My mother survived that second trip to the hospital. She came home three days after I destroyed my painting. But she was not the first woman to come through our front door. Not three hours after I jammed the remains of the tattered canvas to the bottom of the can in the garage, someone else paid our family a visit. If she knew that she was actually the spark that lit the fuse, she would never have been able to live with herself.
When the doorbell rang that night, I was in my room. I assumed it was another neighbor, there to ask after my mother and shower my father with compassion. I had no interest in watching him feed on their vapid goodwill. So I remained behind my closed door.
When the bell rang a second time, though, a warning turned inside my gut. He would never keep a visitor waiting. Curious, maybe anxious, I crept out of my room and to the top of the stairs. I saw my father standing by the door, his hand on the knob. He turned and looked at me. It was like I could feel his fingers on my throat.
I took a step back. My father opened the door.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone short.
“Mr. Brennan?” a woman’s voice asked.
I inched out into the hallway, trying to get a better view.
“Yes,” my father answered.
“My name is Marci Simmons. I work for the Division of Family Services. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”
My father did not answer right away. When he did, his words were soft yet unreadable. “About what?”
“Your son,” she said. “And your wife.”
I flinched, pulling back in anticipation of his inevitable eruption. I even closed my eyes. But what happened next didn’t surprise me at all.
“Come in,” my father said.
His voice changed. I could tell even from up the stairs. It was subtle, and I’m sure Marci Simmons could not have picked up on it. But he became the man my neighbors knew. He was wounded, deeply, somewhere so deep that even he couldn’t find it. My mouth slowly opened as I listened.
“Can we sit?” he asked.
“Of course,” Marci Simmons said.
He led her into the living room. I slid down the stairs one at a time, as silently as I could.
“How is she?” I heard him ask, his words paper-thin.
“Your wife?”
“Yes. I . . . I want to go see her. It’s killing me. But . . .”
He sniffled. I almost made a sound of disbelief when I heard that. Emboldened, I moved quicker, reached the bottom, and peered around the railing. I could see him in his chair, hands covering his face. His chest heaved. He was crying.
“I just can’t see her like this. I’ve tried so hard. I’ve tried everything. Her disease is tearing our family apart. It’s leaving me so broken. I just don’t think I can fight it anymore.”
Marci Simmons did not rise from her seat. She did not rush to my father and comfort him. I think, in a very real way, I loved her for that.
“There are things we could help you with. A program here in the city. I can get her in once she’s out of the hospital.”
“She won’t go,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ve tried.”
“I spoke to her today, Mr. Brennan. I think she’s ready.”
“You did? She said she would go? Oh, God, thank you. I . . .”
His head lifted as he spoke. He turned and, midsentence, he saw me. His eyes locked on mine and I thought I might get sick. I froze. His expression remained unchanged as he stared at me.
“I don’t know what to say.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “Only . . . thank you.”
My entire body shook. I saw the tears. I heard his words. But I felt his focus on me like a pointed gun. I sensed his finger itching the trigger. I have never been so frightened in my life.
Then he turned away, back toward her. “Thank you, Ms. Simmons.”
The spell broken, I tore back up the stairs and slammed my bedroom door behind me. Then I heard my dad’s voice.
“Drew, someone is here. She’d like to speak to you.”
LATE THAT NIGHT, a soft knock sounded against my closed door. I was awake, staring at my dark ceiling. When I heard it, I gripped my sheet in a tightly closed fist and prayed that it was a dream. Maybe I had been asleep after all.
I lay in the dark, holding my breath. I willed the silence to last forever. But then I heard it again, a little louder but still tentative. I sat up, holding my breath. And my door creaked as someone opened it.
I hoped it was my mother. I had this idea that she would come into my room and sit on the edge of my bed. She might pet my head and tell me that she loved me. That’s all I really wanted. But I knew right away it wasn’t her. The shadow in my doorway was taller, stronger. So much more alive.
“Liam,” my brother whispered. “You awake?”
I felt fear in that moment. I don’t know what I thought he’d do. But my body reacted. My back pressed against the headboard. My head swiveled, as if I searched for an exit, some way to flee.
“Liam?” he repeated.
My mouth opened, although I still couldn’t say a word. His voice sounded so different. Not just soft, but tentative, like the knock. In a way, it reminded me of our mother’s. Which was weird.
After that thought, I finally answered. “Yeah.”
“Can I come in?”
My eyes narrowed but it was too dark for him to see that. “Sure.”
He walked across my room and sat on the edge of the bed. I fought the urge to slither away from him. He wasn’t too close, and he never touched me, but it was like there was a current of electricity between us, one that only I could feel.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Drew said, his voice cracking.
I couldn’t believe it. I heard an emotion in him that I’d never dreamed could exist. And it was directed at me. I fought the urge to reach out, to hug my brother.
“What?” I asked instead.
“I just . . . He makes me do it, Liam. He . . . there’s something about how he talks to me. I don’t want to, but he makes me. I like you. I really do.” Even in the darkness, I saw his head tilt a little. I felt him considering me like he might a dumb animal. Or a fellow character in some overwrought drama.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he continued. “I never want to do that. I just don’t know what to do.” He paused, like he needed to get ahold of himself. “When that lady came today, and I talked to her, I wanted to tell her. Everything. All the stuff he does to us. To Mom. But I couldn’t. I tried, Liam. I swear I tried.”
I didn’t know what to do. Or what to feel. The urge to comfort him grew stronger and stronger with each word. At the same time, some instinct deep in my gut held that in check. I felt frozen between these two opposing forces, so I stayed as still as I could.
“It’s okay,” I said, but the words sounded empty to me.
“No, it’s not. It’s going to be better. You’ll see. I’m not going to let him do it anymore. I love you, man. I do. But he told me I had to toughen you up. That’s why I treat you like I do. But I’ll do better. I’ll be stronger. I promise. I’m going to be stronger for you.” He laughed. “For my little brother.”
I couldn’t speak. There wasn’t a single word I could come up with. It was like I found myself suddenly transported back to that moment so long ago, a young Drew on his haunches, my shoelaces in his hands. Every muscle in my body seemed to tighten at once. A searing cramp started in my calves and ran up my legs, into my back. But I didn’t move. I didn’t make a sound.
In the dark, I never saw his hand. But I felt it touch the top of my head. Rub through my messy hair.
“I promise,” he whispered one last time. “But you have to do something for me first. When you talk to that lady . . .” His hand grew heavy on the top of my head. “Don’t tell her anything.”
Then Drew stood up. He walked out of my room and silently shut my door. As soon as he was gone, I started to shake. I couldn’t stop. Then the tears came. My chest rattled and I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was sob, alone and in the dark. But I couldn’t understand why.