For Malachi
Contents
1. My Brother
2. Coffee with the Devil
3. Scribbles
4. This Many
5. The Night Man
6. Crows
7. Salamanders
8. Fresh Ink
9. A House By The Sea
10. Magpies
11. Peeling Potatoes
12. Splitting Headache
13. Closet
14. The Sister
15. Family Dinner
16. Grandpa’s Gun
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
1
My Brother
I knew it would be tough. There was always some time of adjustment to follow, and if we were lucky, peace would come. But it would all go to shit again. But that’s okay. I let Mom and Dad know that. I told them I knew how it was, and I cared. I didn’t understand, and honestly, I didn’t care. I just wanted my brother back. After weeks of constant “I miss Jamie,” and “When is Jamie coming back?” she gave me the answer I needed.
“James is coming back next week, Ben,” Mom said. Always so formal, stoic. She stirred the cream in her tea at the kitchen counter, quickly wiping up the spill. I sat across from her at the kitchen’s island. She wouldn’t meet my eyes yet. I didn’t care how cold she tried to be. I beamed, and she couldn’t help but smile too. I thought it reached her eyes. Maybe it was my imagination. For a moment, I felt like a glob of honey sat in the deepest part of my stomach. It was so sweet it made me sick. Maybe she had a honey pit too. My big brother was coming back! I mean, we were the same size—I was tall for fourteen, and he was short for fifteen.
“Ben, I want you to know something,” Mom said.
My face fell. I had so many plans for him—with him. Was she going to be strict and hover like a helicopter like last time? Drag us to therapy where we get artificial hits of dopamine and ‘we’re making progress’ promises?
“What’s up?” I asked, putting on my best ‘I am not disappointed but please don’t crush my spirit’ face. She read it. Good.
“You see, James is sick.”
“Was sick. And this is the longest he’s been gone.”
I thought back to the scenes at the park. The accidental bloody noses and the time Jenny broke her collarbone. It made me shiver. Mom worked to keep the color from fleeing her face, I could tell by the way she bit her lips and pinched her earlobe.
“But he’s getting better. It’ll be different this time,” Mom said. I knew she was convincing herself more than me. “We have new rules. We’ll make them stick.”
My stomach clenched. There were already too many rules. I needed to show him the little holes I dug by the river. I filled them with the best rocks to skip. We used to try and skip a stone all the way across the river. Maybe this was our year.
Mom looked at Dad, who joined us in the kitchen. He took over. This really was big news. “You need to know this; James is sick in the head,” Dad said.
“I know.” I squirmed. I hated these conversations.
“No.” He set his jaw, and I stopped fidgeting. “Look, James did some bad things. He hurt people. He’s getting better now, for real this time. But when he comes back, there are going to be rules.”
“Like what?” I kept my voice as quiet as the river out back. This was about the kids at the park, the razorblades stuck in the slides.
Mom’s smile was tight across her bony face. Her eye sockets were giant craters. “Well, for one, you won’t share a room.”
“We don’t share a room.”
“You know what I mean.” She rubbed a hand through her hair. It was perfect and a brand-new shade of copper. Dad eyed the liquor cabinet. The one above the fridge, the one with a lock. The only key hidden in his office desk drawer.
“I know,” I said. Jamie had a bunk bed and I used to sneak over, and we’d play games and darts late into the night.
“There will be a strict schedule,” she commanded. A buzz in her phone stole her attention. She leaned over the counter like she was carrying the weight of the world on her neck. A modern-day Mother Theresa.
It would last a week before they flaked out, just ‘too overwhelmed’ or something like that.
“Jamie can’t be alone with strangers,” Dad said.
I cracked a smile. Jamie. Dad was excited for him to come home too. He barely called him that anymore.
Dad rattled off a list of other rules—simple things like Jamie was only allowed to have forks at dinner when Mom and Dad were around, something about plastic cups, and other crap. I stopped listening when my mind took me back to the riverbanks in our backyard. I thought the water started moving faster like it was excited too.
I could already imagine the look on Jamie’s face when I skipped a rock across the river. He hadn’t even been able to do that, but I’d been practicing. Then I remembered Mom and Dad in front of me and chose to look somber, even a little afraid, but I wasn’t. Still, I widened my eyes just a little and frowned my lips so they knew I was serious. But I couldn’t wait to skip those rocks.
His hair used to be blond, bright like the sunshine. Now it was like a shadow. I knew he was trying to be angry, but when Jamie walked through the doors, he let a smile slip. I couldn’t help but notice how his spine seemed to melt into the couch. It really had been hell since he had been gone. I didn’t think Mom and Dad would like me to give him a hug. Instead, I smiled from my assigned seat.
We watched movies after dinner as one big happy family. We all sat on the couch in our “usual spots” Mom had designated for us when we were toddlers. We ate popcorn and pretended this was normal. Transformers boomed across the TV. Mom and Dad shared weird looks at the loud noises and violence, it wasn’t even that bad. But I wasn’t watching anyway. I kept looking at Jamie, hoping his eyes would meet mine.
He held off for a while, but they slipped, and our eyes locked. He set his jaw and shook his head. I tried to be supportive, to look like his friend. I even had my palms facing up, like the counselor told us to do.
But he was always angry.
He looked away, but it wasn’t long before our eyes met again. Eventually, he gave me a little smile, especially after I mimicked skipping stones. A piece of happiness he could still recall. His mind was all mixed up now. Like each time he came out, his brain was more Jell-O.
I sliced my hand against my neck, like I was chopping off his head. Or cutting his throat. It only meant he was a loser; it’s always been our sign, like a middle finger or something. Then I worried Mom or Dad noticed, but they were too busy pretending to watch the movie, too caught up in pretending this was normal.
I didn’t watch the movie; I watched the rising and falling of Jamie’s chest as he breathed in and out, in and out. I promised myself to behave, to be extra good so he could stay longer. I didn’t want to rock the boat and make it tougher on him.
When the movie was over, we made small talk. I don’t remember what, something about how his room was “just as he left it.” Mom looked proud of her handiwork, like she was displaying the innocence of Jamie’s youth. Holding on to when we were little. She grabbed him by the hand, gentler than I’d ever seen, and lead him to his boyhood room, complete with a football lamp and poster of Batman. The light blue and ironed curtains did nothing to reflect who my brother was. Jamie said something sarcastic. Dad blew out his breath; he had been holding it all night.
I balled my fists at my side. Not yet, Jamie, just be good a little longer. Things would calm down. We brushed our teeth, eyeing each other through our reflections in the mirror so it didn’t count as staring.
Mom reminded me of “no
late visits.” I wouldn’t bother him anyway, too early to push the limits. Mom locked Jamie in. I wanted her to lock me in too.
Then I heard the struggle and the arguing. Muffled words like someone talking through a pillow. Maybe it was just the walls. Both parents begged Jamie to spare my little brain and heart from any loud argument and distress. Mom’s voice went squeaky; Jamie’s was a harsh whisper. It made ears bleed.
Eventually, things went quiet. They didn’t try to hide anything anymore. Mom sobbed. Dad clicked open the liquor cabinet above the fridge. The sounds of liquid pouring floated down the hall, under my door, and into my ears. Jamie breathed out, long and deep. I tried to do the same.
But I couldn’t. So I slipped from my only oasis under the covers and reached into the dark depths of my closet. I found the little shoebox buried under my neatly stacked shoes. It gave Mom no reason to come in and clean up if it was already neat. Everything else was a mess though. My hand got hot when I reached into the worn box. Beads of sweat started at my temples, and I hadn’t even opened it yet. The box was worn, and I opened it with my fingertips, afraid the contents would scorch me. The neat pile of bills was stacked on one end, another pile of stud earrings and shiny necklaces on the other. They smiled up at me.
I cradled the neatly organized bills in my hand, counting them over and over, reliving the memory attached to each bill. This one was from my mom’s purse, about two months ago. I got this hundred from grandma’s purse last time she came to visit. I stole this earring off a girl on the bus. Her wallet too, but it had no cash in it.
I fingered the bills and caressed the jewelry. And when my heartbeat went back to normal, and I could hear Jamie’s gentle snore from through the wall, I could finally sleep.
The morning almost felt normal. There was mention of the previous night’s drama. I still wanted to know what it was about. But I came to my own conclusion when I saw Mom switching over laundry during breakfast. Jamie’s sheets. I looked at him. He shook his head. He ate his eggs with a fork, sliding the tines over his teeth. The remains of Dad’s late-night glass were still in the sink. I could see the fumes of brandy still floating in the air.
Jamie ate slowly. He stared at me. I stared back. Jamie’s jaw clenched tight. So did his grip around the fork. I took my dishes to the sink; I even put Dad’s glass away. The liquor cabinet was locked. No more evidence of his late-night treat.
Mom kept busy with cleaning our already clean house. I finally convinced her to let us go outside—she even brought us lemonade on the patio. I half expected her to bust out the old cookie sheets and start baking. I knew she wanted to make up for the lost bake sales and parent meetings at school. She told us not to leave the patio, and I felt her gaze pierce us through the windows. I knew she hoped the concrete was enough of a cage. Before the door closed, she was tapping away on her phone, trying to get a hold of anyone who would still listen to her.
“What’s it like in there?” I finally asked.
“Like last time, but the food was better.”
It looked like it was better. His once skinny body had some squish to it now. His wiry arms were loose and limp. Maybe it was the drugs the doctors had shoved down his throat. His voice wasn’t his either. It’s like someone also shoved smoke down his throat, and he coughed for weeks.
“I collected some good rocks,” I said.
“Cool,” he said, taking a giant swig of lemonade. He leaned back in the chair, legs spread like he owned this place.
“My arms are bigger now.” I laughed, but I knew I struck a nerve.
He rubbed his head, sunk away from me, and his eyes flashed red. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll get back to normal, even with all the shit they’re pumping my brain with. The chemicals are melting my mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t me,” he said, gulping the lemonade.
I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “But you said you did it.”
“Of course I said that. It’s one of the steps to get out of that place. You would have taken all the blame and then some to get out of that shithole.”
I wanted to ask who he thought did it. But he was right. I would have said all the right things just to get home. Anyone would have. Jamie rubbed his arms like he was cold despite the sweat already dripping down his temples.
We waited for Mom to be on the phone with some other relative and started our sprint. My legs pumped hard over the uneven grass. I jumped over the few large rocks and branches. The grass got greener the closer I got to the water. My lungs burned by the time I could touch the small river. I won, but he might have let me. But he was also panting just as hard as I was. We grabbed fistfuls of rocks and hurled them into the water.
“What happened last night?” I asked, ignoring the pain in my arm from throwing too hard.
“There was piss all over my sheets.” He flung another rock. “Mom didn’t believe me, Dad either.”
“Piss? Are you sure?” I threw another rock, pinching my shoulder. I hid my grimace.
“She could smell it and blamed me,” he snarled, throwing his rock short. “I thought it was the cat. She said the cat’s been locked up. Whatever. I just needed a bed that wasn’t soaked in piss, and it was like I asked them to move the world.”
The cat was my fault. We had one before Mom found it dead and skinned under the porch swing. She swore we would never have another, but I begged and pleaded. She thought I was lonely and caved. Now it lived a life locked in the master bedroom, out of “Jamie’s reach and temptations.”
“Still, are you sure?” I asked.
“Oh, not you too.” He hurled another rock. It made a big splash.
“What?” I made sure to say it when he didn’t have a rock in hand.
“You’re like Mom and Dad, blaming me for shit I don’t do, making me think I’m crazy. But the stupid thing is.” He hurled another rock, and I tried to hide my flinch. “Maybe they’re right. I can’t remember shit anymore. These pills and medications just turn my brain to mush.” He picked up another rock and tapped it against his head. “All that shit about the park? Maybe it was me, and maybe I really am a monster because I don’t remember or care anymore.”
I nodded.
“How’d you get a phone?” he asked.
The question felt like a slap on the face. My cheeks flamed and burned, and I bit my tongue. I loved the taste of iron anyway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“C’mon, I hear you clicking away on that thing late at night.”
My stomach dropped. It was like he’d stabbed me. “And?” I forced myself to be calm.
“It’s a piece of shit. How old is it? And really? In your pillowcase? Easy place.”
“It gets the job done.” I shrugged. The first-generation smartphone was more than I wanted to spend. I traded memories in the form of bills for that piece of shit phone. I wasn’t going to lose it now.
“How’d Mom agree to it?”
I sighed. “She doesn’t know. Please, don’t tell her.”
His surprise was evident by his raised eyebrows. He paused throwing a stone. “Wow, baby bro finally getting—” He looked at the rock in hand. “Stones.” He laughed, and it felt real.
I laughed too. “Yeah, she’d flip.” And I knew he wouldn’t tell.
Mom’s voice interrupted the slap of rock on water. I jumped, so did Jamie. We each threw one more stone, a final act of rebellion. Mine made it farther, but Jamie thought he won. I wanted to argue, but Mom was red-faced and had Dad on the phone. We raced inside and got some lectures; I tried to take the blame. She ignored me.
And the days went on like this. They shifted to weeks. Mom breathed easier despite the still precarious veil of peace. Jamie’s cheeks started to get color, and his eyes became less dull. He got in trouble for petting the neighborhood stray dog. Apparently it was against the rules or something. There was a big row about that, but everyone came down for dinner and nothing else was said on the m
atter.
It was our blissful and ever-shifting peace.
My jaw tightened when I found Dad’s signature glass in the morning. I sat at the kitchen island, rubbing my eyes. I had a headache, and Mom went to fetch me Advil. I hoped we had the chewable tablets even though I wasn’t kid-size anymore. They were grape and felt like chalk in my mouth. I threw in a cough for good measure. Jamie squinted at me.
Mom handed me a glass of water, no pill though.
“We’re out.” Her face was pale. She stood across the kitchen island from Jamie. She tapped frantically on her phone, her red nails clicking over and over and over. Jamie rolled his eyes, hopped over the back of the couch, and flipped on the TV. We watched him watch cartoons, neither Mom nor I are willing to pull our eyes from the back of his head.
He sat in the wrong spot, Dad’s spot. I swore I could see the bile rise up in Mom’s throat. Her green insides threatened to escape. Things were not perfect, but at least no one could see it. I pretended her tension didn’t change the air in the room, but it did. I felt the oxygen turn sour. She scoured the shining kitchen island, still staring at Jamie.
My parents argued again that night. I knew it was about the missing pills. I was sure Jamie knew too. I thought I could hear his breath hitch and catch through the walls. Mom’s voice was shaking; Dad’s was slurred. They thought they were being quiet. All parents thought they could do that.
“The medicine cabinet was a mess, stuff missing, things rearranged. I know he has some pills.” Mom’s voice threatened to break into a shriek.
“You need to calm down. We’ll send the boys out and search his room. We’ll find them.”
Scribbles and Scrawls Page 1