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“He died for nothing. I don't think she ever loved him.” I lean against the wall outside of my brother's room. I dare not say these words within his earshot. Even though he can't hear me, I'm sure it would still hurt somehow.
After I managed to pull myself together in the private room that Doctor Arocha took us to, I went to the front desk to ask if Sheri had been informed about the incident. The nurse told me that Doctor Arocha had talked to Sheri and she wasn't coming. I was in complete disbelief. Surely, things weren't so bad between them that she didn't even care that he pretty much committed suicide over their divorce.
Wanting to be sensitive, I convinced myself that there must be some mistake. I got Sheri's contact information from the nurse at the front desk and called her myself. She answered with the same coldness that she'd always shown me. And when I gently told her about Roscoe, she informed me that she already knew and could not care less that he was dying.
That's when I went off.
If it rained hundreds every time the word cunt came out of someone's mouth, I'd be buried in them. Hospital staff had to come calm me down because I was causing such a scene. I was still yelling into the phone long after Sheri hung up on me. Then when Cindy wrenched it out of my hand, I fell into another sobbing fit. Anger usurped the grief I was feeling, and I convinced myself that as soon as I took care of the business with my brother and left the hospital, I was going to fly straight to Texas and slit the bitch's throat myself.
Cindy spent about twenty minutes calming me down from that ragefit. We sat in the waiting room while I rocked back and forth and she told me over and over again that I needed to focus on my brother right now. Dealing with Sheri could wait. I spewed threats until I ran out of them—seethed until it felt like I had a fever from being so hot.
In hindsight, I think I was more trying to avoid this moment than anything else. Yes, the anger I was feeling was real, but I shouldn't have been able to sustain it at that level for as long as I did.
“We don't know what happened between then,” Cindy tells me as if she has any fucking clue what kind of a worthless piece of shit Sheri is. She's the only one here offering me support right now, though, so I dare not lash out at her.
“Maybe it's better this way.” I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. “I don't need her around making things more stressful.”
Ever since Doctor Arocha gave me the news about Roscoe's condition, I've been in a state of shock. This all feels like a nightmare that I'm going to wake up from. I've pinched myself several times to no avail. I just can't seem to accept that it's real, though. I can't seem to accept that on the other side of this door is the shell of my brother. A body that's breathing but a mind that's not there.
Though I could certainly stand prolonging this moment, Roscoe wouldn't want that. Even if I hoped with everything in me, he's not going to wake up. It's better if I lay his soul to rest by saying my peace and allowing the hospital staff to do their job. Thinking about it hurts almost more than I can bear, but I know that it's the right thing to do.
I take a deep breath and push myself off of the wall. “I think I'm ready.”
“I'll come with you.” Cindy flanks my side to rub my back.
“No. I've got this.” I wipe the tear gathering on my lower lash. “I need to do this alone.”
“Are you sure?” She bends her head slightly to catch my gaze.
“Yeah.” I force the weakest smile I can manage. “I'm sure.”
“I'll be out here if you need me. I'm not going anywhere, Raven.”
I step into her arms for a tight embrace. “Thank you, Cindy. This means everything to me. It really does. You're just...you've been amazing.”
“Oh, sweetie. You don't need to thank me at all. That's what friends are for.” When she pulls away from me, her eyes glimmer with tears. As my gaze sweeps over her face, the thought comes to me that now she really is the closest thing I have to family. Knowing that causes a hard lump to form in my throat. I instantly want to cry again, but I hold back, turning from her to enter my brother's room. If I keep falling apart, I'll never get through this.
Every sound seems amplified as I step out of the hospital hallway and into the small private room where my brother is being kept. Just the sight of him causes the floodgates to open again, though I don't burst out into full sobs. He's lying peacefully on his back with white bandages wrapped around his head and so many tubes coming out of him that he looks more like a damaged marionette than a human being.
I draw my hands to my lips to hold back the tiny gasp and mewling sounds that want to come out. As soon as the door closes behind me, I simply stand next to it, my body refusing to proceed further into the room. It's like I'm watching a false reality. A memory flashes through my mind of when I was a child and Roscoe was entertaining me by playing cops and robbers. I shot him with my finger gun, and he lumped over onto the floor. It took a few minutes of me crawling on him and shaking him before he opened his eyes again. Part of me wonders if I shake him this time if he'll open his eyes—if he's just playing dead. I know that's not realistic, though. Back then, we were pretending. This is real life. The gun he fired was real—had a real bullet. I might as well have fired it myself.
Guilt cripples me as I remember our last conversation. I had known something was different. I had seen the desperation in his eyes—heard it in his voice. Why did I have to be so stubborn? Why couldn't I have just forgiven him?
“I'm sorry, Roscoe,” are the first words that fall from my lips. Then I repeat the apology at least half a dozen times before I'm able to take my first step towards him.
Each step reveals more of the damage. The dark circles under his eyes. The spot on the right side of his head where he's bled through the bandages a little. Briefly, I think about calling a nurse in to change them. What's the point, though? He's already dead. Changing the bandages won't do any good for anyone.
I grab one of the chairs lining the wall and pull it up next to Roscoe's hospital bed. Then I take his hand and lower myself into it. His extremities are cold, a reminder that he's already lost. Each beep of the machines is a lie.
“This is all my fault,” I mutter before collapsing forward and resting my head against his arm. “If I had just let you in. If I had just talked to you...”
I wait to feel him stroke my hair. To hear the sound of his voice. I wait for what feels like forever. None of that happens, though.
When I lift my head up, he's still lying there unmoving. He's just still. The only sign of life is his chest slowly rising and falling with the help of the respirator.
“I have been a horrible sister. The worst.” I use my free hand to wipe a strand of hair away from my face that's been plastered there by tears. “You needed me, and I wasn't there.
“You were right, you know. You always have been weaker than me. You couldn't walk away from a bad thing. You let it consume you and rule you.
“I should have seen how weak you were from a mile away. Maybe I couldn't because of the way you handled our parents' deaths. Not the inheritance.” I wave that part away. “I'm talking about how you never came to me when they died. I mean, we did mourn together, but not like we should have. You were too wrapped up with Sheri because you were weak.”
I let out a strained laugh. “Mom and Dad used to say that she would be the death of you. I always agreed with them. At the base of things, we were all right. But she wasn't the straw that broke your back. It was me...
“I'll live with this regret for the rest of my life. You have no idea how badly you've damaged me.” I hold my face in my hands, trying to ward off my anger at the situation. So many confusing emotions are going through me. I'll definitely need to speak with the grief counselor when this is all over to get stabilized again.
“This world sucks, Roscoe. Every adult on the face of the planet knows it. But you don't go and kill yourself because you're handed a few bad cards. The amazing thing about life is that it can get better. But if you end your life, you never have a chance to see that.
“I wish you had understood that. I wish you had been able to see past everything that bitch put you through. I wish you would have known that I wasn't the only one who could help you.
“There are other people out there. People who are ready to care about you. You just didn't know them yet.” I think about my relationship with Cindy.
“I suppose it's too late for that now, though. What's done is done. I wasn't there for you, and this is the result.” I gesture to his limp body. “This was the choice that you made. And while I understand why you felt it was the right one...” my words evaporate like a dried up well.
There's nothing left to be said. Nothing that I say can change things—can make this right—can bring him back. He's gone, and for as much as it pains me, I know that I have to let him go.
I sit there in the dimly lit room, rubbing warmth back into his fingers. My mind wanders as I postpone the inevitable. Every once in a while, my eyes flicker to his face, praying for signs of life. There are none, though. Doctor Arocha's words replay in my mind. I know that Roscoe is gone. Maybe he's been gone since he pulled the trigger.
I stand finally, but my heart stays on the floor. Even though it's one of the worst moments of my life, I wish I could stay frozen in it for all of eternity. Because in this moment, my brother is still breathing. Even if it's artificial, there's life pumping through his body. His organs are functioning. I can hear the breath leaving him. In these last few moments, he's alive.
I lean over his body and stroke his hair. Tears come back to my eyes instantly. I bend to kiss his cheeks. “I love you, Roscoe. I would have come around eventually. I wish you could have just waited for me.
“I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry that I was selfish and thought that money was the only thing that could make things right between us. I'm sorry that I made you feel like you weren't enough. In that regard, I suppose I'm no better than Sheri.
“But you were enough. You were a great brother. I know you've been a great father. You put up with Sheri's shit not only because you cared about her but also because you loved your family.
“She robbed the world of a great man. I robbed the world of a great man. And if Sheri ever lets me see my little nephews and niece, I'll tell them how great you were, because they need to know.
“I love you, brother. I wish I could have been better for you.”
I hold my breath as I press the call button to summon the nurse in. Everything in me aches as I wait for her voice to come over the intercom.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes,” I choke on my own words. “I'm ready. Please send the doctor in.”
