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“If you took any money off my emergency card to buy that shit, I’m going to—”
“I didn’t!” he said, shaking his head adamantly. “I swear. I had some left from the last time I bought, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, nodding slowly. I wanted to believe him, but the thought of a drug addict having any leftover drugs was laughable. “So, you looked through old pictures of mom, watched videos, and did the drugs. What happened after that? What made you think to go back to that house?”
“I remembered I still had access to the security cameras through the app on my phone, so I took an Uber. I just—I remembered Dad still had all her clothes and stuff, and I wanted to grab the blue sweater she was wearing in the video. Do you remember the one?”
“Yeah, I remember,” I said, my voice quiet.
My memories crept in, forcing me to recall my mother. She had dark hair, something our oldest sister had inherited from her, and Shane got her dark brown eyes. I’d always remembered that blue was her favorite color. Everything was blue for mom: dishes, décor, everything.
She always wore blue, but this sapphire-blue cashmere sweater was burned into my memory. I could remember how soft it was when I wrapped my arms around her and pressed my cheek against it and how her Chanel perfume clung to the fabric.
After she died, I snuck the sweater out of her closet and kept it under my pillow. At night, I’d spread it out and lay my head against it so I could smell her and pretend I was lying against her chest. Once Shane saw me with the sweater, he would sneak into my room every night because he wanted to feel close to her too.
Every family grieves differently, and I knew that even then. We mourned our own way, the only way we knew how, by clinging to everything that was Mom. It’s all we knew to do to keep her close and her memories alive.
Of course, it didn’t take long for Dad to fuck it all up. I’ll never forget when that son of a bitch stormed into my room and demanded to know what I’d stolen. He threw a raging fucking fit like the nightmare he was.
It was then that I stopped thinking of my father as merely cold. I’d realized instead he was like Iceland; icy on the surface for sixty-five percent of the time but with enough volcanoes under the surface to make you nervous about an inevitable eruption.
“Okay,” I finally said to Shane, swallowing back my feelings at the thought of those days and how much I’d struggled. “So, you got high and thought that you’d go back for the sweater. What happened after that?”
“I was going to take it straight back to my apartment, but I ended up looking around the house. Did you know the old man has kept the whole house the same? He hasn’t updated a single thing since we moved out. The pictures, the furniture, all of it.”
“Not surprising,” I murmured. “He’s always been bad at moving forward, as we know too well.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice slowing. “Anyway, I went into my room, and I just wanted to sit on my bed for a minute.”
“I’m guessing you weren’t just there for a minute.”
He shook his head.
“Did you fall asleep?”
He nodded, biting down on his lip again. “The next thing I knew, I felt something yanking on my hair, and then something hard hit the back of my head, so I must’ve hit the floor. Everything was super foggy for a minute, and then I felt the pain all over my face, and it kept going and going. My ears were ringing so loudly that I could hardly think. Not to mention the pain in my ribs, so I knew he was kicking me. I don’t know if he punched my face or kicked it. I have no idea how it happened or in what order. It’s all kind of jumbled.”
I didn’t say anything, holding my breath slightly as I waited for the rest.
“The pain cleared up the rest of the fog pretty quickly, and I managed to get Dad’s feet out from under him, so that was how I got away. I ran out of the room, but the K was still working on me, so I couldn’t run as fast as I usually do. I didn’t even realize I was still holding the sweater until I was almost at the door. Dad grabbed my arm on our way out, and he managed to drag me down again.”
He bit down on his lip and barely seemed to notice that he’d opened his cut once again. He took the tissue I handed him and held it to his mouth, still not looking at me.
“I was able to get out and away from him, and I managed to get down the street while he was still yelling after me. I ended up getting an Uber to your place, and that was when I booked the flight out here.”
I sat back and looked hard at my brother, contemplating his ragged face, and thought about how far apart we’d grown in the last few months.
Years, actually.
Despite my limited capabilities as a kid, I always did my best to make sure he was as happy as possible, but he’d been extending the distance between us throughout the last few years.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever realized how deep the distance between us went, though. He’d confided in me that he started doing drugs in college, which wasn’t surprising. So many people experimented with drugs and partying at that age, and I was no exception. But I never messed around with some of the things he did.
At first, he’d been open about what he was doing and how much, calling me after every Saturday night and letting me know how much he regretted the decisions of the night before. He’d always say, “I’m never doing that shit again. Nat, I need you to hold me to that!”
I’d always responded the same way, knowing that it was never a permanent shift he was making. “Sounds good! Can’t wait to hear about how good you feel next Sunday morning!”
Then Saturday night festivities started early on Friday. Then Thursday through Sunday. Taco Tuesday also couldn’t be missed. Rinse and repeat.
