Continued from
(Started writing a short story about my younger brother and his battle with addiction. This is a story about him, about me, and about our entire family. It is a short story that works to illuminate the beauty that can be found in any situation, and how humor can be a means of coping with life's hardships.)
The cookies made my teeth feel grimy and I wanted to brush
them as well as wash my face before leaving for his meeting. The bathroom we
share is connected to his bedroom, but has a second door, which leads to the
hallway. Since we moved into the house, fourteen years ago, we have been
sharing the same bathroom, although we have a four bedroom four bathroom house,
with four people in our family. As a teenager, when I protested sharing a
bathroom, demanding my own, my mother explained that we would have the pleasure
of destroying only one bathroom in HER house. That’s how arguments about the
house always went with my mother. It was always her house, not ours. End of
story.
The instant I enter our bathroom I notice something
different, as our eyes are trained to do when dealing with a familiar space.
There is a post-it note pressed to the bathroom mirror, above what I consider
to be my side of the counter. Actually, I know for a fact it’s my side; it’s
always been my side. Every last piece of bathroom junk I own is on the right
hand side of the counter, and he has the left, where he keeps his stuff in the
medicine cabinet. This has never changed in all the time we’ve lived here. But
there it is, this obnoxious little pasty yellow note, sticking its tongue out
at me from the mirror. I snatch it from the glass and it tears in half. I grab both fragments and hold them
together, making the note complete, as if they are separate clues from a
treasure hunt. Together they read, “STOP leaving your shit all over the
bathroom, or I will throw it away for you.” I angrily scan the bathroom,
wondering what the hell he is talking about? Ok, so my stuff is on the counter,
but that’s because there is nowhere for me to put it. In the corner on the
floor are a towel and my bathing suit, but it’s summer and I use it, like,
everyday, I justify to myself. This is ridiculous.
Without knocking I burst into his room and attack him with
an aggressive voice.
“Dude, what the hell is your problem? If you have an issue
then come to me instead of leaving all of these bullshit little notes around
the house.” I have finally got his attention, and he is looking at me rather
than at his computer.
“It’s really annoying Taylor, and you’re acting more like a
passive aggressive roommate than my brother.” I yank his door shut and stomp
back down the hall to my bedroom, leaving the bathroom as it is.
*
* *
The car ride to the meeting is a silent one, as neither of
us wants to talk to the other person. His face is turned away from me as he
looks out the passenger’s side window. I know my brother well enough to know
the expression he must be wearing. I’m almost positive that he doesn’t want to
go to this meeting just as much as I don’t. I’m only home for a few more weeks
before I move to Thailand for the year, and this is about the last thing I want
to be spending my afternoon doing. Before my mother asked me to go with him I
had big plans of lying around, reading a book and possibly working on one of my
many unfinished canvases. I had the day to kill before going out all night, so
I could sleep in half the day tomorrow. This had not been in the plans.
The tension between us was adding to the unpleasantness of the
situation. This tension, it wasn’t natural; it never used to be here. We were
best friends. I had spent almost everyday with him in college. We used to
adventure together, cook dinner together, and spend long afternoon days at the
beach or in his backyard, listening to music and acting weird in the way that
you can only around your sibling. But that was over a year ago, and I guess
maybe I’m even remembering it differently. Maybe it had really been longer than
a year since we had been like that. The last year we were in university
together became so jumbled with everything that he was going through, as well
as a very rough breakup I went through, that my attention was diverted, and my
memory was confused. College had developed into a time of extreme emotional
highs and lows, and the trauma of all he had been through, that we had been
through together, had ruptured my memory, as trauma often does. The events that
had taken place, the many conversations that had been had, and the people who
were involved had all bled together in my memory, like the colors on a homemade
tie-dye shirt.
It was impossible for me to remember with accuracy, the
temporality with which things occurred, and how quickly or slowly they changed.
Maybe towards the end I hadn’t actually been seeing him everyday, but more like
twice a week? Was that how it was able to get as bad as it did? Maybe I wasn’t
as close to him as I had imagined, but rather I chose to ignore the changes in
his behavior during the moments when I needed to admit how bad things had
gotten. In the back of my mind, I knew that if I admitted how bad things had
actually become, then I would need to admit that I was in over my head; that we
both were. If I actually admitted how serious it had gotten, then I would have
to stop taking my brother’s word for things and would need to turn to my
parents. And I didn’t want to. Hadn’t wanted to. He was my best friend. I
wanted to believe him so badly. I wanted to handle it because I thought as the
closest one to him, I was capable of it.
But it was there right in front of me. Aside from the
stories I heard all year from friends of his and friends of mine, he was the
biggest piece of evidence, and it was like a giant red flag being waved in my
face. Countless times he showed up at my apartment, his eyes bloodshot and his
face exhausted, his eyelids drooping as we spoke. For every excuse he gave me,
I made another of my own. It’s allergies. It’s stress of finals. It’s too much
caffeine too late in the day and now he can’t sleep at night. His slimming body
and hunched frame were because he was exhausted and overworked from school. As
students, we all neglected our bodies throughout the school year, and finals
and midterms meant minimal sleep, adderall and more coffee than food. I was building
a dream around me so that I didn’t have to face the reality of who my little
brother had become. We both existed in our little worlds of altered reality. He
was my only sibling, the only little brother I would ever have, and I
maintained an image of him that he no longer could fit.
The clicking of the blinker as we sat in the turning lane
was the only sound between us. It was a long red light. The lane we were in was
marked for turning, and I probably didn’t need to have my blinker on, but I
resisted turning it off, because in this moment I found the rhythmic steady
click of the blinker more soothing than the silence that would fill its place
if I pushed it off.
*
* *
I sat on the edge of his bed, the sound of my Father’s car
becoming more distant as they moved farther away from me. Half the room was
empty with the exception of the things he had owned but no longer cared enough
to take home with him. Home, that’s where he was headed. After the phone call
last night, my Father had decided to drive to Santa Cruz to come get him. He
was here before noon arrived. It had all happened so quickly, the events that I
had set into motion, that I was having a hard time believing what had just
occurred.
*
* *
I could still hear my Father’s crying, but this time I had
actually seen the look on his face; no telephone line between us. When he
arrived he pulled my brother close to him, his arms wrapped around his small
frame. It was more than a hug, it was an embrace of genuine love. Where you’ve
missed someone, needed someone, have been scared for someone, and finally, you
have them in your arms.
I remember my Father emailing me earlier in the year,
telling me that a good friend of his had recently lost his adult son. My Father
had met his friend through a shared passion for the ocean and sailing, and so
they spent the weekends exploring the San Diego coastline, and often taking
weekend trips to a near by island. In the email he explained how the son had
lost his life to a long battle with Oxycotin, a drug my brother, unknown to my
parent’s knowledge, was also using. The point of the email was to tell my
brother and I that he loved us and he hoped we were making healthy decisions
while living away from home. A line that I will never forget is how he described
spreading the son’s ashes over the ocean, and how he held his friend in his
arms as he wept for the loss of his only son. I knew that the fear of
experiencing what his friend had months before, was pulsing through the blood
in my Father’s body, speeding up his heartbeat and creating the type of chaos
in your mind that feels so thick it’s impossible to think through.
They stood in Stephanee’s living room, embraced as one, my
Father and brother crying, and I suddenly felt like I no longer belonged. Suddenly
this wasn’t something that involved me anymore, and I was overwhelmed with a
feeling of awkwardness, both physical and emotional. That feeling where you
have found yourself in a situation where you realize you don’t really know
anyone and everyone else is the best of friends. I had to step outside, to give
them some room and get some fresh air. The last thing I heard before closing
the front door was my Father telling him, “We love you. Mom and I love you. I
am never going to lose you. I’m here to bring you home.”
I sat on her porch steps, slumped over, my head resting on
my arms and knees. I starred at the chipped blue paint on the weather worn
wood, as my eyes welled with tears. I didn’t want to cry; it was already too
much to see it from both of them. Stephanee sat by my side and rubbed my back
as I concentrated on my breathing, on calming myself down. I could tell she was
shaken, as well, but there was no one to comfort her.
As the muted sounds from inside made their way to where we
sat, a relief washed over my body. With each exhale I knew it was over, and
everything that I had been holding inside for the year started to drain away.
But with the relief came a wave of sadness. A realization of what was to come.
It’s hard to describe the sadness I felt for my entire family. The process of
helping my brother into sobriety, which I knew was going to be a long journey.
The moments of honesty that would cut one another deeper than they had ever
expected. The acts my brother would have to confess too, and the realization my
parents would have to face. Ahead lay sleepless nights, brutal honesty, and
words of disappointment.
I closed my eyes tight and all I saw was the electric white
and purple light that’s fills the space behind your lids. I watched the glowing
shapes float around the inside world of my head and when I opened my eyes, a
tear raced away from me, slipping from my face, where it fell to the wooden
board and was absorbed.
*
* *
I looked around at the room we had partied in so many times.
A group of us had all sat along the edge of his bed, wearing fake mustaches,
dressed like sailors, drinking cheap booze from fancy wine glasses, laughing as
we shook our faces while a friend behind a camera snapped pictures.
It was strange how his smell was still lingering, even
though he was no longer here. I wondered how long it would take for all
evidence of his life here to fade? When would his roommate remove his bed, and
where would it go? The shelving where he had kept all of his clothes was empty,
and it hit me that he was really gone. Walking downtown this morning felt like
an eternity ago. My soul felt it had aged years in what had just been a few
hours. I knew I had done the right thing, but there was a feeling of
selfishness I couldn’t push aside. In a few months I would graduate and leave
this town in search of life after college, which at the moment was hard to
imagine existed. I had wanted him to be there for me up until graduation. I
wanted his friendship, his companionship and in the end, I wanted the security
of knowing my brother was just down the street. That if I was having a hard
day, I could go see him and spend time with him. The absence of his possessions
reaffirmed that he wasn’t coming back.
There was a gentle knock on the doorframe, the kind that
someone gives to ask permission to come into a room that’s already open. His
new roommate was standing there, in a blue flannel and cut off shorts, with a
cigarette tucked behind his ear. I had never met him before, but I remembered
the conversation we had had earlier that day, and how excited my brother was to
be living with him.
“Ay Allie, umm eh, are you alright?” He asked with an
Australian accent, something you rarely heard in this town.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” A direct lie. I felt like someone had just
slapped me across the face and snuck in a quick punch to my stomach, knocking
the air out of my lungs while my eyes struggled to focus.
I stood up and took one last glance around the room. Left in
his windowsill was a candle with a painting of Jesus on it. Neither one of us
are religious, but this was exactly the type of random stuff my brother would
collect. I grabbed it and left the room, unsure of where to go next.
*
* *
I follow my brother’s directions, which lead us to a parking
lot for a building I had seen a million times in my life. One of those
buildings that’s built right along side the freeway, and has been here since
before I was born. Not old enough for the architecture to be charming, but old
enough for it to be tacky, in the way that it resembles a different era,
probably the 70s. Of course, my brother, being the disorganized person that he
is, does not have the room number for the meeting.
“You know that we’re ten minutes late?” I remind him,
although he knows and he could have gone without hearing it, as we walk through
the halls of what seems to be a type of community center. There is a strange
smell to it and I dislike everything about this place. It is a neglected
building, which reminds me of the type of place you would see snotty nosed
children with their young single moms, waiting to get their free flu shots. A
stale building that could double as a low-income clinic. Or a place for the
elderly Vista locals to come and hold council meetings. The original residents
of the town, who had lived here before the cloned neighborhoods had invaded.
When Vista was all avocado and orange farms, and the new sixteen theater
Cineplex was un-built, as well as my high school made for educating 1,500 but
currently had a student body of 3,200 and a parking lot full of trailer
classrooms.
The air is stuffy, the interior is cheap and I immediately
make up my mind that this place is awful and these are going to be the longest
two hours of my life. Like the hallways of my old dorms, our footsteps echo
with each fast paced step we take, as we walk down the yellow worn floors. A
few doors ahead I hear voices and we approach an open door to a room with about
twenty people seated in a circle inside. Twenty adults. The full grown kind;
the kind with children and wives and husbands and divorces and careers and
credit card debit and all that stuff that young adults don’t have yet. And
issues with addiction. A room full of heroine addicts.
I peek my head in, half sure if this is the right room.
“Hello,” a woman in her mid-sixties greets us with a warm and welcoming voice.
“If you’re looking for the depression and bipolar support group, please come in
and join us, we just got started a few minutes ago.” Depression and bipolar support group? I look back at my
brother, and he nods sheepishly.
We find the last two empty chairs and join the circle, which
is large enough that its edges touch the perimeters of the wall. The only way
more people would be able to join the group would be if everyone scooted their
chairs together, and it was already uncomfortably close. I sit down in the
nearest chair to the door and he takes one opposite the room from I. In my
anger caused by the notes this morning, it never occurred to me to ask what meeting
we were even going to. I assumed it was either an AA meeting or some other type
of sobriety group for narcotic abusers. The thought never even crossed my mind
that my brother was going through something else.
From my seat I look around the room at the other people
here. They don’t look crazy. Well, some of them do, but most of them look
normal. The only difference is the age. They are at least all fifteen years
older than us. I mean older than him, my brother. I am not part of this group.
I do not need to be here. My mother’s words keep echoing in my head, “two hours
is too long for him to be gone with the car.”
Great, I think. I am stuck in a room full of Vista nutcases
for the next two hours. Around and around the circle we will go, so everyone
has a chance to talk about their depressing lives and their neurotic behavior.
I glance around the room at the people, wondering just who will reveal
themselves to be the craziest, when I notice the man sitting next to me staring
at my arm.
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