Half of Connor’s life had happened after his little brother disappeared. Jaxon was as much myth as memory, snippets of images. Birthday cakes. Shared toys. Sibling fights. Fleeting visions that felt more like dream than reality.
The boy in the bed didn’t match those visions. He didn’t seem like Jaxon at all. If the sheriff and his mother hadn’t told him, Connor would have assumed he was nothing but a stranger.
Too timid to interfere after entering the cubicle, Connor stood with his back against the curtain, watching his mother and younger brother. Heather sobbed uncontrollably with joy in one moment then paced around the room, jabbering nonsensically in the next. But no matter how much she moved and what she said, Jaxon lay still—a cheerless, bony shadow with his arms around his mother’s neck when she sat beside him. His eyes darted around the room like a wild, trapped animal when she paced.
Connor wondered how the boy had lost the vibrancy, the giggle, the gleam of a kid who had delighted in both antagonizing and worshiping his older brother, sneaking around their shared room and absconding with his toys. Back then, he had bubbled with laughter at the silliest things—a fart joke, burping the alphabet, blowing bubbles in cereal milk. This joyless boy didn’t seem to know how to laugh at all.
Connor’s memories were of their similarities, how much they liked each other, and how often they hung around together. But he was suddenly confronted with all of their differences. His own hair was a reddish-brown, unmanageable mop that never responded well to brushes and combs, not something anyone wanted to run their fingers through to relish its silkiness. Heather brushed Jaxon’s thick hair out of his eyes and tucked it behind his ears. Even dirty and matted, it hinted at its lushness.
The laughing little boy of the past had smooth, lightly tanned skin that highlighted his constant smile, unlike his older brother’s freckled white face. Jaxon probably would never have the pimples that Connor had fought since the beginning of puberty. His skin had turned pale and cracked from the cold and wind. A scar rippled across the cheek, masking the angelic face from the past.
But mostly, Connor realized, it was the eyes that had changed. He couldn’t count the number of times he had stared at his own brown eyes in a mirror, wishing he had Jaxon’s twinkling blues, which sparkled with mischief. So many people had remarked about how stunning his eyes were. But they had been replaced with dull gray, washed-out shadows of the past—eyes that spoke of defeat, loss, and grief.
In that moment, he understood how much he had been bottling up over the years, pretending they had been perfectly matched siblings. He hadn’t wanted to admit how much they competed with each other. Jaxon was smart, reading before he was in kindergarten. He blinked those baby blues and twinkled a smile, and adults smiled back. He made friends quickly and easily, no matter where they went.
Connor had always felt less sure of himself, hesitant in social settings, and slower to make friends. School was drudgery and homework a chore. He never liked reading assignments and hated making presentations in class. He acted out and played the role of class clown to hide his insecurities.
And, truth be told, he hadn’t left Jaxon alone that morning because he wanted to be with his friends. They hadn’t threatened to leave if they had to hang around the younger boy, a story he had told dozens of times. They liked Jaxon, thought he was cool “for a little kid.” Connor had ridden off with them because he wanted to shed himself of his brother, if only for a while.
Blame for the tragedy of that day could only be placed in one spot, Connor knew—on himself. On a selfish kid who wanted to ride bikes with his friends more than he wanted to babysit his little brother. On the impatient kid who couldn’t wait for his father to show up—if he ever did—and take them to the park. On the scared little kid who took hours to admit to his mother he had returned to find the swing set empty, Jaxon’s bicycle leaning against the tree right where he had left it.
If only I had stayed with him that day. Then I would have my little brother and not this stranger in a hospital bed.
Nurse Sheila, dabbing her own eyes with a tissue as she watched the mother-son interaction, glanced toward Connor. Jaxon followed her gaze and stiffened at the sight of the older boy. Heather smiled through her tears. “Oh, Jaxon, honey, I’m sorry. It’s been so long, and I never really thought… I know lots of changes have happened, but that’s your brother.”
With wary eyes, Jaxon scanned the young man from feet to head, sizing him up. He whispered in a hoarse voice, “Connor?”
The voice was deeper, rougher than the higher-pitched little boy’s voice Connor remembered. He heard himself whimper, a choked sound hinting of the tears he fought so hard to contain. “Yeah, Jax, it’s me.”
“You’re…” Jaxon looked at Heather then back to his brother. “You’re bigger than I thought.”
The words stabbed. He had been inventorying all of the changes in his sibling without thinking of how strange he must seem to Jaxon. The last time they had seen each other, Connor had been a foot-and-a-half shorter and half his weight. He tried to smile but failed and choked on his words instead. “Yeah… You’ve changed too, lil’ bro.”
Jaxon lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. He muttered as if he was talking to an apparition floating above his head. “I don’t know what’s real.”
Confused, Connor took a hesitant step forward. “What do you mean? This is real.”
“No, not now. The past.” Jaxon closed his eyes. “We told each other stories. About our families. About things we did.”
“We? You mean me and you?”
“No.” Jaxon’s raspy breathing was the only sound in the room. “Back there. The others. Stories helped pass the time. Families. Big brothers. It’s what we always talked about.”
Connor’s limbs went numb, and he sat down hard in a plastic visitor’s chair. He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know which stories are real and which are made up. They’re so much… they’re just stories in my head.”
Connor’s hands trembled in his lap. “Tell me some. I will let you know which ones are real.”
Jaxon ran a tongue along his lips, looking like he was arguing with himself. He swallowed, the clack audible in the quiet of the room. His eyes remained focused on the overhead lights. “Flying kites. Racing bikes. Pillow fights. Swimming in a creek.”
Connor answered, his voice little more than a whisper. “We did all those things.”
“Things are so hazy. Like dreams.” His breath wheezed in and out. “Like maybe I never did those things at all but only heard about them.”
Connor dragged his shirtsleeve across his face, clearing his eyes so he could focus. He scooted the chair closer to the bed and reached his hand out, their fingertips brushing. “I’ll help you remember. Everything.”
Jaxon’s hand trembled, quivering against Connor’s touch. His fingers recoiled and then, after a pause, stretched and interlaced with his older brother’s. “I’d like that. I want the stories to be real.”
Grasping his brother’s hand, Connor fought the flood of memories as they reappeared one by one. He hadn’t been traumatized like Jaxon had, and yet he struggled to piece everything together. He wanted to help his brother get back to normal, but first he had to confess. “That day… My friends… I left you alone… I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah. I wish you hadn’t.” His gaze lowered from the ceiling and locked onto his brother’s as a faint smile crossed his face. “Long time ago, though, Con.”
“Yeah, long time ago.” They sat there, holding hands, hearing only the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. Connor leaned back in the chair, his brother’s bony fingers resting in his own hand. He hadn’t allowed himself to dream they might ever touch again, but it had happened. No matter how different things were, he felt complete for the first time in a long time. “Welcome home, Jax.”
Jaxon’s eyes flicked between his visitors. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His mouth slowly closed again, and he chewed on his chapped lips. He lay back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and whispered, the word coming out more a question than a statement, “Home?”