by Karole Cozzo
Being with Alex would kill all the good between us. Other people’s gossip would tarnish all those things that are special about me and Alex.
Why does loving someone always have to hurt?
The risk just seems bigger than the reward.
I push my hair off my forehead and look up at him. “You can’t ask me now, Alex. It really doesn’t matter what I want. It doesn’t matter what the truth is. It would look so bad.” My voice drops off. “She’d make my life miserable.”
“You care more about what everyone else thinks about you than what I think about you.” His response comes out like pieces of ice being chipped off a block. “You care more about that than you care about me.” He grimaces and shakes his head. “When someone’s presence in your life is difficult, you just pretend them away, don’t you? Me . . . your brother . . . it’s freakin’ sad.”
I hang my head and a few final tears make their way toward the pavement. “I know,” I admit.
“You know, Leighton, she’s far from perfect, but at least she has the backbone to go after what she wants. Nothing scares her.” Alex waits until I look up before hammering away at his point. “At least she’s honest.
“So maybe it didn’t work out, and it turns out the way she acts doesn’t make her a good person, or at least the right person, for me.” He looks at me, truly lost. “But if you are a good person and have nothing but excuse after excuse to give me . . . then I guess maybe you’re not the right person for me, either.”
Alex shakes his head and pulls his keys from his pocket. His voice is gentle at first. “You know how I felt about you. You know how I feel about you.” Then he looks up and his expression and his tone harden all over again. “It’s a damn shame you’re gonna let all that go to waste just because it’s not entirely easy. It’s a shame . . . for both our sakes.”
He shrugs dismissively and opens his door to climb inside. “Later.”
And then he’s gone.
Chapter Eleven
Alex is done with me.
He’s made his point and spoken his mind. For the rest of the week, he doesn’t seem to be changing it, either. He doesn’t talk to me and goes out of his way to avoid me, or at least that’s how it seems. He’s super busy, anyway—the playground opens on Saturday—and he’s got plenty to occupy his mind besides me and my utter stupidity. Then he’s absent on Friday, making last-minute preparations at the playground.
When I see Leighton at practice, I consider the irony. Despite the vast differences between us, we both ended up in the same boat—without Alex.
But I had a choice. He gave me one. If she hadn’t just threatened me . . . if I’d been prepared to hear him say the words out loud . . . if I could have, just for once, been brave. . . .
Not that it matters now. Alex is done with me. My paralysis cost me everything.
Between the Phillip elopement incident on Monday, my fight with Erin on Tuesday, my numerous confrontations with Leighton, and the parking lot blowup with Alex, I am completely worn out by Thursday. I finish out the week in a fog, limping across the finish line to Friday. I only half concentrate in class and barely talk.
At least Erin is speaking to me again, but just barely. Her eyes remain cold, our exchanges are formal, and I still don’t know what will come of our friendship.
I pass on Tanu’s invitation to ride along with her and Erin to the away football game. A car ride with Erin doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun. And I don’t even want to think about how it would feel to sit in the stands and watch Alex on the field.
It would hurt to look at him. It hurts to even think about him right now.
Everything Alex said was true. Even more than it hurts to think about Alex, it hurts to think about myself—what I’ve let slip away because I’m too weak, too scared. Because I don’t want to hurt any more than I have to.
As I drive home on Friday, something startling occurs to me. Nobody has made a big deal about Phillip being my brother. Maybe Leighton didn’t spread the news too far, either because Alex chastised her about it or because the breakup stole her attention.
But it’s obvious some people know, and that word is slowly getting around school, because a few of my classmates have approached me about it. Their joint reaction is largely underwhelming. Mostly they just ask me some basic questions and then change the subject. A few even express compassion—“That must be really hard.” No one is treating me any different, though. It doesn’t feel like elementary school all over again. Maybe that’s because it isn’t.
I’m starting to feel stupid.
Really stupid.
I’m not sure why things are so much different now than they were when Phillip and I were younger. Maybe the autism awareness movement, all those ribbons with the colorful puzzle pieces, has been more effective in promoting understanding than I give it credit for. Perhaps everyone’s a little more mature, or the kids at my new school are different from the kids at my old school. Perhaps everyone is just too busy with their own lives to be all that concerned with mine. Maybe I’m the only one with the hyperfocus on Phillip.
Maybe not all of us are stuck back in third grade.
But I never considered that it could be like this, that the only person who’d make such a big deal about Phillip being my brother would be . . . me.
This realization nags at me, leaving me more exhausted than ever. I’m having trouble looking at myself in the mirror.
So when my mom mentions that her college roommate and husband are staying in downtown Philly for business, I do something nice instead. I offer to stay home with Phillip so my parents can enjoy a meal out and catch up with old friends.
My mom brushes off her evident surprise, which quickly turns into elation. She seems reinvigorated as she dashes out the door thirty minutes later, wearing makeup and perfume, her hair down. I remember how my mom’s week started out with a phone call that her youngest child had nearly run into traffic. She’s much happier now and full of optimism about a new school placement that sounds like it’s going to come through.
It cheers me up to see her happy and I smile at the knowledge that my actions can make someone happy these days. Otherwise . . . all around . . . I seem to be failing at that.
Phillip’s easy to babysit. I can whip up Annie’s rice pasta and cheese with one hand tied behind my back, since it’s one of the only things he ever eats. I order a pizza for myself, and we eat side by side on the couch.
I tug on the wire of his gaming system. “Turn off Nintendo, Phillip. Pick a movie?” I encourage him.
He scans the shelves. “Scoundrels.”
He’s referring to Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. We’ve watched it a hundred times. “Three Amigos?” I suggest.
Phillip has this weird affinity for Steve Martin, whose antics he seems to find absolutely hilarious.
“Scoundrels!”
I’m not going to win this one, so I stand up and retrieve the disc. “Okay, Phillip. You win. Scoundrels it is.”
“I’ve got culture coming out of my ass.” He recites from the film, his inflection spot-on.
I bend over to insert the DVD, hiding my face so he doesn’t see I’m laughing. I’m supposed to discourage his cursing, but sometimes it’s pretty damn funny.
I sit back down beside him, paper plate on my lap, and listen to the familiar musical opening of the movie. At one point about an hour later, when Steve Martin’s character’s wheelchair rolls into a pool, Phillip looks over at me while laughing. He keeps eye contact for nearly fifteen seconds and it’s possible to believe we’re actually laughing together rather than just in the same space.
Phillip shuts off the movie at eight thirty, right in the middle of a scene. “Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Our mom used to say it every night when we were little, and Phillip’s held on to the rhyme. He heads upstairs without looking at me again or waiting for a response. He always goes to bed early, a combined result of his medication regimen and just how tiring
it is being Phillip.
Then it’s really quiet in our house and I riffle through our DVD collection, looking for something that might interest me. Most of our collection’s devoted to Phillip—way too many Steve Martin comedies, SpongeBob collections, and his expansive collection of cartoons and video games. After the week I’ve had, I don’t want anything romantic or sad either.
As I flip through the discs, a case falls off the shelf. It’s thinner than the rest, homemade. I turn it over to read the label.
Five excited words leap off the case, written in black Sharpie, all caps.
HE SPEAKS—PHILLIP, AGE FOUR!!!!!
There is something momentous captured in the title, in the surplus of exclamation points, and I slide the disc into the player and wait for it to load.
A moment later, a grainy shot of our old dining room comes into view, making me instantly nostalgic as I take in the scratched wooden table and the autumn table runner adorned with turkeys and pumpkins, which didn’t make the move to our new house.
There is Phillip, scrawny as ever, seated atop both a pillow and a prickly plastic therapy cushion to help sustain his focus and help him reach the table. My mom is seated to his left, looking much younger than she does now, yet older at the same time, thanks to the outdated hairstyle captured on film.
There is a pained look on her face, because as the video opens, Phillip has both hands over his ears, his eyes are clenched shut, and he is screaming. It is high-pitched and repetitive, like a siren. Yet my mom’s lips remain pinched in determination between quiet prompts to my brother.
The scene brings back memories of Phillip’s early intervention services, how he was forced to endure speech therapy four times a week. The therapist would come to our house and I was bribed with cheddar popcorn and extra time in front of the Disney Channel to stay out of the way so that my mom was free to observe the therapist’s techniques and any progress Phillip might demonstrate. Typically, there wasn’t any.
Sometimes I watched my mom as she watched like a hawk, taking copious notes so that she was later able to replicate the therapy sessions and the demands included within. After the therapist left, and after we ate dinner, she would pick up where they left off, working tirelessly, even as Phillip fought her every step of the way.
Phillip had never wanted to talk to any of us. It took us over three years to realize he was even capable of producing speech, when he finally started screaming the word “no!” about anything and everything, hands locked firmly over his ears.
Somehow his single-word protest translated into some sort of victory for my mother, and the language interventions became more intensive.
The twenty-minute video is painful to watch, because for every step forward, it’s two steps back.
My mother gently taps the laminated picture symbol on the table before them. It bears an image of Polly-O string cheese, Phillip’s dietary staple at the time. “Phillip wants . . . ,” she prompts.
“Noooooooooooo!” he screams, then begins shrieking again and slides off his seat like a limp noodle.
My mom appears unfazed. “First chair, then cheese,” she says, once, twice, three times, always calm, until Phillip manages to collect himself and returns to the table. He is rewarded with a tiny piece of cheese, but the real prize, the whole stick, remains beside my mother.
She holds it up and taps the picture again. “Phillip wants . . .”
He doesn’t scream this time but begins pounding his temples with his fists. He hits himself hard, likely producing red marks, but if my mom is upset, she doesn’t let it show. She slowly pries his fingers open and spreads them on the table. “Soft hands,” she says calmly, “then cheese.”
When Phillip keeps his hands away from his head, he is given another small piece of cheese.
This goes on for another fifteen minutes as Phillip tries to escape the demand of saying a single word with every trick in his arsenal. My mom never gives up, shaping every small, acceptable behavior along the way—soft hands, bottom in seat, eyes on me.
Finally, she gives the prompt one more time and taps the picture. “Phillip wants . . .”
“Cheese.”
The word comes out clearly and easily. As a frustrated observer eleven years later, someone who knows my brother very well, I still can’t help wondering why he didn’t save everyone the trouble and just say the damn word in the first place, if he knew how.
In the video, my mother is visibly stunned. She looks toward my father, behind the camera, in surprise. Her face breaks into a wide smile as she asks him, “Did you get it? Please God, tell me you’re still filming.”
Obviously, there were many takes when Phillip had not produced the word “cheese.”
“I got it.” I hear my dad’s voice. “Now give him his cheese!”
“Oh, right!” My mom laughs, still giddy, and hands Phillip the entire stick of cheese.
“Cheese,” he says happily, removing the plastic and licking the stick up and down. “Cheese. Cheese.”
I shake my head as the camera is turned off and the screen turns to static.
There’s only one video, but there could have been thousands like it. Every single word, skill, and milestone was earned upon a battlefield. My mom and dad fought for every single skill Phillip mastered. The battles took years, and the victories were conceded eons after they should have been.
As I put the DVD in the case and slide it carefully back onto the shelf, I think about where I fit in the context of these battles. I was left alone, a lot, in the application of their concept of fairness. There’s no denying this—I just saw the proof of it on the screen—and somewhere deep down, I can still detect the roots of resentment.
On the other hand, I’m well aware of another video that exists, and it’s probably stored upstairs in my big box of accomplishments. In it, I’m almost a year younger than Phillip was in the video I just suffered through. I’m a precocious three-year-old, dressed in a satiny teal-blue skirt with purple mermaid fins, belting out “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid. I sing it a capella, word for word, never missing a beat. I sing it with ease.
Someone had cared enough to videotape it. Someone had been watching, likely applauding, likely assuring me that, yes, one day I’d end up playing Ariel on Broadway. Phillip had just received his diagnosis around that time, but someone still made time for Disney princess dress-up and videotaped my performance.
Being left alone for thirty minutes at a time isn’t the exact same thing as being neglected. The scales may have never been tipped in my favor, but I guess they weren’t perpetually out of balance, either.
The next morning, apprehensive but resolved, I dress slowly. I’m not sure my presence will be welcomed at the playground opening, but I still want to be there. I want to see Alex’s hard work recognized and I want to be one more person there to acknowledge his efforts. I’ll stay in the background.
I stare out the back window—the sunlight is faint and a few colorful leaves are already on the ground. I button my fitted plaid boyfriend shirt, hoping the sun makes a more noticeable appearance at the playground site.
A squirrel catches my attention as he prances gracefully along the top bar of our old playground set. I stare at the swings. The paint is patchy, and the whole thing is rusted and rickety, but we’ve never gotten rid of it. It still gets use, although I haven’t been on it in at least six years. Phillip, however, at age fifteen, still loves to swing. You can find him out there, regardless of season, regardless of temperature. It soothes him, swinging, the consistent back and forth he can always count on.
A thought pops into my head, and I go find my mom, who is drinking coffee in the kitchen. “So I’m going to the opening for Alex’s playground project,” I tell her as I pull on my North Face fleece. “And . . . I was thinking maybe Phillip would like to come with me.”
The mug in her hand freezes midway to her mouth. “Really?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
I can see her min
d churning away, wondering at what point during the week an alien invaded her daughter’s body, rendering her a more giving, supportive family member.
Ultimately, she shakes her head and drains her coffee. “I don’t know, honey. I don’t want him to give you any problems.”
“He won’t give me any problems. There’s an awesome swing set there and it’s brand-new. We won’t stay long, he’ll swing, and then we’ll come home. I have driven Phillip places before,” I remind her.
Not a lot, because I never really want to . . . but I’ve done it.
She rises from her stool. “Maybe if I come along, too . . .”
I put my hand up to stop her. “I can handle it. It’s only ten minutes away. If there’s any real problem, I’ll call you.”
I turn my back on her before she can protest further and walk into the living room, where I find Phillip on the couch, giggling while watching the Cartoon Network.
“Hi, Phillip,” I interrupt, voice not too loud, not too quiet. “Would Phillip like to swing?” I make sure to keep my language simple. “Try new swings?”
He looks up and stares at me for a minute, eyes distant and pensive. “Would you trust a shifty-eyed moose?” he asks seriously.
I have no idea what he’s referencing or where he heard the question, but I tell him, no, I would not, and he stands up. I take this as a yes, and hand him his favorite red sweatshirt to put on over his T-shirt.
Before we head to the car, I make sure I have the tote containing his Bose headphones, his Nintendo 3DS, and several snack bags of gluten-free pretzel sticks. He occupies himself with his game on the ride, but when we pull into the lot and he glimpses the impressive spread of the playground before him, he abandons it at once. He doesn’t even reach for his headphones as he opens the car door. He is out like a flash and makes a beeline for the colorful set of swings to the left of the playground.
There are a ton of kids already on the equipment, and I follow Phillip as he joins the fray. He selects a swing on the end and is airborne within seconds. I stand back and watch, unconcerned. There are kids of all ages and disabilities—some even older than Phillip who look like they should’ve outgrown playgrounds but appear among the most excited—and he does not stand out in this crowd. If he yells, if he flails, if he swings for two hours without pause, the kids and families around him will remain unfazed.