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“Hang in there, pal,” I whisper to my baby brother, caressing his hair just above the bandage around his forehead. He hasn’t suffered any serious head or facial injuries, only cuts and bruises.
According to the accident report, drugs were found in Dad’s car. They were his medications. Graeme Hartley was schizophrenic—only those drugs kept him from having an episode. Recently I heard from Mom that he’d been skipping them.
It wasn’t speed that killed my parents and injured Matty. It was sickness. It was a man’s fucking sickness that took them away and made my little brother suffer.
Matty suddenly moves.
“Matty?”
His eyes flutter open. “Rob…” he moans softly.
“Clay, Clay,” I call my other brother.
“What?” Clay comes in.
Feeling his presence, Matty murmurs, “Clay….”
“Oh… hey, Matty!” Clay holds our little brother’s uninjured hand.
Matty coughs and starts crying. “Rob, it hurts. I don’t wanna wear this thing!” He escapes Clay’s hold and swipes at the tube attached to his nose.
I catch his hand gently. “I know it’s painful, but you’ll have to leave it there for now. You’ll be okay.”
Growing more alert, Matty mumbles, “Where’s Bjork?”
He might still be under the influence of drugs and have no comprehension of what had happened, but somehow I’m grateful that he hasn’t asked for Mom. I’ve been mulling over what to say since we flew out of Geneva, but there are no words that can mask the fact that our parents are dead.
On the other hand, Matty’s question about Bjork breaks my heart—not because the bear is in pieces, but because of what’s behind the question. The boy is afraid of losing his teddy bear because it’s never crossed his mind that he could lose his mother. He assumes Mom is always there, somewhere, even if he can’t see her. We all do.
“We’ll get Bjork to you soon, okay?” I say.
Matty grimaces, looking around. “He was in the car.” He coughs a few times, and then cries, “I was hugging him. Where is he?”
The bear hasn’t left my brother’s side since Mom bought it for him. To Matty, Bjork has become an extension of Mom herself.
“I’ll get him today. I promise.” Clay rubs Matty’s tiny fingers.
Obviously, he’s trying to keep Matty calm, but for him to say the bear will be ready today—that’s like rolling a pair of dice.
“Where’s Mom?”
I bow my head. My throat hurts as if I’ve just swallowed a sword. When I look at Clay, he is staring at his own lap.
Matty’s eyes are fixed on me, as if silently saying that I’m his oldest brother, so I’ve gotta know.
“Matty,” I croak. “You were in an accident.”
“The car?”
“Yes.”
“I remember Dad drove fast.”
The face of Graeme Hartley flashes in front of me––eyes wide, mouth gaping, bracing for the impact. Mom calls out ‘Gray,’ Dad’s nickname, begging him to slow down. Then, in among the clanging noise, in the backseat, Matty is covering himself with Bjork.
Matty tries to turn on his side, too quickly, and I don’t manage to keep him lying in place. He screams in agony, most likely from the pressure on his ribs.
“Shh… shh… Matty, you’ve gotta stay still,” I say, holding his hand.
