Track 11 #3
“My dad had an accident at work when I was four—his arm was crushed by a car lift. He had to get a couple surgeries to fix his shoulder, but they only made it worse. He was against the medications at first, but without them, he was practically paralyzed on his left side. He started taking the pills just so he could live and work. I mean, he had a family and a business and a house. He couldn’t just not show up for work when he was the owner of the shop or not feed his family when he was the sole provider. ” A shaky breath escapes my lungs.
“After a while, the script he was getting wasn’t enough.
And the way he was overusing his arm but could still feel the pain—it was such a hopeless, horrible place to watch him be in.
He kept needing more relief just to be able to sit himself up.
When we lost our house, he started drinking heavily.
Getting violent and angry all the time. He tossed my mom around for years.
She ended up in the hospital twice, but she always lied for him.
“When we got older, um, my brother… He got involved with some bad people. He tried to use his connections to find better painkillers for my dad, so he could stop drinking so much. He found stronger pills one night, but, um…” My voice cracks.
“He got caught at a routine traffic stop. They patted him down and found the drugs. I haven’t seen him since,” I say, silent tears wetting my cheeks.
“He was always the good kid. Honest, kind, and brave. He never got in trouble. Not once.” My eyes prick as I remember him—the tenderness in his eyes as he brushed my hair at night.
The courage in them as he fought off imaginary villains on our childhood adventures.
The excitement and pride that stared back at me as I rode a bike beside him for the very first time.
“They gave him seven years in prison on a drug charge—the most they could possibly give because he happened to be in a school zone.” Jake’s brows are furrowed, his eyes filled with such deep compassion, and it breaks my heart to see it.
To see my story from his eyes. A story I wish I could erase and wash myself clean of.
My voice is shaky, but I keep going, anyway.
“My dad had already been drinking heavily since we were kids, but the guilt about Parker just ate away at him, and now…” I trail off, not wanting to remember any more of the darkness that has consumed my life from such a young age.
The bangs and crashes from the other side of my bedroom wall.
The fist-sized holes that decorated our walls in lieu of family portraits.
The empty feeling in my heart when I realized my mother was never coming back.
The heartbreaking hollowness that she didn’t love us enough to take us with her.
“Everything happened in a flash. It all changed so quickly.” I swipe at my nose, realizing more tears have fallen. “Anyway,” I sniff. “I guess my mom couldn’t take it anymore so she left before things got worse. And they did. They got much, much worse.”
Jake squeezes my hand until my eyes find his.
“It’s okay,” I say, placating myself and him as I watch the sorrow fill his eyes. “I’m okay.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says. I have to hold my breath not to take it in.
“It’s fine,” I repeat on reflex like I have for all these years. It’s the mantra I need to believe to keep going, to keep living. To keep moving forward as if there is only today.
Jake pulls me into his chest and covers me in the wide span of his arms. I force my eyes shut, holding my breath so I don’t break out in the sobs my soul is begging for.
My hands grip the back of his shirt as if holding onto him is the only thing that’s grounding, and I realize in this moment that I have never been comforted like this before. Not by anyone.
When he finally releases me, I allow myself a breath.
“What brought that up today?” is all he asks with nothing but pure concern, and somehow, I feel lifted by it—by his lack of judgement or pity or anything that might make me shrink into myself.
“Oh…uh.” I clear my throat, still trying to sound stable.
“My dad called me for the first time in over a year. I didn’t answer but…
he left a message telling me how much of a piece of shit I am for leaving him like my mom did.
” I sniffle as my father’s drunken rasp filled with disgust plays in my head.
“Alana, you fucking brat. Think you're better than us, leaving us behind like your bitch mother! You piece of shit…” he trailed off, possibly zoning into a drunken stupor. When he returned to the phone, he was confused. “Hello? Who’s there? Parker, is that you?” And then he began to cry.
I force a smile in hopes of lightening the mood with my cynical humor. It’s the only gift I can give myself, attempting to make light of the worst possible nightmare that is, in fact, my life.
“Jokes on him, though,” I say with a subtle hike of my shoulder.
“My mom got to go free, but I have to go back.” My throat constricts with a tightness that is almost impossible to breathe through.
Because this—this is what’s true. It’s a truth I’ve willingly ignored until this day, until that phone call—that even though I’m here, all these miles away, I don’t have the luxury of freedom.
I’ll never have it.
Because I have to go back.
I owe it to my brother.