17. BACK THEN – December
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
“P lease go outside, Garrison,” my mom begs from the kitchen. The smell of freshly made Christmas cookies wafts through a ten-foot archway—straight into the nearby living room where I sit.
The ornately tufted furniture, including this taupe couch my ass is on, should honestly exist in Downton Abbey . Not Pennsylvania.
I don’t pause or turn off my game console. “Maybe later,” I say, more than disinterested.
During Thanksgiving last month, my mom guilted me into joining Davis, Hunter, and Mitchell for a “brotherly” dinner in the city. Unbeknownst to our parents, they really planned some Turkey Pub Crawl thing, and with my fake ID, I could accompany them.
On paper it sounds great. Bonding time! Brothers! Beer! But I’d rather cut off my big toe than be around Davis and Hunter when they’re piss drunk.
I tried to leave when Davis started shoving my head with “brotherly” aggression, but Mitchell convinced me to hang around for a while longer.
I should’ve bailed because at the next pub Hunter waved a hundred-dollar bill in the air.
The consequence, of which, gave me a bruised kidney and dislocated shoulder. For a whole week, it hurt to piss.
I still hear my brother’s stupid voice and see that pub and those fucking men.
“I’ll give anyone a hundred bucks to fight my brother here,” Hunter decreed, smacking my shoulder hard, cash between his fingers.
I jerked out of his hold. “No,” I spit. “Fuck that.”
Davis laughed and chugged his beer. Mitchell hung back, texting some girl he started dating.
Hunter raised his voice to announce, “He needs to become a man.” He slapped my face hard enough to leave a handprint. “You’re such a little cock-sucking pussy.”
I shoved him towards a high-top table, and Hunter almost flipped a switch, his eyes flashing murderously. I raised a hand for him to stay put. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. My heavy pulse could’ve busted my eardrums.
Davis laughed more. “Why are you running away from him?” he asked me. “Push back.”
Fuck that shit.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
If I pushed back, I would’ve ended up with two black eyes. Hunter outsized me, and he had Davis on his side.
“Going once!” Hunter hollered at the crowds, still waving the bill. “Twice!”
Two leather-clad biker guys—way older than us—exchanged a look and then hopped up from their bar stools.
“He’s joking,” I said, backing up towards the exit.
“I’m not,” Hunter retorted. “Come on, Garrison. Fight back!”
“Be a man,” Davis shouted, hands cupped around his mouth like he was cheering me on. Pumping me up. Encouraging me. To be a man.
Bullshit. I shouldn’t have to bear my fists in a drunken brawl to be called a motherfucking man. They’re the immature ones.
I kept backing up.
The bikers followed me. Step for step. Not slowing.
Not hesitating.
“I don’t want to fight!” I screamed furiously and desperately, hoping someone—anyone—would hear me.
The bikers sped up to a sprint, and I spun around to run away.
I fled the pub, reached the sidewalk, and was kicked in the lower back.
Right in my kidney. I fell to my hands. The man grabbed onto my arm, and my shoulder popped out as I fought against him.
Freeing myself, I ran as far as I could and then spun back around to my parked car.
I offered to be the “designated driver” for that reason. I wanted an escape in case I needed one. My brothers found their own way home. Took a cab or something. And then they complained to our mom how I bailed on them.
I didn’t tell anyone what really happened. Not even Willow, who was having a shit time in Maine already. Apparently, her little sister threw a tantrum about Willow moving away to Philly, and she refused to be in the same room with Willow the entire holiday.
Willow ate Thanksgiving dinner alone in her bedroom—but not totally alone. I Skyped her and ate my pumpkin pie at the same time.
In the living room on Christmas Eve, I pound harder on my game controller, crushing my score on Street Fighter II . My mom already guilted me into leaving my bedroom, but I’m not going to be guilted into any “brotherly” activities this time.
“Garrison.” My mom says my name in a way that completely obliterates each syllable with disappointment.
I know how to fix it. How to make her happy. To vanquish her disappointment, I have to become more like my brothers, but I can’t be them. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I was just like Hunter or Davis or even Mitchell.
And that says a lot because I’ve barely been able to live with myself as is.
My mom appears in the archway, cupping a wine glass with lime seltzer. I try not to make eye contact, but she still lingers. “I know they’d love if you joined them.”
They brought their lacrosse sticks from college, and they’re playing in the yard, tossing the ball between the three of them.
“I’m busy,” I say flatly, my stomach starting to knot. My character Ryu is knocked on his ass by Dee Jay. I lose the first round and try to concentrate on the second, but I’m overly aware of how many times I blink, trying to shake off my mom’s presence and request.
I lose the second round.
In the short break, I grab the remote and turn up the volume, wishing she’d take the hint and leave me alone.
My mom struts over and snatches the remote from my hand. She turns off the TV.
I stare flabbergasted at her. Usually she stands passively off to the side and lets me be a spoiled, ungrateful shithead.
I angrily toss my controller aside and slouch back on the couch. I pull up my hood and wait for her to lecture or yell or whatever she’s decided to suddenly do.
“Your brain is going to rot from these video games,” she says like all moms do, but if life were different—if sports were perceived as “lesser” and video games were seen as something “more”—would I be the beloved son then?
“I have a brain?” I say, sarcasm thick. “No way.”
Sadness softens her eyes, and she sweeps over my dry tone. “Your brothers are home only a few times out of the year. Why can’t you at least visit with them?” It’s the same question. The same fight.
The same request.
Over and over, it never changes. I don’t think it ever will. “I don’t like them,” I tell her seriously.
“They’re your brothers .”
I lift my foot on the couch cushion, arm draped on my kneecap. It takes me the longest second to find words. I want to shut down, but if someone can help me, I think it’d be a parent. A mom.
“Mom, it doesn’t…” I shake my head and meet the confusion on her face. “Just because we’re brothers doesn’t absolve them of all the shit they’ve done to me.”
“They love you. I know they do. They tell me all the time.” There she goes, defending them again. She fights tears and cups her drink with both palms. Like she’s afraid her hands will shake and she’ll drop the glass.
Love. Is how they treat me called love ? I’m not making this up, right? They truly suck. It’s not all on me. It’s not my fault.
Is it?
I hate questioning myself. I used to do this as a little kid. Hell, I do it when anyone points out a bruise. It’s just what brothers do. Now that I’m older, I’m starting to see it’s not cool or right or something I want in my life.
It’s why I avoid them.
“Garrison,” she pleads.
I hang my head. “You know Thanksgiving?” I’m going to puke. I have to tell her though. I need to tell someone. I don’t want this weight on my chest. “I only bailed on them because Hunter paid two guys a hundred bucks to fight me.”
I brave a glance, and she only looks befuddled. Like she’s trying to figure out a defense for her three sons. Like she’s their trial lawyer.
“Were they drinking?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah, but…” What does that fucking matter?!
“I’m sure they were just playing around. You’re too sensitive about things, Garrison.”
“The man dislocated my shoulder,” I say, my throat burning raw. “ Mom .”
She sighs like I’m being unnaturally troublesome.
“I didn’t want to fight,” I say. “I didn’t want to even be there—”
“Then maybe you should try to be happier when you’re with them. They won’t give you such a hard time.”
I’ll never win with her.
After a short pause, she adds, “Your father says you need thicker skin, and you know, he’s right. The real world isn’t kind either.”
“Whatever.” I shut down now and grab my controller. As she sees me about to play my game and ignore her, she lets out this wounded noise, between a sigh and a cry.
I stare blankly at the paused television screen.
She sniffs loudly. “I just…” Her voice breaks. I always make her cry in the end. “I just don’t know what to do anymore, Garrison.”
She acts like it’s her fault that animosity exists between my brothers and me, but then when she has the chance to make it better, she puts it all on my shoulders. Go spend time with them. Befriend them. Please.
“You could’ve gone to jail. Just like your friends,” she starts listing my terrible decisions, bad actions, awful characteristics. “You got tattoos without me knowing. You were found drinking vodka at school.”
Once.
I was caught once , but I’d done it plenty more times.
“You’ve been in trouble for vandalizing, backtalking, and cutting class.
” She takes a pause to wipe a fallen tear.
“But thank God you didn’t break into Loren Hale’s home that night.
Watching your best friends get in trouble—I thought that was your wakeup call.
But you’re still skipping school. You still won’t listen to me or your father.
You won’t speak to your brothers. Nothing has changed. ”
Everything has changed.
I’m certain that I’m not the same anymore. I feel overturned. Inside-out. I’m fighting against the person they want me to be and fighting for the person I am inside.
The fact that she can’t even see this makes me wonder who she’s even looking at. Does she even know me at all? Or is she still resenting the fourth son she was given?
I shrug and turn on my game.