Sometimes It's Better That Way

Sometimes It’s Better That Way

It’s one a.m.

And the phone is ringing.

My stomach begins to churn in rhythm with the thumping inside my chest. I slowly inch myself upright in my bed and press my ear against the wall, trying to interpret the hushed conversation taking place on the other side. That’s the only way I ever find out anything that is going on in this household. It’s not that we never talk, it’s just that there are so many of us to keep track of that Mom forgets who she has told something to and who she hasn’t. I can’t even count the number of times that I have found out about family gatherings, doctor’s appointments, weddings, etc. a couple of hours before they actually happen. Believe me, it keeps you on your toes. I always feel like I have to be prepared for something completely unexpected. Planning for life in our family never seems to work out.

“Homey cheese fry, what’s up?” whispers a voice wavering between high and low as my door slowly creaks open, revealing the lanky silhouette of my younger brother, Stevie.

“Shut up, Shnittle.”

“Cranky, cranky,” he whispers back as he climbs onto the other side of my bed, sending a menagerie of stuffed animals tumbling to the floor, joining the clutter of clothing that serves as my carpeting.

“I’m not cranky. It’s just that...you know...look at what time it is.” I glance over at the cheap, plastic clock sitting on my bed stand. The numbers blaze a fiery red like they are trying to brand their digits into my mind.

“Yeah. I don’t wanna think about that. Maybe it’s just Mandy. Isn’t she out wit’ some band tonight?” Stevie presses his ear against the wall. “I can’t believe you still have this thing. Isn’t it like a billion years old?” The shape of my stuffed penguin, Parcher, emerges in the faint glow of the moon seeping in through my open windows.

“No, Parcher is not a billion years old. He’s ten so be careful with him. Dammit, you are a failure at eavesdropping. I can’t hear a damn thing.”

“Oh, and this is coming from Miss I’m-so-amazing-at-eavesdropping-that-I-should-get-a-fucking-award. No, homey cheese fry, I think you are the failure.” I shoot Stevie one of my classic scowl faces. Mom says I inherited it from Dad. Dad says I inherited it from Mom. I’m pretty sure I have a combination of the two. Both of them are pretty stellar scowlers. Just as I begin to refocus, a fury of fluff smacks me right between the eyes.

“Thanks for trying to break my glasses and abusing poor little Parcher. I’m going to call PETA on you.”

“PETA? What the hell is that? Wait, isn’t that some sort of bread thing? So you’re gonna call the baker on me? What’s he gonna do, turn me into a cake?”

“Oh my god, you don’t know what PETA is? Oh, right, I forgot about you being a redneck. PETA isn’t even in your vocabulary.”

“You know it. Give me a rifle and tree and I will be happy all day.” I roll my eyes and slink down onto my back in defeat. Stevie slides down and lays next to me.

“What are you even doing here? Aren’t you getting a little old for climbing into my bed? I mean, you are fifteen. Doesn’t that make you too ‘manly’ to hang around with your big sis?” Stevie seems to ignore the question as he continues to play with Parcher. As I watch him, I feel like I am seven years old again, watching little five year old Stevie. We were so naive then. So focused on whether we had the hippest bikes and always devastated when Mom wouldn’t buy us the coolest toy in the store. We never worried about missing medicine bottles or trips to the hospital. We never thought twice about phone calls at one in the morning.


I remember the first time I learned that my brother, Garret, was sick. We were a foot of snow into the depths of a Michigan January and Stevie, Mandy, and I were home from school for yet another snow day. I had turned twelve the day before and was spending the afternoon glued to the family computer burning as many CDs as possible to play on my brand new portable CD player when Mom got the phone call. Right in the middle of burning a New Found Glory CD, I heard a resounding thud in the kitchen. Normally, I would just ignore these kinds of sounds. There always seemed to be bizarre noises swirling around our house, whether it was Stevie bouncing his basketball on the wood floors, Mandy clumsily dropping everything she gets her hands on or Dad beating on his drum set, preparing for another gig. But the sound of this thud was unnatural, like the two objects were never supposed to make contact. I quickly leapt off the computer chair, sending an array of CDs whizzing through the air like a hundred mini flying saucers. When I reached the kitchen, I couldn’t seem to find anything out of place. Then my eyes fixated on the curly white telephone cord winding its way across the green marble counter and down to the smooth oak floor leading to the shape of my mother. Her legs were splayed out in front of her like she had attempted one of Jesse’s running stretches and got stuck. The rest of her body was hunched over like a marionette puppet waiting for someone to pull its strings. The phone hung next to her head, the spinning round and round, the dial tone blaring its absent message.

“Mom...mom...” I screamed as I collapsed on the floor. She slowly lifted her head, revealing the eerie black trails that meandered from her eyes down to the edge of her flushed cheeks. Mandy ran into the room and crouched down beside me, laying a warm hand on my shoulder. My eyes met Mom’s and, even though I was young, I felt her sadness. My heart literally ached. To this day I can’t even describe it. Sometimes I think our bodies know more than we do. It’s true. How do babies know what they want? They don’t, but their bodies do. So they cry, even though they have no idea what it means. Sometimes I wonder if my body was trying to tell me something.

“Girls, I...I have to tell you both something.” I tore my eyes away from Mom and studied the chipped black nail polish on Mandy’s hand. She was still in her “goth” phase of high school.

“Is it, Garret?” asked Mandy. She took her hand off my shoulder and used her right thumb to wipe the inky rivers off of Mom’s face.

“Wait, I...how...I,” Mom stammered as she brushed her short blonde hair from her face.

“Mom, do you really think that I’m blind? I mean, I am fifteen. I’m practically an adult.” I looked over at Mandy and watched her soft brown eyes as she continued to wipe Mom’s face. They never wavered once, focusing completely on the event at hand.

“I don’t get it. What’s up with, Gar? Come on, you guys never tell me anything. I know there’s stuff going on. Mom, you don’t cry like this. Tell me I wanna know He’s my brother, too ” I felt the tears welling up, though I didn’t understand why. Mom reached out and began to stroke my face with tips of her fingers, causing the tears to pour out.

“Honies, Garret...he....uh...he...was in a car accident. He is okay, but, oh girls...” Mom started to cry again. Mandy and I wrapped our arms around her, making a Henderson girl sandwich.

“Momma, it’s going to be okay,” said Mandy.

“Okay, I can do this. Girls, your brother is sick. He isn’t going to be coming home for a long time.”


“Thank goodness I have Mandy and you. I would have never made it through,” I say as I look over to Stevie.

“Yeah, same.” Stevie and I look up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars randomly strewn across my ceiling. I close my eyes and hope that I might disappear for a moment. I feel the rough softness of Stevie’s hand wrap around my fingers.

“I’m scared, Steven.”

“Me too.”

Most people would think that this situation is bizarre. I mean, come on. Stevie and I are essentially adults. Okay, maybe that’s going too far, but we are definitely far too old to be chatting in bed together. Yet, do you know how hard it is to be scared and alone? To be lying there wondering if you might have to go to another car crash, another overdose, another hospital? How can you deal with that alone? I don’t care how old you are. People need each other. Stevie and I need each because we are all we have when Garret gets sick. My other siblings have never seen what it’s really like to be here. Here, in this house, listening to Mom and Dad cry and argue through the bedroom wall as you press your ear harder and harder against it, hoping to decipher one bit of the muffled dialogue. Hoping, just hoping that the tears running down your face are only in vain. Hoping that maybe tomorrow will be a better day. So Stevie and I turn to each other, so we don’t have to feel so alone.

Since Garret got sick, I feel like everyone else has kind of faded away from me. Mom and Dad have always been too caught up in the situation to really deal with Stevie, and I. Mandy used to be there, but now that she’s in her third year in college, she only ventures home when she has run out of cash and needs a loan from “The Bank of Dad.” My oldest brother, Christian, tries to help, but he is so overwhelmed with his law firm, his nitwit of a wife, Jamie, and their wild kids, Amara and Jeffrey, that driving an hour to come home is an infrequent occurrence and has to be planned weeks in advance. Then there’s Jesse. I don’t even know what Jesse looks like anymore. I think the last time I saw him was at Grandpa Henderson’s funeral two years ago and even then he just popped up at the burial and took off right after the conclusion of “Taps.”.

Jesse stopped coming home once he got into graduate school. First, he said it was because of his demanding student assistant teaching job in Rutgers’ English department. Then he blamed his wife, Marcy, and her “fear of flying,” though she had no problem getting on a plane when they went to Hawaii for their honeymoon. Then it was their daughter, Lara, who is “too fussy” to travel. Yeah right, he always has excuses. If only we all believed that they were true.

Jesse has never agreed with the way that Mom and Dad have dealt with Garret. He always thought that they should leave him in—I don’t even like to say it, but I guess that it is the only word for it— an “institution.” He thinks that Mom and Dad are kidding themselves by trying to take care of him and watching over him all by themselves. Each time he would came home from college, he would look at Garret with disdain and tell Mom and Dad that he shouldn’t be here. Jesse, always a man of facts, would spew out some definition that he memorized for the two psychology classes he took in college. Then he would explain how my parents “didn’t have the capabilities to deal with all of Garret’s problems.” Mom and Dad always just shook off his comments. They were used to it. Jesse has always enjoyed contradicting people and we all have grown to ignore most of what he says, since usually he doesn’t mean it. Plus, Garret and him never got along. We just figured all of his opposition stemmed from his pent up anger from all of those years that Garret, who was a year older, always seemed to beat him academically in school and had loved rubbing it in his face. Mandy used to say that maybe Jesse thought that for once he had finally surpassed Garret in intelligence and was out to prove it. I don’t know. I can’t really believe that my brother is that malicious. I feel like there is something else that happened that caused Jesse to stop coming home. One time, I overheard Christian and Jesse arguing about some “concerning” run-in that Garret had with Marcy, but I didn’t pick up all of the details of the situation. When I asked Christian about it, he said that it was none of my concern, though I’m fairly confident that he blatantly lied to me. Christian forgets that I’m no longer ten years old.


We hear a crash in my parents’ room as the walls around us vibrate in reply. Mom is sobbing. Stevie and I focus on my floor-length mirror and watch the door of our parents’ bedroom fly open and see a streak of Mom tear down the hallway with her bathrobe flapping like a super hero cape behind her. I squeeze Stevie’s hand tighter as I try to resist the tears yearning to trickle down my trembling face.

“It’s okay, Alexandra. It’s okay,” whispers Stevie as he lays his head on my shoulder. His stiff blonde hair prickles my shoulder and my arm jerks in response.

“Schnittle, its not okay. Do you think he’s finally done it? Oh my god, do you think that he is dead this time. Fuck. Fuck. Oh my god. Fuck. Mom, is Mom okay? Oh my god. I fuckin’ hate him. Why does he have to be such a bastard?” I jolt out of the bed and begin pacing around the room like an impatient child as tears assault my face, drenching me in a cold shower of fear and anger. Stevie climbs out of my bed and tries to grab my shoulders, but I just collapse to the ground in a fit of emotion and bury my face in my favorite brown dress, lying rumpled in a heap on the floor. A faint scent of coffee trickles into my nostrils and I remember the latte that I spilt down the front of myself yesterday. Usually, this is a sweet scent to my nose, but tonight it just accentuates the nausea that has become a constant in my stomach. Stevie crouches down next to me. My blurry eyes fixate on the awkwardly shaped beak of Parcher shaking compulsively in front of me.

“Oh look at me, I’m a little penguin named Parcher. I’m not really sure why I have that name. It’s kind of a funny name. Whoever named me this must’ve been some messed up kid. Seriously, some parent definitely dropped that baby on the head. Parcher, hmm, what does it
even mean? Maybe it’s like partridge in a pear tree. Ahh yes, that’s it. Parcher in a pear tree. Yeah, one fucked up child,” rambles Stevie in a really high pitched voice, a combination of Spongebob and Mickey Mouse. I slowly lower the dress from my face and try to muster up some laughter from the void of my throat, but all I can find is something sounding like horse whinny.

“Damn penguin abuser,” I finally choke.

“Gonna call the baker?” Stevie smiles one of his traditional Stevie grins, where he somehow manages to make all of his teeth visible by spreading his lips in a lopsided oblong. I hate that grin. It’s so creepy looking.

“You...you look like a freakin’ creepster,” I stammer. I take a deep breath through my nose, trying to clear all the gooey remnants of my sob fest.

“I...” Stevie stops as my door is forcefully banged against the wall, sending all of my track and cross country awards crashing to the floor. Dad’s face is as red as Mom’s freshly clipped roses and almost appears to be glowing in the faint gray of the night. My eyes meet his and I feel the fierceness penetrate my soul.

“Kids, we need to go NOW ” he yells . “Put your coats on and get in the car.”

“Dad, what happened?” asks Stevie.

“I...I don’t want to talk about it now. We’ll talk in the car.” He storms out of the room, slamming the door closed behind him. I look at the clock. 1:11 a.m. I hope that’s lucky.


When Garret got released from his first stint in rehab after that first car crash, he came back home and moved into the bedroom he had shared with Jesse for most of his life. For days, I don’t think he ever left that room. Sometimes he would float down the stairs, like a lost soul searching for his body. It was so strange. I would ask him a question and he would stare through me with his empty blue eyes as I didn’t even exist. Dad said it was the medication that did it. He said that the doctors were always searching for good combination and that it might take weeks, even months for him to adjust. It made no sense to my twelve year-old-self and I was so mad that he just laid around the house sleeping and, basically, taking up space, while Mom tended to his every need. I would ask Mom why she wouldn’t just let him do things on his own. Why she wouldn’t make him do the housework or clean his bedroom or feed the dog? Usually, she stared at me with this shocked look, like I had just offended her in some way, and proceeded to tell me that I didn’t understand. One time, when she was feeling particularly stressed out, she turned away from me and started sobbing. I stopped asking her after that.

Every time I walked by his room and saw him passed out in the middle of the afternoon, I would get so upset. I wanted to smack him and tell him to wake up and to stop being so lazy. For some reason, I was convinced that the old Garret was there, pretending to be someone else. Sometimes, when I would look in his eyes, I swore I could see him trapped behind this zombie shell. Yet, I never could figure out a way to coax him out.


During this time, I started to feel like the rest of us didn’t even exist anymore. Mom and Dad were hardly available. Dad worked long hours at the accounting firm to pay for Garret’s hospital bills and prescriptions. He even gave up playing gigs with his band at the Pete’s Pub in town so that he could have time to sleep at least a couple of hours each night. Mom was completely wrapped up in taking Garret to doctor’s appointments and making sure that he was doing okay. Suddenly, everything in the family became centered around Garret. The rest of our lives had become secondary, and Mandy, Stevie, and I learned to tolerate it. What were we supposed to do? At fifteen, twelve, and ten we had no other options, but to deal with being forgotten at basketball practice, standing alone when we got initiated into National Honors Society, and sacrificing our Spring Breaks to stay home and watch reruns of Magnum PI. Mom said it was safer to be home in case Garret had one of his “episodes.” Jesse and Christian came home from college only when they were on break, since they knew that they would hardly be noticed anyways. Sometimes I wish that they would’ve been there for us. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so distant from them.


The frigid leather seats nip my bare legs as Stevie and I pile into the van. Mom, Dad, and
Mandy are nowhere to be seen. I click my seatbelt in and stare at the stars out the car window, wishing that I could just touch one, even though I know this is a childish desire. Yet, why can’t I go on dreaming about reaching my hand through space and feeling the warmth of a star wrap around me and take me away from this world for just one minute, instead of worrying about what will happen tonight, tomorrow, next week, or next year?

“Argh, I wish I knew what was going on. Actually, maybe I don’t. Sometimes it’s better that way,” I say to Stevie.

“Yeah,” he says as he shrugs his shoulders.

“Know what? I was always really upset when I was younger and Mom and Dad never told us anything about Garret, but now I wish I didn’t know as much as I do. I wish I could just go back to then, ya know, when all we really worried about was which new Pokèmon toy to get or if we would get picked to play kick ball. None of this...this right here. This sitting in a car wondering if our brother’s sickness has finally gotten...” I notice Parcher’s head peeking out of Stevie’s front coat pocket.

“Hey, what are you doing with Parcher? You had better not be kidnaping him He’s a little small for rifle practice.”

“Uhh, nothin’. How did he get in there?” Stevie pulls Parcher out of his pocket and tosses it on the car seat between us. “That’s weird.”

“Oh, come on. That’s a bunch of bull if I’ve ever heard some.”

“Okay, fine, he makes me feel better, alright? Maybe I’m fucking freaking out right now and your little penguin helps me feel a little more comfortable. Okay, are you happy?” screams Stevie as he picks up the penguin and sticks it back in his pocket. I look up and see Dad shuffle
out of the house with his head hung low. He opens the driver side door and climbs inside.

“Alright, Steven and Alexandra, I’m going to be honest with you two. Your brother Christian called us...and...” Dad’s fierce eyes begin to soften to a blue-red blur as water starts
to well around their edges. “Garret was supposed to meet him tonight, but he didn’t show. So...so...” Dad rubs his eyes. “I’m so sorry, kids. This is just really hard for a parent.
Just wait until you have kids someday. You don’t know how much you can love someone. Anyways, no one knows where he is or what has happened so we are going to drive to his apartment. I have no idea what to expect, but we all know what he is capable of.” Dad pauses and holds his breath for a moment. I feel my own heart crawl into my throat, blocking the words that I want to say. “You both are old enough now to make decisions for yourself. You can stay here with Mandy and Mom, or you can come with me. It’s up to you.”

Dad looks to me and then to Stevie. The silence defines the moment, establishing itself as the answer to the question posed. Dad climbs in the van and revs the engine. The digital clock blares 1:20 am, creating a soft blue nightlight in the darkness of the car. Stevie sticks his hand in his pocket and begins to stroke Parcher. I look out at the stars again, trying to imagine what their warmth would feel like. Eyes fixed straight ahead, Dad backs out of the driveway and immerses us in the enigma of the night.


As sit we in the van, I think of the first time I visited Garret in a hospital. The whole car ride, I was so nervous, though I tried to hide it by burying myself in A Farewell to Arms so Mom wouldn’t freak out. I had never been to a hospital before. Well, I had been in a hospital when Grandma Henderson was sick, but I had never been in a “mental” hospital before. I had no idea what to expect. Everything I knew about mental hospitals I had learned from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which wasn’t very reassuring.

When we walked in the building, my eyes were overwhelmed with the surroundings. The inside of the building was a sickening was white, which made me feel like such a sore thumb in my bright pink cardigan and canary yellow skirt. It felt so different than a normal hospital. I don’t know why it felt different. It looked exactly the same as the other type of hospital, with the perky nurses donning floral scrubs and painted on smiles and the noxious scent of antiseptic. Maybe it was the patients that made it feel different? They were everywhere, in wheelchairs staring off into space, on couches in the “recreation” rooms watching re-runs of “Mary Tyler Moore” and sitting at rickety card tables playing solitaire and rummy. For some reason, I felt like they put off these weird vibes that I couldn’t quite comprehend.

I remember catching eyes with this elderly gentleman who was working on a puzzle. Usually, when I do this to people they quickly turn their heads away, as if I have offended them by my continuous eye contact. But this man just kept on gazing, never blinking once, like he had been frozen in time. As I focused his eyes, I felt nothing, like I was staring at an empty shell of a human. My eyes stayed fixed on him as Mom, Dad, Mandy, and I walked past. Mom told me to stop staring and I reluctantly tore my eyes away and began staring at my bright green Converse, wondering what he felt. Did he feel at all?

We reached Garret’s room, 66. Sixty-six, one digit short of the devil’s number. Numbers have always freaked me out. I always feel like they are a whole other language, trying
to tell us something about what is going on.

“Okay, Alex, I know that this is new to you,” said Mom as she laid her hand softly on my
shoulder. It felt kind of awkward, since I had surpassed her in height by four inches and she had to almost reach up to do it.

“Mom, I’m fifteen. I think I can handle it.”

“I know, sweetheart, but I just wanted to play mom and protect my little girl a little bit.”

“Mom, I know Garret. He’s my brother. It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, honey, but that is what I wanted to tell you. The man in there may look like your brother, but it isn’t.”

“I know, Mom. It’s not like I’ve never seen a schizophrenic before. Plus, Garret has
been living with us for two years, I think I know what his personalities are like.”


A feeling of dread begins to press down on my shoulders and I begin to sink down in my car seat, submitting myself to its overwhelming power. Lights, red like the numbers on my alarm clock, begin to spin around the inside of van as we pull up to Garret’s apartment. I sink further in my seat, letting my sight fall below the dashboard focusing on the dent that Mandy made when she dropped her mini refrigerator on it when we were moving her back into college last year. Dad was so furious about this. He complained about it for months. Now it seems so insignificant.

“Kids, I love you,” says Dad as he turns off the car. The three of us sit there for a moment. I just keep on staring at that stupid dent, trying to think about puppies and kittens,
anything freaking happy. My counselor, in her droll, monotone voice, would be trying to tell me to breathe long deep breaths and to slowly clench and unclench my fists, but who can consciously think about doing all of that when they are so scared that they can’t even feel their body?

Dad’s door clicks open followed by the whoosh of Stevie’s door. I attempt to lift my hand to open my door, too, but I still can’t seem to control any part of my body. My door spookily snaps open and I feel relieved when I see Christian standing there. Something dark is smeared all over his body. I tell myself that it is just chocolate. Denial is so much easier sometimes.


“Are...are...you okay, Alex?” pants Christian. He sounds completely exhausted. His dark brown eyes are filled with Dad’s fierceness, accentuated by the dark circles that tell the story of his night.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.” I’ll just keep on telling myself that. Christian grabs my hand and slowly helps me out of the car. The minute I hit the ground, he takes off running, leaving me alone in the parking lot. My eyes slowly focus on every piece of the scene in front of me, making sure to absorb the impact of each one. The ambulance, backed up to the doorway of Garret’s apartment, its pulsing red strobe light keeps streaking across my face, making me feel like I’m trapped at some satanic rave. There’s a crowd of about ten people, huddling in their pastel terry cloth bathrobes and stocking caps, standing off to the side of the apartment, hoping to get a glimpse of something juicy to brag to their friends about. I see Christian still running down the sidewalk toward Garret’s apartment, his form is no different than the days when he won the State Championship in the mile. Then I look to Garret’s bright yellow door, mirroring the open doors of the ambulance, just waiting for a body, my brother, to pass through.


“Garret is moving out today,” said Mom as she neatly folded a pink hand towel with tiny purple flowers embroidered around the edges.

“Really? Does that mean I get my old room back?” piped Stevie as he rummaged through the refrigerator.

“Well, maybe. I might just turn it into a guest bedroom for people who sleep over and
maybe I’ll put a crib in there for when Christian and Kathy bring little Amara. Maybe Jesse and Marcy will actually bring Lara visit her grandparents.”

“Do you think he can live on his own?” I asked as I twisted a strand of my long curly blonde hair around my pointer finger.

“His doctor says that he is doing well. He hasn’t had any incidents in well over a year and his psychiatrist is certain that he has found the combination of medication that works for him. In fact, he thinks it would be good if he did live on his own.”

“Where’s he gonna live?” asked Stevie as he pulled the milk jug out of the fridge and proceeded to guzzle the remainder of the frothy white liquid.

“Stevie Not out of the jug Do you want people thinking we are animals? Oh boys.” Stevie slammed the empty jug down on the counter. Mom shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I
think he’s going to live about twenty minutes outside of town. There’s this nice little apartment complex. He’s got a kitchen, a bedroom, a living room, and bathroom. I think he might even have his own porch.”

“Does he live on the first floor?” I asked.

“Yes, all the apartments are on the first floor. It’s a converted hotel.”

“Good, at least we know that won’t be a problem.”

“Alexandra ”

“I’m sorry, but you know you thought about it, too Come on, we all think about it. We might as well just put it out in the open. Why can’t we ever be honest about things?” Mom dropped the socks she was folding and slammed her hands against the counter.

“You’re right. I know. It’s hard for a mother to accept sometimes. I always want to
think that each time he calls will be the last time. I just want to have hope, Alex. I just want to think that he will be okay. Is that too much for a mother to ask?” Mom buried her face in the pile of rumpled laundry stacked on the counter in front of her. I walked over and wrapped my
arms around her and laid my head on her shoulder.

“Crap, that wasn’t fair.” I began to stroke her arms. Mom mumbled something incoherent into the towels. “Oh, I know you don’t like that word. Fudge, I’m so self-centered
sometimes. Mom, I’m sorry, but it is hard to not think about Garret like that. Maybe you’re right. I just know it Garret is going to make it this time.” I wished I had meant what I said.


The memory begins to fade away as the red lights keep spinning round and round, pulling me out of my head and back to the chaos ensuing before my eyes

“Excuse me, do you know what is going on here?” says a deep voice behind me. I don’t even turn around. It feels so distant, like we are in two different moments and he still hasn’t caught up to me. I look up to the stars, but the city lights have scared them away. I feel cold all over, like the time I fell through the ice of our neighbor’s pond when I was five. Garret pulled me out of the frigid waters that day, wrapped me in his puffy blue parka and sang Christmas carols to me as he carried me home. He told me that he would always love me and that everything would be okay. That was before he was sick. Some days, I wonder if underneath all of those personalities, he still he feels the same.

My feet are moving, but I cease to feel any contact with the ground below them. Suddenly, I find myself standing in front of Garret’s door. I can feel Stevie next to me, our labored breaths creating a medley of gray puffs in the frigid fall air. My body is shaking,
jumbling every thought within my head. Garret. Christian. Parcher. Ambulance. Dad. I feel something on my shoulder. I slowly turn and come face to face with a young EMT. His hand shivers as he grasps my shoulder harder. I gaze into his bright blue eyes, the same color as Garret’s. He was...I mean he is, the only one in our family with Dad’s blue eyes. Grandpa Henderson always called him “Ol’ Blue Eyes” like Frank Sinatra, his favorite singer. Grandpa Henderson and Garret always had some special connection that none of us ever understood. Sometimes I feel like Grandpa Henderson was the only one who could ever get through to Garret no matter what state he was in. When he passed away, it was like losing our one connection between Garret’s mind and reality.

“Kids, you...you ca-ca-can’t stand there. You...you...you’ve got to stand behind the yellow tape,” stammers the young EMT as he points to the gaggle of gawkers, clouds of faint gray air trickling from their mouths as they whisper back and forth.

“He’s our brother We have to see him ” yells Stevie as he pushes the man’s hand off my shoulder. He grabs my hand and attempts to drag me inside.

“Stop Get out of there ” The young man grabs on to my other hand and I find myself
being pulled in two directions.

“You let go of her, we want to see our brother. We aren’t gonna mess with anything. Come on We aren’t hurtin’ anything ” Stevie begins to heave with all of his might. Even in the dark of the night, I could see the tears streaming down his cheeks from his angry red eyes.

“I can’t take this Let go of me ” I begin to writhe from head to toe, wishing that I could just rip in half. “I just...ahh...I just want this to all be over. Why won’t it ever be over Where is
Garret? Where is my brother....my brother....my brother.” I see the wiry shape of Christian begin to form within the entry of the apartment. For a moment, I feel relieved knowing a savior has come to rescue me.

“Oh my god, let go of my sister ” The EMT and Stevie release their grip and Christian
reaches out allowing me to gently sink into his arms. I curl up, snuggling close to him like an infant cuddles against its mother. As I lay here, Christian’s body heat melting the frigid shell of my body, I begin to miss my siblings. It’s been so long since we have all been together. There
is some secret closeness that you share with your siblings that you can never share with anyone else. I wish we could all be together again. The six of us, plus our parents, crowded around our long oak table, elbows knocking as hands clamor for food, while every voice battle to dominate
the four different conversations happening simultaneously. Why is it that now, whenever I see my older siblings it means that something bad has happened? There are days when I blame Garret for this. For turning our lives upside down and destroying every bit of semblance that was there, but at the same time, I think we are all at fault for never trying hard enough.

“I’m so sorry, sir, but they really shouldn’t be in there. I mean, they’re just kids and they shouldn’t see all of that blood. Oh, crap...” The EMT pauses. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Oh my god, what happened? Christian, what the hell happened?” I scream. I nervously
begin to run my fingers through my hair letting the loose wisps catch in the crevices between my fingers and their nails. Mandy hates when I do this. She says that I look like one of those ditzy sorority girls who always has to draw attention to her hair. I try to tell her that it’s a nervous habit that I just can’t seem to shake. Then she tells me that you can break a habit. That’s about the point where I give up the battle. That’s typical Mandy. Mandy has always been the sensible one of the family. I’m glad she’s the one at home with Mom. She’s always been able to handle these situations so well. Dad calls her the “rock” of the family and I can’t think of a better description. I have never met anyone as level-headed or loyal as she is.

“I’m so sorry. Dang it, I’m already screwing up on the first day.” The EMT begins to shake his head. I look over Christian’s shoulder just in time to watch Stevie sneak in the doorway of the apartment; Parcher is still peeking his fluffy penguin head out of his coat pocket. I smile for just a second, thinking about how I wish I could be as bold as him.


Sometimes I try to tell my friends about him, Garret, my brother. Yet, I never tell them he’s my brother. He’s “someone I know,” a friend of my parents, a crazy great uncle. Oh, no, I
never say he’s my brother. Believe me, nothing terrible ever happens in my family. The Henderson family is perfect. The Henderson kids’ were Watertown Community Schools’ dream students: all-star athletes, 4.0 students, and the leaders of everything. Christian, Garret, Jesse, and Mandy were all top of their classes and Stevie and I are on our way there, too. To Watertown, we are like the model family that everyone aspires to be. Everyone talks about how they wished their children were just like us. So many times I just wanted to scream at them and tell them that we are not perfect. That we have our problems, too. We have pain, too. Don’t they understand?

When I was in seventh grade, I used to run to the bathroom and cry all time. It’s funny how no one ever said anything. I mean, I was in the bathroom probably at least once a night for a good half hour. Maybe they didn’t even notice at all. Sometimes I wonder. I used lock the
door, lean my back against the door, allowing my long gangly legs to spread out upon the cool tile and sob. I always thought I was going to turn out like him. That someday I would be lying on the hospital bed with my wrists thickly bandaged and tethered down, a half crazed half sad smile painted across my faded gray face murmuring jibberish about some person who didn’t even exist. Yet, it wasn’t even that idea that made me want to cry. All I could think about was how much more it would hurt my family. As young as I may have been, I still couldn’t bear the thought of burdening my family anymore. I remember one time, picking up one of my cheap plastic shaving razors and twirling it around in my fingers, thinking about how I could just end
it all and save my family the grief of having to deal with me, too. I hated myself for thinking like him. I always used to ask my counselor why I did this if I’m not exactly like him? She always told me the difference was that I didn’t do it. It took her three years to convince me that I wasn’t going to end up like him and sometimes she still has to reassure me. Yet, I know deep in my heart I’m not like him. I could never fuck with this family like he has.

“Alex, let’s go sit on the curb.” Christian begins to carry me down from the porch.

“Clear out They’ve gotta get through ” Christian quickly carries me off the sidewalk and we scramble behind the yellow tape. He slowly lowers me down. I stomp feet against the ground, trying awaken the feeling that has gone dormant. Just as the wave of pins and needles begin to spread across the bottoms of my feet a stretcher, pushed by two EMTs, bursts out of Garret’s apartment in a whir of navy blue and white. Dad and Stevie are running behind it. Christian pulls me against him and I listen to the staccato rhythm of his heart, as I attempt to bury my face deep within his chest.

“It’s going to be okay, Alex.” I feel the warmth seeping through his sweatshirt. It makes me think of the days when he was sixteen and I was four. Christian used to come into my room every Wednesday night and read me a few pages from James and the Giant Peach. Even though he probably had better things to do on his Wednesday nights than read to his little sister, he never missed a night. He would crawl into bed with me and I would wedge my bony shoulders in the nook of his arm and elbow, letting my face disappear within the folds of his OP sweatshirt as he conjured up silly voices for each one of the characters. I was so crushed when his junior year of high school rolled around and he had to give up our Wednesday nights for SAT study prep.

“Do you really think it’s going to be okay, Christian?” I wipe my nose on my sleeve, but stop as I notice something smeared all over me. “Oh my god...this...it’s his blood, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s his.” Christian hangs his head, his unusually unruly dirty blonde hair falls over his face. A tear falls on my face, mixing with the river that has been constantly flowing from my eyes. Our sorrow is one.

“Christian...” He lifts his head up and we watch the stretcher stop behind the ambulance. The EMTs scurry around, stuffing down all of the brightly colored cords hanging off stretcher and yelling orders to the people already inside. Garret’s body is glowing white, like an angel, a fallen angel, speckled with the scarlet scars of its fall. His wrist tumbles off the stretcher, each turn of the red light reveals blotches of stained gauzes haphazardly taped all the way from his hand to his elbow. I look at my own wrists, the sleeves still covered with the blood from Christian’s sweatshirt and, suddenly, I feel connected to Garret’s pain for the first time in my life.

Dad gives Stevie a kiss on the head and hops into the ambulance. The doors slam close and the ambulance drives away, leaving Stevie standing at the edge of the sidewalk, motionless like the darkness of the night. I grasp Christian tighter. I struggle to turn on the indiglo on my watch. Bright green numbers burn 2:00 a.m. Who knew that so much of life could happen in one hour?

The crowd gradually dissipates around us, murmuring about the events of the night. ‘Who was he?’ ‘Did you see the blood?’ What were those kids doing there?’ ‘Do you think he is okay?’ Christian and I walk over to Stevie and wrap our arms around him.


After five minutes, Christian, Stevie and I are alone. I hear a strange smacking noise and notice that one end of the yellow ‘caution’ tape has unwrapped from the wooden stake and is now flapping in the wind, a constant reminder of the events that had happened here. Christian, Stevie, and I silently unwrap ourselves from our lengthy embrace.

“Come on, let’s sit down.” Christian motions to the curb and sits down. Stevie and I sit on either side of him.

“There was so much blood. I have never seen that much blood in my life. On the ceiling. On the floor. In the kitchen. The bathroom. The bedroom. Just blood.” Stevie is staring off into space like he has lost contact with the world at present.

“It’s okay, bud.” Christian wraps his arm around Stevie and pulls him close, giving him a kiss on the top of his head. Normally, Stevie would pull away in disgust, but he just sat there, his eyes focusing on something that didn’t exist.

“You know. It’s weird to see a person all cut up. Like when I went hunting with Uncle Jeff and got that deer and we sliced him open. I didn’t think once about them guts spilling all
over the place. I kept on thinking about how cool it was that we got a deer and that we were going to be having some venison.” Stevie pauses and wipes his nose, while taking a deep, resonating gasp of air. “But...but...it was different. When I saw Garret’s flesh oozing outta his arm, I just kept looking at myself thinking ‘bout how this wasn’t right. I kept on thinking of the stupid deer and seeing his guts pouring all over the place. Then I saw Garret in the woods, his
guts splattered all over, just like that stupid deer.”

“Stevie...” I drop off. I can’t seem to grasp onto any words.

“Humans shouldn’t bleed like that. At least, no one should know we bleed like that. Maybe doctors. What the heck am I saying? Guys, I’m sorry you had to see that. Actually, I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you guys.” Christian reaches his other arm out and pulls me close, too. Stevie and I remain silent. I lay my head on Christian’s shoulder and close my eyes, imagining that I’m somewhere else. Home, maybe. Yeah, home at Christmas with all of my siblings, laughing our way through a game of dominoes. I open my eyes and let the dream sink back into my subconscious.

“I gave him Parcher,” says Stevie as he begins to pick at a tear in his coat sleeve.

“What did you do with Parcher?” I ask as I tap my feet against the ground. The feeling has finally come back.

“I gave him to Garret. I mean, I stuffed him under his arm before he was put on the ambulance.” Stevie rips off one of the loose threads on the tear. “I dunno. It just seemed like the thing to do.”

“Yeah, it makes absolutely no sense and perfect sense all at the same time.”

“Wow, way to contradict yourself, homey cheese fry.”

“Shnittle, if I wasn’t so tired, I would have a witty comeback for you.”

“Parcher...homey cheese fry...sh...sh...shickle? Wow, I’ve been out of the house for way too long,” says Christian.

“It’s Shnittle, old man,” says Stevie in his best jittery Clint Eastwood impression. Stevie,
Christian, and I look at each of our tear-streaked faces and begin to laugh uncontrollably, allowing every emotion buried deep within in us to pour out, blending all of our fear, pain, and
sadness into one continuous stream of hope.