The Only Brother

It’s the quietest I’d seen him in a long time. Granted, the last time I
had
seen him was six weeks ago, at my birthday, and he was certainly loud then. His last words were, as always, criticising something I was doing rather than being happy and encouraging. So I just walked out. Walked out on my own birthday. When I came back, he had gone home to London; so that was the last time I talked to him.

And the worst part of it was that the olds yelled at me for leaving, rather than him for mouthing off at me. ‘You should lighten up.’ ‘You need to relax.’

It was my bloody birthday, I shouldn’t have my brother slamming me for everything I do and everything I am.

I looked down at him in the hospital bed. Two blood flow tests, they said, and they’d determined that William Simmons was brain dead. The olds talked with doctors and nurses about organ donation and other arrangements. I just stared at the body and tried to say something.

‘Didn’t really hate you,’ I pushed out. ‘Just hated that everything
I
did well was expected and everything
you
did was rewarded.’

His hand was still warm; his chest moved up and down with the help of a respirator. William was calm, peaceful. He wasn’t complaining about medical problems, wasn’t struggling with everything, wasn’t angry at me and angry at the world.

William was brain dead. Two blood flow tests, reaction tests… and nothing there.

There was someone at the door.

‘Andrew? You there, boss?’ It was an American accent, New Jersey from what I know from television. Really easy one to pick up. It sounded just like that mob show.

It had to be Buzz. He was the only Chinese guy with a New Jersey accent that my brother knew. It’s what happens when you go to university in New Jersey; strange things happen, like becoming best friends with a former Buddhist monk turned Philadelphia nightclub bouncer.

‘Hey,’ I said.

Buzz stepped into the room, but not too close to me. Maybe my brother had told him about my personal space issues, maybe he could just read it. When my brother wasn’t yelling at me or telling me I was screwing up, Buzz was a big part of the conversations we’d had.

‘Namaste,’ he said, putting his hands together in front of his chest and bowing
forward a bit. ‘I wish we could have met under better circumstances.’

‘So do I,’ I tried to smile. ‘Will made you sound like a superhero.’

Buzz smiled, wide and bright. ‘Your brother really cared about you, you know?’

‘I didn’t know,’ I said.

Buzz pulled his head back a bit.

‘He never said a word like that to my face,’ I said. ‘Never acted like he cared, either.’

And then I waited for the arguments; ‘Of course he cared about you, he was your brother!’ ‘You’re just upset.’ ‘How can you say that?’ Buzz didn’t say any of those things though.

‘I’m sorry he didn’t find the words to express it in a way that you would understand,’ Buzz said.

That’s new…

‘Your parents are going to be busy, between forms and spending time in the chapel,’ Buzz continued. ‘They asked me to drive you back home whenever you are ready. I’ll be outside the room; just let me know when you want to leave.’ He turned to walk out of the room.

‘Buzz!’ I said, a little louder than I should have.

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you… don’t you want to say goodbye to him?’ I whispered.

Buzz sighed, looking over at my brother… my brother’s body. He touched his own head with his right hand, and then brought his hand to his heart.

‘In some ways, he’s not gone,’ he said. ‘And the others, we’ll work around. Take your time, and do what you have to do. I’ll be outside.’

Buzz hadn’t really looked at my brother the whole time he was in the room. It was creepy, in a way; it was like my brother was just furniture to him, like the bed or the table or the lamp. Great friends, university roommates in America and fraternity brothers and… well, he wasn’t freaking out or crying or even looking at him.

Buzz nodded to me, looked over at my brother, and stepped out of the room. He avoided a nurse as he moved a bit further down the hallway.

Confusing… just like everything. How the hell does my brother get through all the medical problems he had since birth, the recent brain surgeries, the recovery… and then go to a hospital for a pulled muscle and not come out? How do you dodge every bullet fired at you, recover, heal and go on with your life, and then get the plug pulled on you? How do you go from being a rising star lighting tech in the West End to… to here, in a bed, on a respirator?

All I remember is the pain shooting through my hand, my knuckles bruised. I was in Buzz’s rented car, loaded up with crisps and a Coke and with an ice pack from the hospital on my hand.

‘Hell of a punch,’ Buzz said as he drove. ‘Right through the drywall and nearly into the other side.’

What the hell is wrong with this guy? I thought. The olds freaked out, nurses swarmed me, and he’s making light of it?

I shot him a look. He seemed to understand and changed the subject.

‘I can either get upset about what happened to William,’ Buzz said, ‘Or I can remember all the great stuff. I can’t control what happened to him. I can control how I react, though.’

‘You miss him?’

‘Yeah,’ Buzz whispered. ‘Always kept in touch with him, as much as I could. Didn’t
expect last spring to be my last visit with him though. That was his first show in the West End…’

Yeah, William was damn proud of that, his first lead lighting technician job. Parents dug deep for opening night tickets, front row, even with all my brother’s bills for the surgeries. He could have got them tickets, but they insisted on front row and ‘hang the cost!’, while at the same time we were choking on the loan payments for the medical bills. Even I went, and I hated going to Will’s stuff. Theatre never interested me, and I was sick of how ‘wonderful’ everything Will did was, how great he was doing, how incredible…

‘Incredible show,’ Buzz interrupted my thoughts. ‘Something to be proud of, really.’

‘I guess.’ I kept the ice pack on my hand, turning it from one side to the other. It kept the swelling down, even as I flexed my fingers. Stupid move on my part, putting my hand into a wall. Hard to hold a stylus
and tablet with a busted up hand, and I had paying graphics work coming up that week.

The ride took another hour of relative quiet before we finally pulled into my road at about three in the morning. Buzz parked on the street in front of the house, moving the car after he almost parked on the wrong side. It was my small chance to laugh, and then I pointed out the big driveway next to the big house where we lived. Buzz shrugged and pulled in. My hands were still full, so he helped me out of the car. He shuffled to the boot, drained and worn out, the first time I’d noticed him really tired in the hours since we’d met.

‘Yay, jetlag,’ Buzz said, shouldering his bag. ‘I need to get some sleep. Just point me to your guest room…’ He smiled weakly, looking like he was about to fall over at any moment.

‘Sure,’ I said, opening the door. He’d been on planes ten hours – his flight from Chicago to New York, then New York
to London, then he’d gone straight to St Thomas Hospital. Then the hour drive here after an hour at the hospital, and all for my brother.

‘To the right, up the stairs, second door on the right. There’s WiFi if you need it, just turn on your laptop. You have one of those power adapters?’

‘Yeah, I do, don’t want to blow out the computer. And I’d better let my wife know I’m OK,’ Buzz said as he shuffled up the stairs. He stopped halfway up and looked down at me.

‘You want to talk, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll let you be, OK?’

I tried to say something, but really couldn’t think of much except ‘OK’. He nodded at me and turned to go into the room.

I fell into my bed, checking my phone. Sara hadn’t messaged me back. She’d said she was going camping that week; she
might not have taken her phone with her. When Sara drops off the face of the earth, she drops off the face of the earth…

Damn.

I sent her another text and just lay in bed with the ice pack on my hand. The hand was cold and red and hurt a lot. All the same, I wanted to keep on punching things. Just keep on punching things, even if my hand broke a dozen times.

So the guy who fixes my computer shows up to express his condolences. He and his father, who own/work the shop they have.

My friends? The majority of them didn’t even return emails or phone calls regarding it.

At least one gave a decent reason why he wasn’t going to show up: ‘I never met your brother, I would be kinda uncomfortable seeing him for the first time in a box.’ Trevor.

Others had to work or wouldn’t duck school. Some people emailed or responded to IMs. Most others didn’t even return phone calls or emails. Still can’t get in touch with Sara, she’s still off in the south New Jersey woods. She’s going to flip when she finds out what happened; I know she’ll be upset about not being around.

Anyway, funeral was this afternoon. Am I the only person who doesn’t like to be touched at funerals? Or in general? Seems so, because I literally had to shove people away as they tried to grab me. My Aunt Liza tried to hug me, I pulled away. Uncle James got mad at me. I almost busted up my hand again, especially when he mouthed off about the ‘damn fag goth make-up’ I was wearing.

Buzz got between us and took me off to the side. Then he dragged that fat slag and her husband to the back and said something to them, I don’t know what exactly. All I know is that they just stayed shut up for the whole rest of the time. It’s like he’d ended up yanking out their tongues. They wouldn’t even say anything to the olds. Like they were embarrassed or something…

And my name isn’t Drew, or Andy. It’s Andrew. My father told all of them that, and they still insist on calling me Andy or Drew! Worst part is that when I try to be nice and say ‘could you call me Andrew?’ they either get mad or go ‘you’ll always be Andy to me’.

Well, you’ll always be a fat bitch to me, Aunt Liza. Only reason your husband married you is because he knocked you up and you begged him to…

Mum and Dad’s phones kept on ringing at the funeral home. Dad postponed his trip to Germany for the director’s meeting and the product release, but they kept on calling and calling… Mum had four property deals, two of
them in Knightsbridge. Lord knows we need the money, so she had to keep everyone happy through the tears and my father speaking in German. One thing my brother left behind was a pile of medical bills. It’s what happens when you want the best, like Cromwell Hospital instead of the ‘free’ NHS.

Drove with Buzz from the funeral home to church, walked into a church for the first time in about two years, sat in the back. One good thing about the olds is that they never forced me to go to church. Figured that as long as I led a decent life and didn’t hurt people, that was fine by them. Everyone was crying except me. I just didn’t feel it. Just didn’t feel anything.

At least Mum and Dad remembered to shut their phones off before they came into the church.

The olds wanted me to ride to the cemetery with them, but I left them with my mum’s sister and her husband. Buzz knew when to keep his mouth shut and not ask me things all the time. We left for the cemetery. I made Buzz stop so that I could get a Coke, got to the cemetery just after everyone else got there. They did the
graveside thing, and everyone kept on crying. Buzz and I watched them lower the casket into the ground. Took a flower or two for some purpose. Went to the repast. Ate. Then went home.

School tomorrow. I would have gone the other days except I came down with this terrible cold. I went in on Tuesday and had to leave after three hours because I couldn’t keep my head upright. They were shocked I even showed up, but you don’t get A* if you don’t show up and grind away.

And now, whatever else needs to happen. Stuff to clean, will to probate, estate to settle.

Ever forward.

Dear Sara,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sending it express post so that it should arrive by the time you get back from your trip. As always, I hope you had fun wandering about in the woods. I never understood your fascination with nature, but I guess it’s one of the things that makes you so special: a new surprise every time I think I know you.

I miss you very much, my friend. Since the last time I held you, many things have happened, many things have changed. It was a pure accident that you ended up in my class as an exchange student, yet you’re one of the best things in my life. I wanted to get on that plane with you, get into your bed with you and not get out. Just lie in bed, wrapped around you, talking and laughing and being
…
being alive.

You’ll probably find a bunch of texts on your phone, but I’ll try to explain it with more sense here: my brother died while you were camping. He went into a coma after going to the hospital for a pulled muscle. Doctors did
an autopsy, but we won’t have the results for weeks. We thought he was through all these medical problems: the brain surgeries, the holidays in the hospital, the medications
…
We thought it was all over and he was going to go on with his life. But then he goes and dies.

And the worst part is, his last words to me were basically telling me to go to Hell. I got some freelance work – great stuff for a graphics portfolio – and he had to criticise everything about it: who I was working for, what I was charging – everything. I just had to get up and walk out and wait for him to go back to London and his big flashing lights. Walk out of my own home, just to avoid another fight where the olds take his side again.

And six weeks later he’s dead.

I blogged about the funeral, but I can fill in gaps. Buzz, Will’s friend, is probably the only person who hasn’t, as you put it, been an ‘asshat’ to me. I’m not much for talking to anyone, but at least he knows this. He doesn’t tell me how I should feel about my brother, or assume that I’ll miss him, or that
I’m broken up about all this. He listened when I wanted to talk, talked when I didn’t have anything to say, and let me know he was around if I needed anything.

I’m not broken up about my brother. I lost out on so many things because of him. He got full tuition to Rider, a private American university, the full five years worth. Meanwhile, I’m working, laying out vinyl signs and doing freelance stuff and hope I have enough to pay for school. Seems some of my tuition money got spent on my brother’s medical bills… so I have to make up the difference myself.

And every time I do something great, it’s just like it’s expected. Top grades? ‘We were certain you would get them.’ Even selling a piece of art at age twelve didn’t get more than a shrug from the olds. My brother ended up barely getting through school and they ended up showering him with gifts. I’m lucky the olds put in the high speed internet I needed to sell the T-shirts I make. I have to keep most of that money hidden; they’ll probably want me to pay for the damn funeral.

Bloody hell, I didn’t make him sick! I didn’t screw up his delivery at birth, or give him nerve damage from the forceps squeezing his head, or mess up his life! I shouldn’t have to pick up the damn pieces for him… I shouldn’t have to give up the good stuff in my life so that he can have everything.

Not my bloody fault.

I’ll try to keep this short; I always feel bad about bringing this stuff up to you, always complaining about things when I know you have your own problems. Find enclosed a few flowers from my brother’s graveside. It may seem odd, but I figure that something as beautiful as these shouldn’t just stand for death. Dry them out and look at them as a reminder that even in bad times we can find beauty and hope.

You are those things to me. I will talk to you soon, my friend and love.

Love, and Trust, Andrew.

Should I be crying?

My mother thinks I should. My father thinks I should.

At least the crazy New Jersey Buddhist doesn’t. He says ‘grief is a personal thing’ and I should express it the way I feel is right.

I had to fight the urge to dance on my brother’s grave.

I shouldn’t have to suffer for my brother’s screwed-up life. I hated him then, I hate him now. He screwed up everything. There’s always money problems now, medical bills, funeral bills, my parents fighting over petrol costs, of all things. How the hell am I going to get to the States for school if there isn’t any money? How am I supposed to get away from here?

Still haven’t heard back from Sara yet.

I don’t want to be here any more. I just wish it would end.

Love you, Sara.