It took a while before I understood that the sound I heard was someone pounding on my front door. I dragged myself away from the mirror and over to the peephole. My foot and one leg were both tingly and numb from falling asleep so I more hobbled than walked.
It was Bobby. I unlocked the door and turned, crossing the room to my bedroom where I plopped face down on my bed.
Then, Bobby’s hand was on my hair, smoothing it down. It was what finally brought me to tears. I didn’t look up, but shook, sobbing until not only my pillow, but the mattress around it was wet. I don’t know how long I cried, but when I was finally done, I sat up. Bobby handed me a wad of toilet paper and I loudly blew my nose.
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, Gia.” He was dressed in faded jeans and a soft worn T-shirt. He smelled so good that I buried my face in his chest for a few seconds. There was something there, nagging at me, something just below the surface, as if I had forgotten something important. I didn’t know what it was. I sniffled and pulled back from Bobby.
“I always thought it would be a relief to have Christopher out of my life. I never thought I would cry over him. I never liked him. I loved him, but didn’t like him. My dad always told me that was okay—that you had to love everyone, but didn’t have to like them or how they acted.”
Bobby patted my back. As I sat there, I realized that maybe the truth was that I was grieving for all of them—my mother and father and Christopher. Christopher had been the only one who understood what it felt like to lose our parents. He was my last connection—the only one who could truly understand my loss.
Bobby didn’t try to talk, which I appreciated. Instead, he looked at me intensely and listened, nodding.
“It sounds horrible to say,” I went on, “but in a way, I’m glad my mother died first because Christopher’s death would have been unbearable to her. She loved him despite who and what he was.”
He was her favorite. I never understood it. When I was little I tried to make her eyes light up the way they did when she looked at him, but it was never the same. She would laugh at the silly things he did and when I did the exact same things, she would barely smile. I could never compete with him. Finally, I just grew to accept it and turned to my dad for the love I wanted. And my dad loved me as much as any little girl ever was loved by her father, but it still never took away the pain I had realizing my mother would never love me like she loved Christopher.
I told Bobby all of this.
Finally, after it grew dark he let go of my hand and headed toward my galley kitchen.
“Have you had anything to eat?” He poked his head around the corner.
I shook my head.
“Are you hungry?”
I shook my head again.
“Jesus,” he said from the kitchen. “Don’t you have any food in this house? I thought you were Italian.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Silence.
“I bet you were shocked that I wasn’t making pasta by hand and listening to opera when you arrived. And oh, yeah, I forgot, my Virgin Mary statue is out on the balcony in case you missed it.”
My voice caught on a sob. I closed my eyes.
Bobby was at my side on the couch, holding me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stereotype. I’m a buffoon.”
“It’s not that.”
“I know,” he said softly.
And then I said it, even though it made me sound like a monster. “What hurts the most is that my mother loved Christopher more than me and he was a sociopath. He didn’t deserve a love like hers. He didn’t deserve to be loved more than me.”
There it was. Out in the open — the wound that would never heal.
Bobby didn’t say anything, just held me.
Finally, my body stopped quaking. As I drifted off to sleep, a memory flooded back to me.
When Christopher lived in Argentina, he usually came home for Christmas. He spent most of the time in his room with headphones on listening to death metal.
He ignored me unless he was trying to bum money. Then he would lay on the charm thickly, the persona that he usually reserved for other girls. I knew he hated me and yet he made me feel like I was the coolest, most beautiful sister in the world. I realized then how dangerous he was.
One Christmas, at the last minute, my father was called away to business in Switzerland. My mother decided to rent a cabin on the snowy banks of Lake Tahoe. It was going to be a “field trip.” When we were little and our father traveled, my mother often took us on educational “field trips.” We would visit the Redwood Forest or go whale watching in Baja California or hot air ballooning in the Southwest. My mother’s sense of adventure was always infectious. But the field trips had stopped when Christopher was sent to boarding camp.
That Christmas Eve in our small cabin at Tahoe we were on top of one another. A snowstorm most of the day kept us indoors. But around ten, the snow stopped and the skies cleared. My mother and brother were reading so I decided to go exploring down by the lake. The full moon lit up the area and made the snowy landscape seem magical. My mother made a worried face but I told her I’d be fine. Christopher didn’t look up from his book.
The lakeshore was magical. Everything sparkled in the moonlight.
It was cold enough for my breath to puff out in front of me, but I was dressed warmly with my down coat, thick scarf, hat and mittens.
I ventured out onto the dock that normally held ski and fishing boats. There was a bench at the end and I wanted to sit there and gaze at the beauty around me.
About halfway to the bench, the wood of the deck gave out and I plunged into icy cold water, going completely under. My clothes were instantly waterlogged and my vision nothing but black. I struggled to break the surface but when I came up my head smacked into the bottom wooden dock. Dazed and panicking, I flailed, running out of breath, desperate for air and light.
I knew distantly that the dock wasn’t that big that if I moved around some I would be sure to come out from under it, but the blow to the head had disoriented me. My limbs began to feel heavy and I felt myself slowly sinking until my feet touched something slimy.
At that moment, I was yanked hard and the next thing I know Christopher had flung me onto the dock. I was coughing and choking but breathing. I snuck a look at him, he was leaning over coughing and soaking wet, too.
He looked over at me and I saw something there I’d never seen before. Terror.
My brother had been worried about me. Frightened. For a brief second, I could’ve sworn he actually cared about me. Maybe even loved me. But then he turned his back and was gone, off the dock and up the hill to the cabin, not even waiting to see if I was behind him.
I got up and stumbled behind him. A few seconds later, my mother had flung open the door and ran to me, helping me up the hill. She put me in a warm bath and then to bed under a heap of old smelly quilts.
Christopher stayed in his room the rest of the night. In the morning, his car was gone. He’d already headed back to the Monterey Peninsula. When we got back the next day, he’d left a note for my mother saying he’d returned to Argentina early.
The next time I saw him he had come home for our parent’s funeral.
He left right after the mass.
A week later, I followed suit, packing up and moving to San Francisco.
I woke alone the next morning on the couch, my neck stiff, smelling like something had died. I dragged myself into the shower. Bobby had left a note saying something about hitting Starbucks because he didn’t really feel like drinking the beer in my frig for breakfast. He put a little smiley face by his name.
After my shower, I tugged on some yoga pants, a soft T-shirt and wrapped an old, warm cashmere sweater around me. I felt like I needed my blankie with me in the world today. I didn’t bother with makeup. Nothing could disguise the circles under my eyes on this day.
When Bobby returned with almond croissants and lattes, he also had the Chronicle with him. We sat at my little café table on my balcony overlooking the Bay, munching, drinking coffee, and reading the paper. We didn’t talk much. I had talked enough the night before for a lifetime. I kept sneaking glances at Bobby. His brow furrowed as he concentrated on what he was reading. It was cute. And too comfortable. Too normal having him there. I’d have to make an excuse for him to go.