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Cranbrook, October 24
7:49 a.m.
I remember the tragedy of July 29, 1984.
It was a tank-top-and-shorts kind of day. Dazzling sun. Soothing breeze. Wispy layers of clouds banked along the edge of the sky.
Joshua and I were taking turns swinging on the tree swing our father had built for us a month earlier. He’d climbed the massive oak tree in the backyard and tied a thick length of rope to a sturdy branch twenty-five feet above the ground. He made the seat from a block of cedar and engraved the words Up & Away on the front side.
We never sat on the seat. We tried, but the rope pressing into our balls was just too uncomfortable. Instead, we used the seat to stand on and swing like Tarzan.
On this particular day, we were trying to outdo one another by seeing who could get highest in the air. Our mother had already come out to warn us twice. Each time, we’d obey and wait for her to disappear back into the house before we’d start at it again.
Pushing hard, Joshua had an amazing swing going. He went back and forth like a pendulum, each sweep of the arc taking him higher. He was reaching that cloud-duster height where the rope was almost horizontal to the ground.
Then disaster struck.
To this day, I don’t know if his foot slipped off the seat or he lost his grip on the rope, but Joshua fell right at the peak of the swing.
I watched his body sail through the air. It made a chilling thud as it landed near the back fence thirty feet away.
I ran over. Joshua lay on his right side, arm bent at an awkward angle beneath his body. His eyes and mouth were open. I heard a wet gurgling sound coming from his throat.
“Joshua,” I said. “You okay?”
He rolled his eyes toward me, and I could see a harsh awareness, a certain dread. I waited for him to wink, or smile, or burst into laughter because he’d pulled a good one over on me. But it never happened like that.
“Joshua?” I repeated.
His eyes dropped away, staring off into the grass. I no longer heard the gurgling, only the sound of the swing as the rope rubbed the bark on the tree limb.
I crouched beside him and poked his shoulder. “Joshua.”
He never responded.
“Oh my God...”
I jerked my hand back.
“What did you do?”
I spun around.
Mom ran from the house, dropping to her knees next to Joshua. She saw his face and cried out.
“I’m here, baby,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
She shot me a venomous look. “What did you do, you little monster?”
“Nothing,” I said. “He fell.”
“I told you boys not to swing so high. Didn’t I?”
“Ruth—what is it?”
Mom blinked. Dressed in his work clothes, Dad called from the back porch.
“It’s Joshua. He’s hurt.”
Dad came running over. “What happened?”
“He fell off the swing. He’s not moving. I think his arm is broken.”
Dad bent to Joshua. “His eyes are open. Joshua. Joshua.”
Mom began keening, a thin cry of fear.
“Call a fucking ambulance,” Dad yelled.
As Mom ran to the house, Dad knelt beside Joshua and threw himself across his small frame. It was the first time I heard him cry. He let out a piercing scream like that of a wounded animal.
He knew what I didn’t—Joshua was dead.
My brother.
My twin.
Nine years old.
I remember an article I read a couple of years ago about womb twin survivors. The medical world presumed the fetal brain during the first trimester wasn’t developed enough to have any consciousness. Some researchers now believe that might not be the case at all. They claim when a twin dies in the womb, even during that first trimester, the other twin knows. Others believe it’s more body than brain. The body feels the loss, the abandonment.
Womb twin survivors carry the loss with them to the outside. They grow up feeling something is missing from their lives, something that used to be there but no longer is. I wonder if it’s like the phantom limb. You cut off a man’s arm or leg, and he can still feel it, even though it isn’t there.
In a weird way, that’s similar to how I felt when Joshua died. I could still feel him there, a part of me. Every time I looked into a mirror, I saw him again. He smiled when I smiled. Made silly faces back when I made them at him. And in my young imagination, Joshua lived on with me.
But then I didn’t fully grasp the concept of death. The finality of it. Only when I got older did I realize what a truly heartbreaking tragedy it was.
In retrospect, Dad never considered the safety issue of having a swing that long. Ten, twelve feet would’ve sufficed. Not twenty-five. Not for two nine-year-old boys who didn’t comprehend the danger. The longer the swing, the higher it will go.
My relationship with my parents deteriorated over the years. I often wondered if they’d secretly wished I had fallen from the swing that day, especially Mom. The names she’d call me—evil, dangerous, the devil, a monster. She knew what I was long before I realized it.
When I went off to business college, I never returned home. I haven’t spoken to Mom and Dad in fifteen years. I imagine they’re still alive. Probably still living in Almonte, in that old brick house on Wesley Street.
I’ve been thinking about Joshua a lot lately. Where would he be in his life right now? Married? Kids? Have a decent career? What about us? Would we have a good relationship?
These are my last few hours in British Columbia. I don’t know when I’ll be back here again. Depends if another company out this way needs my help.
I get up and move to the window overlooking the bird sanctuary. I’m welcomed by a brilliant sunrise. A sliver of light traces the horizon and infuses the clouds overhead with beautiful red and orange hues. Elizabeth Lake is a mirror that reflects the colors, the mountains, and the reeds.
I watch a flock of ducks flying in perfect V-formation. They head south and eventually disappear from my sight.
I check the time: 8:08. My flight leaves for Calgary at 12:10. I’m not looking forward to the twin-engine jobbie I’ll be flying in. Even with a small amount of turbulence, it bobs around like a cork. Good thing the trip takes less than an hour. Any longer, and I’d have to fill up on Gravol.
From Calgary, I’ll connect with my main flight back to Hamilton. I estimate I’ll be home by eight tonight.
I wonder about Heidi, if her attitude has improved since I came out to Cranbrook. Every night I called home, she just put the girls on the phone. She never spoke to me.
I bought Jade and Jaleesa a pair of suede moccasins last night. They’re native-made, with beaded flower designs on the tops. I don’t know if the girls will like them.
I just won’t mention they’re trimmed with rabbit fur.
