Marnie escorts Jacque out. I overhear her greeting Vance. “Hey, Irving. That’s your dad in there, right?” My brother must nod, because she says, “I’m really sorry. Let me know if I can do anything. I’m volunteering here for senior project, and today I’ll be here till nine. So, if, like, your dad needs a blanket or if you want a soda…let me know.”
“Thanks, Beaufort. This whole thing blows,” he says.
She exhales loudly. “I can’t even imagine. But everyone at school is thinking about you guys, even the teachers.”
Their exchange is so natural, so easy. There are no bumpy parts, no uncomfortable silences. Confidence talking to Confidence. I’m jealous of how easy Vance’s world is. Maybe emotionally skating above the surface simplifies things.
Regardless, Vance is still Vance, and I can tell he doesn’t want to continue talking to her. She must not be on his hottie list. This part of his personality is so transparent to me, so crystal clear, the way he instantly compartmentalizes people into his predetermined categories. And if you don’t fit into “buddy” or “someone he wants to have sex with,” well, you are completely out of luck. You pretty much don’t matter at all.
Brothers should matter to each other. Sons should matter to fathers. It’s just how it’s supposed to be. Even animals protect their young. I can’t say that my mother truly understood me, but I knew she loved me and that was enough. She looked me in the eye and tried to figure out what was going on inside my heart. I always showed her my drawings, and she’d tell me I had a gift, that I should never stop capturing what I see on paper. Her words of encouragement never felt forced or fake. They were genuine and loving. They were music to my ears.
I sketched her the day before the accident. She was on the phone complaining about my dad to my aunt Renee. She had no idea I was drawing her. She cried when I showed it to her and hugged me for the longest time. She said I’d somehow managed to show her broken heart through her eyes. I’d only drawn what I saw. I had no idea that I’d done something so profound, so important for an artist.
I’d captured loneliness.
Long after her death, I concluded that loneliness was what connected me to my mother. We shared that hollow feeling, and she knew it.
My father linked on a guttural level with Vance. They spoke the same language, liked doing the same things, laughed at each other’s jokes. I remember being on the baseball field, playing outfield, while my family sat just on the other side of the fence, watching. The ball was hit in my direction, but I didn’t realize it because I was picking the grass and throwing it in the air and watching it cascade to the ground, so happy, so free. I wasn’t paying attention. My head was not in the game, despite the countless catcalls coming from my father and brother.
Apparently, if I had caught that ball, my team wouldn’t have lost. But I didn’t catch the ball. It hit me on the forehead, so hard that I was knocked unconscious. I awoke to my father’s voice. He was asking if I was all right, but it sounded more like he had to ask than like he really cared. There were people watching—the benches had emptied, and now everyone was huddled around me.
The look on my father’s face, the not-so-hidden scorn, was so crystal clear to the eight-year-old me.
I couldn’t control my tears, which repulsed my brother. He said in front of everyone, “Stop crying, Oscar! It’s your fault anyway.” I knew he was trying to impress Dad. As usual.
My Little League career ended that season. So did me ever having a chance of receiving respect from my father and brother.
I think my fear of happiness sprouted during this time. Everything that brought me enjoyment made Dad and Vance angry. Being me seemed to irk them. So I did the only thing that felt normal: I retreated.
A little kid can only be scrutinized so many times by the two most important males in his life before things register in his brain, before he stops looking for acceptance. Before he stops expecting love and happiness.
Isolating myself obviously followed me into school. I know what people think about me there, people like Jacque. They think I’m quiet and weird and all wonder how I’m related to superstar Vance. No one messes with me, but no one makes an effort to hang out with me either. It’s handy that I like being alone.
It didn’t used to always be like this, the solitary thing. In elementary school, my brother’s best friend, Stephen, used to include me whenever he was over at our house playing. Vance would eventually stop complaining and just let me play. He was never nice about it. It was more like he tolerated me to shut Stephen up. But when the three of us were laughing or racing or playing catch, I knew my brother and I were having fun. Together. I’d allow myself snippets of believing that Vance really wanted to play with me, that he did love me.
Everything changed once Vance and Stephen started middle school. It was like a switch got flipped. Vance nicknamed Stephen “Growler” because of some noise he made when he took his lacrosse shot. Growler wasn’t mean to me or anything, but he stopped bugging Vance to include me.
It was the perfect recipe for me to duck and cover. I’ve been in that stance ever since.
Anyway, Jacque’s popular. Her name is always mentioned on the announcements when they talk about softball. She obviously knows my brother, and she probably likes him. All the popular girls do. I wish I could warn them, tell them that he doesn’t flush the toilet after using it, just so I’ll find what he left. That he used to cry when he lost lacrosse games when he was little. That his room smells like rotten eggs and feet.
That he doesn’t care, nor will he ever care, for anyone but himself.
But I don’t because that’s just not the kind of human being I am.
Vance enters my father’s room. “Still four breaths?”
I look back to my father. “Yes.” The sun is nearly down now, filling the room with streaks of marigold. “They did that radical change while we were out. I hate watching it, so I’m glad we weren’t in here.” I don’t like the rag doll–ness of my father’s body, the way his arms flap, the way his head has to be held so it doesn’t roll around. He is everything he hated. My father is helpless.
Deep down, I feel a sudden spark of “serves him right.” I turn away and try to squash it. It’s too evil.