twenty
first college visit
When you pick me up from Logan airport, you are thinner than I remember.
It is after Thanksgiving break of your freshman year. You had told us you weren’t coming home that year. Lots of work. Finals.
Everything was harder than you expected and you needed the time. The short trip wasn’t necessary, you said. You’d be home
in a few weeks for Christmas.
Instead, our parents decide that I should come out and see you for a weekend. Get a feel for Harvard and college life, as
though that will inspire me to become more like you.
I wonder if they would’ve changed their mind if they saw you now, looking exhausted and stretched out. You do not look like
an advertisement for college. You look like an advertisement for a gap year.
You give me a hug, and I can feel the bones of your arms like the branches of trees around me. It’s brief.
“Good flight?” you ask.
“Only a short delay.”
“Do we need to go to baggage claim?”
I shake my head. I have a single duffel bag and a backpack as my carry-ons. I’m only staying two and a half days. I took an
early Friday flight, so it’s still midmorning here in Boston. I’ll be leaving Sunday afternoon.
“Did you sleep on the flight?”
“A little.” I glance at him up and down. “Did you sleep last night?”
You give me a ghost of a smile. “Mostly.” You take the bag from me. “Let’s get going. Have to get to the dining hall for breakfast
before it closes.”
I frown. “You’re not even going to take me out to a nice restaurant in Cambridge? I’ve never been out here before.”
“This is supposed to be an educational visit, Stella,” you say.
“Whatever.”
You sigh. “We can go somewhere else for lunch.”
I grin at him. We exit the airport. I clutch my wool coat tight around me against the burst of chilly air. There is a flurry
of snowflakes coming down. I stop in my tracks for a second and watch them drift down in whorls, landing on my cheeks, my
eyelashes, my lips. My breath puffs out in a light fog.
“Come on,” you say from out in front. I hoist my backpack straps up on my shoulders so they’re not slipping off and hurry
to catch up with you.
Each dorm has its own dining hall, and yours is pretty nice. The vaulted ceiling has exposed wood beams and the warm redbrick walls give the room a sense of coziness.
There’s eggs and other breakfast food assortments, but also Thanksgiving-leftover-themed dishes. I pile my plate high with
turkey, two kinds of cranberry sauce, and roasted sweet potatoes with brown sugar and plenty of butter.
Thanksgiving is the one holiday where my parents insist on cooking “American” food at home. But cooking American food isn’t
really their forte, so the turkey is always dry and the mashed potatoes under-seasoned.
I’m famished from my early dinner and foodless flight. I’m shoving my face. I notice that you have a tiny portion of eggs
that you keep pushing around the plate and a big mug of coffee.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” I ask.
“I ate a bit earlier. Not hungry.”
I don’t believe you, but I don’t press it. I can’t make you eat. I’m not your mother.
“Any fun shows you’re watching lately?” I ask to try to generate conversation.
You shrug with one shoulder. “Not really. I’ve had a lot on my plate.”
You don’t say anything else, and I can’t think of anything to talk about either. I can’t remember the last serious conversation
I had with you. It must have been years ago.
We’re sitting at a long table with benches.
Students filter in and out of the room, most in their pajamas.
I watch them go by as I eat. Nobody stops by to say hello.
My silverware scrapes against the plate loudly.
I am self-conscious about how long I’m taking, when you’re just sitting there, sipping out of your mug, waiting for me.
After I’m done, you take my tray to the conveyor belt, and we head up to your dorm room. We go up a long staircase to the
second floor. Your dorm is coed, so men and women mill about the hallways. We go into a room with a common area. Most of the
housing accommodations involve sharing a suite with multiple people.
“Home sweet home,” you say.
The suite is empty, and we go to your room.
There are two beds, but your roommate isn’t here this week. “He’s visiting his boyfriend back home in Connecticut,” you say.
“You can have his bed. He washed the sheets before.”
The roommate has some posters up on his wall and a corkboard with a bunch of photos of his family and multiple with a guy
who I assume might be the boyfriend.
“Do you like him?” I ask.
“He’s fine. Nice. Goes home a lot of weekends. We mostly keep out of each other’s way.”
“What about the other guys in the suite?” There seems to be two other bedrooms leading to the common room.
“We all hang out every once in a while, but we’re not that close. They’re all in really time-consuming clubs, I think. So
it’s very in-and-out. I, uh—” You stop, as though you’re not sure what to say. You scratch your neck.
“What?”
“It’s only been a few months,” you say. “It’s just not been as easy to find my group as I thought.” You shake it off and give
me a smile. “What am I telling you? College is great, Stella. Get out of the house. Be free.”
I laugh.
“I’m glad you came out.” Your shoulders and cheeks relax, and suddenly, it seems like you are back to the person I remember.
I am relieved.
I plop onto the roommate’s bedspread. “So what’s the plan?”
“I thought I might take you around campus and see my favorite places. Maybe check out some weekend events at the school that
you might be interested in. I wish I knew somebody who worked at The Harvard Crimson , so you could meet them.”
I sigh and crinkle my nose. “Let’s be real, Sam. I’m not going to Harvard.”
“You don’t know that.”
I look at him and roll my eyes. “I appreciate the optimism. But we know. Can’t we do something fun? I haven’t seen you in
ages. Let’s go to Boston. Let’s get out of here.”
For a moment, you appear to be fighting your impulse to push the weekend that we’re supposed to have. But you give up. “All
right. You win.”
We take the T into Boston and spend the rest of the day sightseeing.
We go along the Freedom Trail, take a duck boat tour into the Charles River, window-shop down the cobblestone road on Newbury Street.
When it gets dark, we go to the North End and splurge on Italian food.
You use a fake to get us a bottle of wine, even.
We get gelato and wander through the neighborhood under twinkly dinner lights.
I feel almost close to you, like maybe this is a new start. Our transition into the kind of sibling relationship people have
as adults. As equals.
By the time we get back to your dorm, it’s time for bed. Even with the one-hour advantage of Midwestern jet lag, I am wiped
from the day. I say hello to your two suitemates, who are playing video games in the common area, and retreat to your roommate’s
bed. You use the bathroom after me. I mean to tell you about the new superhero movie coming out and ask whether we can go
see it tomorrow, but as I’m waiting, I pass out.
The next time I wake up, it’s dark.
There’s a sliver of light coming through the sides of the shades. I blink at the big digital clock on your desk. It’s 4:43
a.m. I notice that your bed is empty. I feel wide-awake for some reason. I lie in bed, waiting for you to return. Ten minutes
pass, then fifteen, and you don’t return to the room. I hoist myself up on my elbow and check my phone. I don’t have any messages
from you.
I feel a small bubble of panic. Alone in the darkness, outlandish ideas begin to run through my head about where you are.
Maybe you got kidnapped or somebody stabbed you dead in the common room.
I consider calling the police, but I’m afraid it’s an overreaction.
I lie there with a mounting dread for what feels like hours.
Eventually, the door opens and you come back in. I turn to my side, facing away from you so that you can’t see I’m awake.
You rustle around the blankets on your bed and then fall still. I am troubled, but I close my eyes.
By the time I wake up again, it’s actually morning.
I sit up, disoriented. You’re sitting at your desk, typing.
“Good morning,” you say after you turn to see me.
“Good morning,” I croak. My throat is dry.
You hand me a bottle of water from your mini fridge.
“Thanks.” I take a few gulps and wash down the taste of stale sleep. “Where were you last night?”
You blink. “What are you talking about?”
“I woke up in the middle of the night, and you weren’t there.”
“I was just in the bathroom.”
You are lying. I’m taken by surprise. You and I, we never lie to each other. To our parents, sure. But there was no reason
for you to lie to me before. You are trying to protect me, I realize. From what?
“I was awake for an hour and a half,” I say flatly. “You weren’t in the bathroom. I heard you come into the suite from outside.”
“Oh.” You sound uncomfortable. “Yeah, I was walking around outside.”
“Why?”
“I have trouble sleeping sometimes.” You are hesitant, your explanation reluctant. Your eyes dart briefly toward the bottom drawer of your desk. You see me notice. Immediately, I know that you are hiding something.
I swing my legs out from the bed and come closer. I kneel down. You don’t stop me.
I open the bottom drawer of your desk. You were always so organized. Everything in the same spot. The drawer is full of pills.
My stomach drops.
“What are you taking?” I ask.
You push the drawer closed. “It’s not that bad,” you say. “I told you I’m having trouble sleeping. I just got some Xanax and
stuff.” You don’t elaborate on the “stuff.”
“Sam... are you getting these from a doctor?”
“I can’t go to a doctor. I’m still on Baba’s health insurance. You know that’ll freak them out, and they’ll think there’s
something wrong.”
“Maybe there is something wrong,” I say timidly.
“It’s not a big deal. They’re all prescription drugs. It’s not like I’m doing cocaine. It’s not like I’m shooting heroin,”
you joke.
I don’t laugh.
You sigh. “College has just been a bit stressful this semester. I was taking some uppers to help me out. Had trouble sleeping.
Needed to get some stuff to help me go down so I wouldn’t be a zombie the next day. I try not to take them most of the time.
It’s really the least of my problems.”
I wonder what all your problems are, if this is the least of them. You look exhausted this morning. I wonder if you slept
at all last night.
“I think you should see someone,” I tell you. I’m scared. You are unbalanced, and I’ve never seen you like this before. “Who cares if Baba and Mama see? You need help.”
You shake your head. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” And then you say the thing that I think about for months after.
After you’re gone. The thing that haunts me when I lie in bed at night. “Don’t tell anyone. Especially Mama and Baba. Please.
It’ll only make them worry.”
It is the one time I consider saying no. Or telling my parents anyway. Because I’m just a kid, after all, and this secret
feels too big to keep.
You look at me with desperate eyes, so I say okay. You look relieved, oh so relieved. “We got each other’s backs, right?”
you say.
I trust you. I trust you to be right about this, because no matter how far apart we’ve grown and how little I know about you
now, you’re still my ge ge, my older brother, and you’ve never been wrong before. “Right,” I say.
We grin at each other, teeth bared, like wild animals in a hunter’s trap, waiting for the end.