, my mind begins to reel, repudiating what I’m reading. I literally cannot believe the messages. His roommate tells me that when he and Austin’s other roommates came back from a weekend trip, they found Austin in the same spot on the couch that he’d been in a day or two earlier. Austin’s girlfriend called 911. Apparently, he had overdosed on heroin, which no one knew he was doing.
I am so repulsed by the news that I double over at the waist, grasp my head, and begin tearing at my hair. A blaring white noise overtakes all other sounds. With my back against my bed I stare straight ahead, not seeing anything, just feeling aghast. Eventually, my legs begin to tingle and my feet grow numb, then my butt too. I am too shocked to cry, and in a daze I crawl on my hands and knees to the bathroom where Amanda is taking a bath. I say, “We need to leave right now and go to the hospital in Minneapolis. My brother is dying.” She asks questions, but I can’t answer any of them. I hand her the phone with the messages hinting at my kid brother’s impending death.
When we get to the hospital, we are met with looks of dread from the hospital staff. They lead us to Austin’s room, and it’s not good. My baby brother is brain-dead and being kept alive by machines—five years after our sister passed away the same way. The toxicologist says Austin had benzos (tranquilizers), Xanax, amphetamines, heroin, pill-form opioids, and marijuana in his system when he arrived to the hospital. He had clearly relapsed, but hid it well.
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