The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  He stopped in front of us, his hands fisted on his hips, and said, "I want you to prepare yourselves. Your father experienced an ischemic stroke. His brain was deprived of oxygen for a period of time, and the longer the oxygen is cut off, the more brain cells die. We're still running tests to determine how the stroke impacted his brain, and will know more in a few hours. We have him sedated right now, in a medically-induced coma."

  Standing required too much energy, and I slid down the wall to the floor. My ass hit the ground, and I discovered I was still wearing soggy track pants. They continued talking about Angus and his issues—the old bastard was kind enough to have his stroke in the main hallway, front and center, so the poor cleaning lady could find his miserable ass when she scaled the snow banks this morning—but I didn't care. There wasn't a shred of concern in my cells for Angus, and even in the darkest corners of my mind, I recognized that as one of the cornerstones of major fucked-uppedness.

  "What is your deal?" Nick kicked my foot, squatted in front of me, and studied the eggplant-sized bruise on my jaw. It had faded to a gross palette of yellow and purple in the weeks since our last interaction with Angus, and I slapped Nick away.

  "He's still drunk," Riley said. "I found him with an empty bottle of whiskey."

  "Why is he wet?" Nick grabbed my wrist and pressed his fingers over my pulse. "Please tell me you didn't piss yourself."

  "I did a couple miles last night," I said. "There was some snow."

  He angled my chin and beamed his penlight in my eyes, and I was ready to rip that hand off and beat him with it. "You're being a little bitch," he whispered, and stood to face the group. "Let's bring y'all up to ICU. You can go in for five or ten—"

  "Won't be necessary," Patrick said.

  Nick studied us, waiting for someone to show a glimmer of sadness over Angus's condition, and when he finally found none, he nodded to himself. "You need to know this is serious. He might not come out of it, and if he does, he could have extensive complications. Loss of speech, paralysis, memory loss."

  "I might prefer those options," I said.

  "That sounds sensational to me. He's said everything he needs to say," Sam added.

  "You don't have to see him, but you should," Nick said. "At the very least, we're getting some fluids into Matt, so sit tight."

  "That's fine," Patrick said. "Let's run through the properties. I want status reports, and I want to figure out where we need crews this morning. Be ready in five minutes."

  From: Matthew Walsh

  To: Erin Walsh

  Date: November 26 at 13:01 EDT

  Subject: Angus had a stroke

  * * *

  Call me when you get this.

  From: Erin Walsh

  To: Matthew Walsh

  Date: November 26 at 21:05 CEST

  Subject: RE: Angus had a stroke

  * * *

  Ummmmmm no.

  But good luck with that.

  From: Matthew Walsh

  To: Erin Walsh

  Date: November 26 at 13:16 EDT

  Subject: RE: Angus had a stroke

  * * *

  Cut the shit, E. Answer your fucking phone.

  From: Erin Walsh

  To: Matthew Walsh

  Date: November 26 at 21:22 CEST

  Subject: RE: Angus had a stroke

  * * *

  Let's get a few things straight, kid. He's made it perfectly clear that he's not my father. I don't think this is my concern.

  * * *

  Oh, and I'll be unreachable for a few weeks. No need to send further updates.

  From: Matthew Walsh

  To: Erin Walsh

  Date: November 26 at 14:04 EDT

  Subject: RE: Angus had a stroke

  * * *

  No one is disputing that he's an evil cocksucker. We all agree on that. You don't have to keep defending that proof.

  * * *

  Look, I get that you're angry. He shouldn't have thrown you out of the house. He shouldn't have said Mom slept around. He shouldn't have done any of it and we all know that, but you know as well as I do that he's your father. He sees Mom when he looks at you, and Shannon, too. That's why he hates you, and you know that.

  * * *

  None of it should have happened, but he's in a coma right now and we're all here dealing with it. You don't have to care about him, but it would be nice if you cared about us.

  * * *

  You could start small and care about me for a minute. At this moment, my knee feels about three times its normal size, I'm pretty sure I've caused another round of shin splints, and my liver will most likely stop functioning before the calendar year ends.

  * * *

  You'll probably love hearing that Lauren broke up with me and the universe as I know it has imploded. We had a stupid fight and I said stupid shit, and it's over. You called it from the start, and I probably should have listened.

  * * *

  So thanks for that, e.

  * * *

  M

  Nick returned with a yellow IV bag, a pissy scowl, and a nurse who probably wasn't old enough to vote. It took her five tries to get the needle in my vein and she left a puddle of my blood behind as a reminder.

  "Well this is delightful," I said, wiping a bloody hand over my pants.

  "Would this be a good time to talk about Miss Honey?" Riley asked.

  This was a good time for curling into the fetal position and sleeping for nineteen hours.

  "Riley, do not doubt that I'll reach down your throat and pull out your fucking intestines if you say another word. I don't need your shit right now."

  "I think we should talk about what happened with Miss Honey," he said.

  Pressing my fists to my eyes, I groaned. I was ready to vomit. Another word, another breath in the wrong direction, and I was spewing that wretched night all over the shiny linoleum floor. "Don't fucking call her that—"

  "Actually, I'd like to know the answer, Matt," Patrick interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. Few were the days when we weren't talking over each other. "Did you call her?"

  "Why do you care?" I asked.

  "Because she's nice, and she makes you happy," Riley said. "You're a dick with an attitude problem when she's not around."

  "I can't believe you fucked this up," Sam said.

  I was definitely vomiting. The jackhammers in my head coupled with the disinfectant that I could fucking taste on the air and the siblings who knew all about poking the rough spots left me choking back bile.

  "You need to call her, Matt. She would want to know what happened, and she'd be pissed you're sitting on the floor in wet clothes being all grumpy," Shannon said.

  Riley, Sam, and Patrick nodded in agreement, and I gulped back another wave of nausea rocking my stomach. God, I was never drinking again.

  "Is it possible I'm not the one who fucked it up?"

  "Sam's right. Riley, too," Patrick murmured.

  "Not really sure why I'm the douche canoe here, or why you're all tearing my ass up right now. She's no angel, you know."

  "Yeah, Matt. Keep sitting there, thinking about how perfect you are," Shannon said. "But if you don't call her, I will. Believe it."

  Perfect I was not, but I wasn't interested in listening to them bitching at me anymore, and I slumped against the wall.

  "Do whatever the fuck you want, Shannon. It's not like anyone gives a damn what I think anyway," I said.

  "Could you give it a rest, Matt? I don't feel like listening to your pissing and moaning about us ignoring you and your precious opinions," Patrick said.

  "It's not pissing and moaning, Patrick. I told her I loved her and asked her to live with me, and she basically told me to shove it up my ass because she didn't see this going anywhere. Why don't you geniuses enlighten me: what did I do wrong?"

  Maybe that was a slight oversimplification, but the one thing I knew to be true was that Lauren wanted something else, someone else.

  "Oh," Shannon s
aid, the word stretched and contorted to contain a dozen different reactions. "That's not what I expected to hear."

  "Yeah," I snapped. "So either tell me how to fix it, or shut the hell up."

  Unable to endure another minute of this debate, I closed my eyes. I sensed their wordless reactions pinging over my head, but I was too exhausted for another round.

  Shannon spent the afternoon on the phone with Angus's lawyer, who couldn't get to his office to determine whether Angus wrote any medical directives into his will, because last night's storm dropped a little over two feet of snow and most residential streets were blocked. Patrick went to work getting snow removal crews deployed to our jobsites, and Riley and Sam prioritized the properties at risk for roof leaks and collapse. All in all, a regular day at the office, with the minor exception of the office being an ICU waiting room and my fucking soul was shattered.

  As I fell asleep in the corner, I wondered about the roof at Saint Cosmas. This was the kind of snow that would bring it all down, and part of me wanted to see the wreckage. I couldn't be the only thing destroyed right now.

  27

  Lauren

  Shannon: I know my brother's on your shit list but I need my friend right now.

  Lauren: of course. what's wrong?

  Shannon: My father had a stroke this morning, and I'm keeping it together but just barely.

  Lauren: where are you? I'm on my way.

  Shannon's directions pointed me toward the waiting room, but she didn't mention it resembled a miniature Walsh Associates command post. Power adapters shot out from every outlet and tangled in the middle of the room. Shannon and Patrick huddled around a laminate table-turned-desk where they were furiously typing. Sam and Riley were busy writing all over the windows with dry erase markers, and Matthew was nestled on the floor, asleep in the corner.

  How was it supposed to be now? How was I supposed to see him without dissolving into a mopey puddle of regret?

  It was awful to admit but I considered ignoring Shannon's initial text today. She sent several last night, but I turned off my phone on the walk between her apartment and mine, and didn't power up until after an hour-long bath this afternoon. She wanted to know what went down—I did scramble out of her place like my hair was on fire—but I couldn't explain the words Matthew and I shared in that kitchen. Or the car. Or his bedroom last week.

  And now, with everything in ruins around me, I knew there was no point in trying.

  Where Shannon sent her share of texts while I was unplugged, I received none from Matthew. For all my pushing, I hoped for just a bit more pulling from him, just this once. I hoped he'd find a way to make it work, a way that didn't force me to choose.

  Shannon's friendship was important to me, but I didn't know how to balance it with the wreckage of Matthew and me. Seeing him now, his long legs extended before him and his arms locked over his chest, the recognition that he wasn't a treat, an occasional indulgence on par with expensive underwear and decadent cupcakes, settled in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't lull myself into believing I could manage any amount of moderation, and I couldn't prevent myself from falling for him.

  My head belonged in the mission, and not sidetracked with fanciful activities or growly, bitey boys.

  He looked terrible, a gray cast to his skin and an IV in his hand. I knew touching him was a gateway to so much more, but I couldn't help it. He was frigid, his cheeks ice cold. "Oh, Matthew."

  "Get out of my dreams, woman," he rasped, and his eyes inched open.

  "Not a dream," I said. "You're freezing."

  Groaning as he stood up, he braced his hand on my shoulder, and took a wobbly, limping step. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he grunted.

  "What happened to you?"

  Flattening his hands on the wall, he shook his head, and dropped his chin to his chest. "I don't know, Lauren. You tell me. You're the one who walked out."

  Okay, so that was how it was going to be. "I mean why are you limping?"

  "Went for a long run last night."

  "Last night?" I cried. "In the blizzard?"

  "Yeah, if you want to yell at me, get in line behind the rest of them." He nodded toward his siblings, and shuffled down the hall, his IV bag tucked under his arm.

  "He's fine," Sam said, jerking a thumb at Matthew and motioning for me to follow him in the opposite direction. "Just dehydrated. And temperamental. How did you hear?"

  In worn jeans and a Cornell hoodie, he looked young and unassuming. Gone was Sam's smooth charm and composure, and in its place was the vulnerable, neurotic man I knew. "Shannon texted me. How's your dad?"

  "Angus," he corrected, "is in a coma, but he's had a few seizures since we've been here. They think he's been having little strokes for weeks, maybe months. They're worried about…" He wrapped his hands around the back of his neck and shrugged. "There's a lot to worry about."

  "And how are you?"

  He pushed his glasses up his nose and frowned. "I don't know yet."

  "Oh thank God you're here," Shannon called as she rounded the corner. She ran up, pushing Sam away and folding her arms around me. She squeezed hard before pulling back. "Can we get some coffee?"

  We walked the hospital halls, and Shannon was silent for several minutes before the dam broke. For as close as she was with her brothers, she was also stoic. It was up to her to hold it together for them, and after all these years, I doubted she knew how to face them with anything less than complete composure.

  "It doesn't even bother me anymore when he calls me a cunt," she laughed as she wiped tears from her chin. "It's like nothing."

  Sitting face to face on the floor of a quiet stairwell—really, they were the best places for semi-private tears—we cried together as the story of her father's reign of terror poured out in a ragged, sobbing mess.

  "You know what I thought when I got the call this morning? I thought, thank God. I thought, I hope it was quick and I hope it was painless, but please let that miserable bastard die." She sniffled, and wiped the edge of her sleeve over her tear-stained face. "I guess that probably makes me just as much of a miserable bastard."

  "No," I said. "I think it makes you human. You make mistakes and you hurt people, and you try to survive, and that's what makes you human."

  My red Hunter boots squeaked against the gleaming new floors, and despite my thorough inspections, there was no slant to be found. Even though I didn't have the first idea of what I'd say to him if our paths crossed, I had been lurking at Trench Mills most of this week, just hoping to see Matthew again.

  When I wasn't here, I was crying over every random memory of him, and the universe was blasting them all in my direction. A tie he left in my closet. A lonely Heineken in my refrigerator. The take-out menu from our favorite Spanish restaurant shoved into my mailbox.

  But in reality, he was everywhere, all over my apartment, all over this city, all over my school, and all over me.

  The raccoons and water heaters were gone, broken windows replaced, and it didn't feel like the same button mill anymore. I had to look closely to see the places where Matthew and I had been, to call the memories of that September day to the surface. In the gray December light, those moments seemed foreign, distant, unimaginable.

  But I remembered the wanting—wanting to touch him, be close to him, taste him—and I remembered denying myself. And I'd denied myself so much of Matthew these past months. Too much.

  "It's looking good," Riley boomed over my shoulder. His deep voice echoed through the space and I startled, my hand flying to my mouth to conceal a yelp. "Just another couple of months, and you'll be ready to roll."

  "Yeah," I murmured, rising on my toes to look over his shoulder.

  "He's not here," Riley said. "It's his turn on deathbed duty."

  Their glib treatment of Angus's condition made sense as a coping mechanism when considered alongside their personalities and his heinous nature, but it wasn't my favorite Walshism.

  "Oh, okay. I mean, I wasn't—"

/>   "Here's what you need to know about my brother," Riley said. "Even if something isn't broken, he likes to take it apart, figure out how it works, and then break it. He's not a sadist, he just likes trying to put it back together better than it was built. Don't give up on him, even if he broke it and doesn't know how to fix it yet. He won't stop until he finds the solution. He doesn't know how to give up."

  Inside my head, something new started forming, a link between all these words and thoughts and emotions, and I nodded, speechless. Synapses fired, neural pathways connected, and I felt the pieces pivoting, aligning, snapping into place.

  Riley wandered off with a comment about checking on the heating and ventilation progress while I stared out the window, the mechanics in my mind sapping all of my cognitive processes while this hot ball of awareness pushed up and out, spreading through my cells.

  If I had known four months ago that I'd be in love with Matthew, I would have fought for him, for us, and like every other challenge I accepted, I wouldn't have surrendered until there was nothing left on the road.

  Hindsight was a bitch.

  In a burst of jagged, blurry consciousness, I understood it all. Finally.

  I never gave up, never gave in, and always gave everything I had, and I'd always fought on the side of right.