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“Matty, we talked about this. You live here now.”
“I want Mom and Dad!”
“Mom and Dad died. You can’t ask for them anymore, Matty.” I sit next to him. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to explain, and I’m starting to get weary.
Matty gets up and starts screaming, dragging Bjork with him to the corner of his bedroom. “I hate this house! I want to go home!”
“That house, Mom and Dad’s house, is not your home anymore.”
At times like this, I wonder about Matty’s psychotherapy. The doctor keeps saying it’ll take time, but really, he hates being in those sessions—and I’ve been feeling like a cruel brother forcing him to attend, week after week. But remembering Dad’s schizophrenia, I have hopes that intervention will bring Matty back to how he was before the accident.
My brother screams even louder, and I let him vent.
But he collapses and starts convulsing on the floor.
“Matty! Matty!” I cage him in my embrace. “Calm down, please.”
His eyes flip back as tears run down his face. The first time I saw him like this was when we left the hospital. He could barely handle the fifteen-minute ride in my car. When we arrived home, he was burning up and hysterical, and I almost took him back to the hospital.
“Matty, I’m sorry.” I slump on the floor. As if I’ve been rolled by a perfect storm, I’m dragged into deep water—so deep, I have no chance of resurfacing.
The hopeless situation sees my grief for Mom escalate. I even grieve for Dad. Much as I hated him for being a sick man, my world isn’t the same without him. I wish their house was still their house. I wish Matty could go home.
I squeeze wretched energy out of my body. Fuck, my head is so sore from restraining myself from crying. But I’m his big brother, for God’s sake! I’ve got to pull myself together, stand tall, and face up to this. Even though it’s more than I can take this morning.
Or maybe ever.
Matty stops convulsing when I rest his face on my shoulder. His sobs seep through my turtleneck, and his heart beats against my chest. I still remember the first time I felt his two-week-old hand on my fingertips. He was so tiny, but he comforted me then. The bruises from my last brawl in front of a Hollywood bar had melted into nothing, and the burden from my prolonged arguments with Dad avalanched off my shoulders.
But now that Matty is calling on me for his comfort, I’m falling apart. There will be more days like today. How am I supposed to take it? I’m just a man who deals with machines and calculations.
It might take an impossibly extraordinary woman to change my mind about love, but on the other hand, an extraordinary level of chaos might just force me to think about making the change.
I’m desperate for a helping hand.
I long for a reprieve.
I wish Amber-Rose was here.
What would I do to hear her say my name, hold my hand as she did when I cried at the blood spatter on Bjork’s belly?
What would I do to have her cover me with her blanket again?
Even just hearing her say ‘Bjork, Finn and Ursina’ would make me really happy right now.
Feeling Matty soften, I pull him away from my shoulder. His eyes stare at me blankly.
“Matty, talk to me.”
It takes a few moments, but he finally murmurs, “Rob…”
“Yes, Matty?”
“Please don’t cry. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“No, you didn’t.” I gulp as I try to control my teary eyes resulting from the migraine. Everything looks so bright, yet so black.
Matty sits on my lap as I lean back against his bed’s sideboard. The boy asks, “You miss Mom and Dad?”
