Chapter 8 Brody #2
The doctors warned us this would happen. Withdrawal combined with Davis’ mental health struggles would make it harder for him to cope. Mood swings and depressive episodes are to be expected, but expecting it doesn’t make it any easier to watch.
I wish I could make it all better for him. He’s drowning, wasting away right in front of me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I just—miss talking to you like this, even if I had to humiliate myself to make it happen. You haven’t called or texted me back at all since you got out of the center.”
“It’s fine,” he grits out. But I know our moment is over. He’s shut himself off again.
“I just worry about you, and—"
“Yeah,” he grits out, “well, don’t.” He pauses the game, shoves the controller aside, and turns away from me. “Get out.”
“Davis—”
“I said get out,” he snaps. Then his shoulders sag, and he lets out a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”
I swallow the sting in my throat and back out of the room quietly.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence of the hallway feels hollow and loud. I stand outside his bedroom, wanting to go back in, wanting to say something, anything, to make it better, but I know I can’t.
Instead, I head straight to my old bedroom. While none of the house has changed that much over the years, my childhood bedroom looks like time never moved forward at all. If you ignore the dust that only gets wiped up whenever I visit, you’d never know much time had passed.
It’s still the same room I’ve slept in since I was a toddler. Over the years, the décor got upgraded a few times, as I grew out of Sesame Street and found a love for comic books.
My old wrestling trophies line the dresser, some shiny, others showing their age and dusty. Old movie posters on the wall are sun-faded at the corners. There’s a shelf full of old comic books and graphic novels.
Above my full-sized bed, covered in a faded navy blue comforter, is the framed set of DC Pride issues I was gifted for my birthday one year.
I remember how excited I was to have them, to display them on the wall.
To me, they were proof that I could be something extraordinary, despite what the kids at school, my teachers, and my coaches thought.
They were proof that maybe one day I wouldn’t feel so out-of-place everywhere I went.
At the end of the bed is a desk, still covered in notebooks and pencils from my last high school exams, plus some of the books I still have from The University of Nebraska.
On the wall above the desk is a collage of family photos.
It’s mostly pictures of Davis and me over the years.
Sporting events, Davis’ art shows, a science fair, wrestling meets, and birthday parties.
The older we get in the pictures, the more the differences between us are apparent.
As time went on, Davis turned in on himself, got paler and more sullen.
And the less he smiled, the more I felt the need to.
From this perspective it looks like I was sapping the life from him, growing while he wilted.
In the very center is the last family photo we took before Dad died.
We’re all smiling. Dad’s arm is around Mom.
Davis and I look like complete opposites.
I was always short and stocky, with blond hair like our mom, although I got dad’s curly hair.
Davis is tall and willowy like our father, with straight, dark hair and haunted eyes.
Or at least, that’s how they look now. We look happy in those pictures, even though the teasing had already started by then.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and hold my head in my hands.
I knew being here wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t expect to feel so beaten down.
It’s not like me to not be able to find a silver lining naturally, to sit here and force myself to remember that Mom is okay, she’s working and living her life while taking care of Davis.
Davis, who is struggling, but sober for the first time in a very long time.
Everyone might not be doing great, but they’re okay.
We’re okay.
We’re going to be okay.
The next morning, I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of my mom singing along to whatever song is playing in her head. It’s kind of hard to tell what it is at first, since she’s not the greatest singer, but the sound is comforting nonetheless.
After cleaning up in the bathroom, I pad out in my pajama pants and a t-shirt from my high school wrestling club.
“Hey, Mama,” I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a hug while she attempts to scramble eggs.
“Hey, baby. You’re up early.”
“It’s almost nine.” I’m usually up before six for morning lift and conditioning.
She pauses for a moment. “Yeah, but you got in late last night, didn’t you?”
“Not too late, but it was after ten. Sorry I didn’t make it for dinner.”
“That’s alright, not like you could help it. What are the chances that you’d have two flat tires?” She throws up her hands, like what’re you gonna do about it?
I didn’t tell her about the tires being slashed. The last thing my mom needs is more stress on her plate. And honestly, I’m still processing what to do about that. Or what to do about what I did about it.
But that’s not something I want to think about right now.
I notice there are only two plates out, so I pull out two coffee mugs and toast two English muffins. Mom brings the pan over and divvies out the eggs, putting enough for three people on my plate. I sprinkle some pepper on mine before we carry our plates to the table and sit across from one another.
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.”
“No, I’m glad you did. I think it might have given him some perspective.”
By the time I have my things packed and I’m ready to head back to Huntston, I still haven’t had a chance to really talk to Davis. He doesn’t answer when I knock on his door, and I worry that the last time I see him will be the episode last night.
But as I’m walking out to my car, I’m surprised to find him sitting on the ratty old rocking chair on the porch.
“You gonna be alright?” He asks me.
“Are you?” I reply, returning his crooked smile.
“I’m gonna try.” I hear what he doesn’t say, that right now, trying is going to have to be enough.
I nod. It’s something. I’ll take it.
“And hey Brody—check in on your guy, yeah? Whatever it was, make it right.”
“Yeah, okay. He’s not my guy, though.”
I pull out of the driveway, leaving a smiling Davis behind me.