Chapter 4 Rip #2
His words manage to cut all the remaining power to my brain. It takes a minute before the back-up generator kicks on. The secondary power source doesn’t work as well. “What happened?”
“I was in a car wreck.”
“I mean to your leg.”
“For fuck’s sake. Can you just help me?” he says through gritted teeth.
So, it turns out sometimes people go into comas when they lose a lot of blood, say by being in a car wreck and getting their thigh muscle nearly sliced in half by a piece of metal.
They said coma, and I just thought coma.
He’d wake up. A coma is a brain thing, right?
It is on TV. This is a testament to how checked out I am on all matters regarding my brother.
It is not one of my proudest realizations.
My incompetence as a brother isn’t the point, though. The point is, I have to help him into a wheelchair.
In my whole stupid life, I have never felt as clumsy or useless as I do in the three minutes my brother goes from being comfortable in bed to settled in the wheelchair.
He won’t let me pick him up—he pushes my arms away.
He won’t hold my hands either, so I wind up standing there with one arm sticking out so he can grab onto it and leverage himself off the bed using his seemingly undamaged leg.
He’s unsteady, so I reach around his back to support him, but when I put my hand on him, he gives me another ball-shriveling glare until I move away.
He isn’t paralyzed, though. Small mercy.
I swear, the instant Connor sits down—and I mean the exact instant—a nurse strolls into the room looking all shocked that Connor is already in the chair.
If I could have murdered that woman with the rage in my eyes, she’d definitely be dead, but she never even looks at me.
She rattles off some discharge instructions and wheels my brother down to my rental car.
The nurse helps Connor get in, her hands all over him, and Connor never once complains or pushes her away.
Instead, very sweetly, he thanks her for “everything.”
The day goes downhill from there.
On the drive, Connor starts talking to me again.
“You look exactly like I figured you would,” he says.
I turn away from the road to check his expression—gauge his level of sarcasm.
He smiles at me, showing all his straightened, white teeth, those little snakebites gleaming. “That didn't come out right.”
“Well, it came out,” I manage to say. “Regardless.”
“And what have you been up to these last six years? Or do I have to guess?” His voice is bright and cheerful. Unsettling.
I have no interest in hearing what are sure to be multiple offensive guesses, so I tell him. “I've been in school.”
“As in college?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
I glance at him while he studies me like I’m some kind of curiosity—a mutant animal at a zoo. Everything about him unnerves me, but most of all his eyes. When I look into them, I swear I see my mother staring back at me. “Yes. Really.”
“Surprising. Did you finish?”
My fingers clench the steering wheel. I manage a curt nod.
“What'd you study?”
I wish I’d pictured this moment when I chose my major.
If I’d done that, I would have studied law or medicine even though I can’t stand the sight of blood.
Did I think no one I used to know would ever ask?
For the first time since I graduated, I’m not proud of anything I’ve done.
My mother would have laughed her ass off if I told her I got two degrees in Art History. “I don't want to discuss this.”
“Just tell me, or I'll start guessing,” he replies.
I give up. Fuck this conversation. Fuck him. I stare out at the road, coming to a stop at a red light.
“Something creative, right? Art?”
“Good guess.”
“You have paint all over your hands. Doesn’t take a genius.”
“I work at a museum.”
“What kind of museum?” he asks. “What do you do there? Give tours?”
I sigh. “Kind of.”
“What’s ‘kind of’ giving a tour like?”
My jaw tightens. “I write and narrate audio tours at an art museum.”
“Oh. You’re that guy,” he says, like he has me all figured out. “Is that your dream job? Is that what you wanna do for the rest of your life?”
I’m in no mood to discuss my dream job with him. “I don’t know,” I mumble.
“Well, you should probably figure it out. You’re not getting any younger. Oh, wait—I forgot. You’re the heir. You’ll never have to work again.”
The thin thread of sanity holding me together snaps. “Listen—about that. You should know I’ve put the house on the market.” The words come out before I consider the consequences, but once I say them, there’s no going back.
“What?” he asks, his voice suddenly thin and high. “You can’t do that!”
“Why?” I meet his eyes briefly.
“They’re not even buried yet.”
“Well, they will be soon, and I don’t want the house.” What Tristan said was true about the funeral home. Literally all of it. I did not buy the plot they tried to sell me next to my parents, but I was assured there was plenty of room if I change my mind.
“Give the house to me,” Connor says.
I look back at the road and turn onto our old street. “Why the hell would you want to keep living there?” I ask, unable to comprehend the concept of wanting to be surrounded by those walls when everyone else who once lived there is dead and gone.
“I've lived there my whole life. Archer—hang on—”
“I'm selling it. We can get another house.” The offhand comment shocks us both.
“Who the fuck is we?” His voice is edged with anger.
It’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay composed. “You and me. Us.”
“You’re staying?” He sounds horrified.
I feel suddenly like my fate is sealed.
“There is no fucking way.” He whips around and spits out, “I am not living with you. Anywhere. Ever. So stay or go. Do whatever you want, Archer—just like always. I can take care of myself.”
I have to remind myself again that I’m dealing with an eighteen-year old who’s lost nearly everything he once called his. “Can we talk about this?” I ask, as the house comes into view.
“I don’t wanna talk to you anymore,” he says. “You’re a fucking stranger. My entire family is dead.” He says it like he’s only just now realizing it.
“Mine too.”
He laughs—a loud barking laugh. His tone is patronizing. “Right. I’m so sorry for your loss, Archer. This must be so hard on you.”
“I'm here, aren't I?” I say, to deflect what he was getting at—that I’m so cold and callous that I can’t even dredge up a single tear over the loss of my parents.
“I wish you weren’t.”
“Well, it's too goddamn late now.” I pull into the driveway. Once I get him inside, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. I know exactly what I’m gonna do. I’m selling the house.
What’s the best way to take off a Band-Aid? Do you go slow and pull out every hair one by one? Do you suffer longer because you’re too scared to feel the pain all at once? Or do you rip it off?
You rip it off.
You sell the house.
You get it over with.
One day he’ll thank me for it.