It’s quiet while we eat, neither of us knowing exactly what to say. Mom is smiling, but it’s tired. The dark spots beneath her eyes are sunken. She looks like she’s aged ten years just in the past few months.
“I talked to Davis last night.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. We hung out for a while before he kicked me out. Had a pretty good time until I made the mistake of asking him if he’s okay.”
Mom cringes. “He’s going through a rough patch, but he’ll get better. The doctor said he might experience lows like this for a few weeks or even months while his body and brain are getting used to the withdrawals.” Her voice is strained, eyes filling with tears as she speaks. I don’t miss the way her shoulders shake with the effort of holding it all back.
I move over next to her and pull her in for a hug. She doesn’t sink into me and let me comfort her, instead patting my back and wiping her eyes before sitting up straight again like she didn’t almost break down. I’m not sure how I feel about that. On one hand, I want to be here for her and take some of the pressure off. On the other, I’ve seen her break once before and it still haunts me. Even though I’m an adult now, I’m not sure I can stand to see her like that. It’s selfish, I know.
Mom has to go to work for a few hours, so I clean up after breakfast and then head outside to check the patch job on the roof again and tighten a few screws on the loose porch railing. I do as much as I can to help around the house, but I know it’s just little things. Things that make me feel like I’m helping even if I’m not solving anything real.
Davis doesn’t leave his room all day, or at least not when I’m around to see it. The breakfast Mom left him goes untouched, but I notice the crackers from the plate I leave him at lunch disappear. He doesn’t even come out when Mom arrives home with groceries. I help her carry them in and make a show out of turning up some music and singing and dancing while we cook dinner together, the way we used to when we were little.
He finally emerges for dinner, but barely picks at his food and doesn’t contribute much to the conversation. It’s clear he’s trying though, so I try to appreciate that for what it is. Mom and I try to convince him to watch a movie with us, but he says he’s tired and goes back to his room.
Later that night, I wake to a sound that scares the hell out of me.
From down the hall, I can hear gagging. Or choking. A desperate, helpless sound that I can’t decide is due to illness or despair, or both.
I bolt down the hall and push Davis’ door open. He’s in bed, curled on his side, sweaty hair plastered to his face, trembling like he’s freezing. His breath comes in short, panicked bursts. I’m not even sure if he’s fully awake.
I sit on the edge of the bed and gather him against me, lifting him halfway onto my chest. He shivers, a violent tremor that I feel in my own bones.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, brushing his hair back. “I’m here.”
His whole body jerks, and a groan tears out of him—low, raw, and so painful it breaks something inside me. I hold him tighter, noticing how small he feels in my arms.
My big brother. The man who sat on the sidelines of every one of my high school wrestling meets and practices, who took more than his fair brunt of the bullying in school. Whose wild antics used to both worry and amuse me. The man who hid his pain under so many layers, we never knew how bad his drinking had gotten. We had no idea he’d resorted to harder things when weed and alcohol didn’t help numb the hurt he’d been covering for so long.
Now I’m holding him like he’s made of glass while he sobs and dry heaves.
Once the worst of it has passed, I’m afraid he’s going to kick me out again, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets me curl up next to him like we did when we were kids after Dad died.
I stay awake for hours after he finally drifts off, just listening to his breathing. Trying not to cry every time he groans or whimpers in his sleep. Trying not to cling harder, knowing he’s drowning inside his own skin, and all I can do is keep him afloat for another night.
I should have stayed. It wasn’t enough to transfer to a closer school. I should be here for him. For both of them.
Eventually I fall into a restless sleep, waking several times throughout the night. When I wake up again to daylight peeking around the edges of the blackout curtains, Davis isn’t next to me. I’m pleasantly surprised to hear the shower running, and since Mom is in the living room, it must be him.
“Mom, we need to talk?—”
“Don’t,” she says, stopping me in my tracks. “I know what you’re going to say. And don’t. Don’t do it. He won’t forgive himself if you do it. It’ll just make things worse.”
“I can take a semester off, help take care of things here, and go back when things are better.”
She’s not having any of it. “Absolutely not. I forbid it. And before you say that you’re a grown adult and can do what you want, think it through. You’ll lose your scholarship, your place on the team. And take it from someone who knows, it’s harder to go back than you realize. All the hard work you’ve done to get this far will all be for nothing.”
“I hate that I’ve left you both here alone to deal with everything,” I say, eyes growing hot. “I should be here helping.”
“You do help, Brody. So much more than you know. More than you should, when what you should be doing is experiencing the world and enjoying your college years, not taking care of us.” She sighs. “I really mean it though, don’t let him hear you talk about coming back. He’s already messed up about you moving to Huntston.”
“He is?”
“He was up early this morning. He told me about the Jamison boy.”
I curse under my breath. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
