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Quinn Cooper:
It might make things more fun.
Erik Varg
Incoming FaceTime Video
I close my laptop on the apartment listings I’ve been perusing. I’ve spent far too much of my free time since my return to Chicago looking up homes in Quarry Creek—near my mom, near my brother, near Quinn. Now that we’re giving this a real shot, we’re back to texting daily again, phone calls too, but we’ve steered clear of talk about the future. It’s the safest idea. Neither of us can uproot our lives, even though technically, we already have. Which is why I have three different realty sites all open in separate tabs. It’s why I have two emails to realtors saved in my drafts.
My phone rings and I pick it up without checking the caller ID.
“Varg,” I say, on the off chance it’s work and not the woman who occupies my every thought.
“Varg,” my twin says right back, “Do you always answer the phone this way?”
I usually answer with “Doctor Varg,” especially when taking work calls, but I don’t say that.
“What do you need, Vic?”
“I’m just checking in to see how the house hunt is going,” Vic said.
I love my brother. I do. And I love that we’re talking more, but the disappointment I feel because it isn’t Quinn’s honey-butter voice flowing out of the phone is nearly overwhelming.
“I’m not moving.”
I’m not. Looking at listings is just a pastime. Something to do between meetings, or on lonely evenings. Lots of people do it. Loki is a good foot warmer, but there are only so many one-sided conversations we can have before I feel ridiculous. I’ve never been lonely before, being miles away from my family. Being by myself, with my own thoughts, has always been appealing. Recently, things have been different.
I used to enjoy sitting alone in the quiet of my living room. Now I reach for my phone to text Quinn. When I see something I know will make Vic laugh, I send him a message and share it. I no longer avoid my mother’s calls. Now we have a regular schedule. Just yesterday, she told me about her recent foray into the world of crochet. I even sent Anna an email asking when she’d next be visiting mom and Vic. I’d like to coordinate visits.
“Sure you aren’t.” Vic’s laugh is loud and brassy through the phone. “How many places have you bookmarked today? Five? Ten?”
I only bookmarked one today, but I have ten on my favorites list. Not that it matters, real estate doesn’t last long no matter where it’s located. Most of those listings will be gone by the end of the week. Which doesn’t matter because I’m not moving.
“Three guys on the team have realtor wives.” Vic says, “And I can always give you the number of the guy mom and I used. We’ll get you all taken care of.”
“Why are you so sure I’m moving?” I ask and my brother makes a sound like a disgusted wildebeest.
“Your deep abiding love for me. You’re wasting away without quality twin time.”
“You’re getting needy in your old age.” A month ago I would have been shocked to find that I don’t disagree with Vic.
“You’re the one who’s a full minute older.”
I miss spending time with my family. I miss seeing them at holidays and on random Tuesdays. I miss sitting in the same room as my sister or my brother or my mom and listening to them argue about what to watch on tv, or eat for dinner. Even in the years when I wasn’t involved, I still missed being in their orbit. I always counted myself lucky to have a family that let me have my space, my privacy, my distance. I spent so long wanting everyone to just go away, to leave me alone, to let me worry about my survival instead of theirs, that when I got it, I couldn’t imagine ever going back. I should have paid better attention to the fact that I didn’t want them to leave me alone forever. I should have noticed when everything shifted.
Something had. The glass wall that had kept out my family and everyone else had cracks in it. Big ones. The kind that groaned under any sustained pressure, threatening to fracture outward into splintered shards of nothing. The thought wasn’t as terrifying as it had once been. I used to be worried about what would happen if I had to let anyone back in. Now I’m worried about who I’ll hurt as the walls crash. Where will the damage be fixable? Where will it be catastrophic? What can I repair and what will stay broken?
“I’m sorry.” I pour decades’ worth of anger, self-doubt, pain, fear, and brotherly affection into those two words. Words that I should have said years ago. Hopefully, better late than never still applies here.
”What—” Vic starts, but I push forward. The need to explain is sitting right there at the back of my throat, just waiting to burst forth. It’s choking me.
“I’m sorry that we aren’t close anymore. That was always my fault.”
“We already talked about this not too long ago,” Vic says, and I can hear the quiver in his voice, desperation to change the subject. “We both said our piece and moved on. It’s fine. We’re fine. Things are changing now.”
That my brother doesn’t want to have this conversation means it’s long overdue. Hell, I don’t want to have this conversation either, but none of us can heal without some closure on the past.
Loki twines through my legs as I stare out over the Chicago skyline. It’s already dark, lights twinkling on in each building. Different people doing different things. 1 out of every 200 people will be diagnosed with cancer this year. That’s approximately 13, 485 people in the city of Chicago alone. I wonder how many of their lights I can see right this moment.
