musician, but Iâd always thought that my father shared them, wanted the same for meâglowing stage lights, gilded ceilings, the rustling of programs. All I did know was that my fatherâs words made me feel exposed and uncomfortable. Guilty.
âWhy do you hate it so much?â I asked again, trying to detract his attention away from our parentsâ closed motel room door.
âIt makes me feel like Iâm not real,â he said, shrugging. âLike sheâs searching for evidence of . . . I donât know
what.
Itâs so fake. Itâs like she wants proof that weâre all so fucking happy all the time, that weâve had such a
nice
family vacation.â When he said the word ânice,â his voice rose to a falsetto, such a keen, cloying imitation of my mother that it made me flinch slightly.
âWell, havenât we?
Arenât
we?â I stuffed a handful of SunChips into my mouth, chewing distractedly. We had just raided the vending machines in the motel lobby, and I was looking forward to a night of eating junk food and drinking Cokes in front of the TV. Luke didnât answer, just opened a package of peanut butter crackers, cramming two squares in his mouth. In the past two years, Iâd grown accustomed to my brotherâs cryptic silences, his mood swings, how one moment he could be thrilled to see me, and the next heâd be just as likely to slam his bedroom door in my face, shutting me out completely. It never stopped hurting my feelings, but I had accepted it as just One of Those Things. âHeâll grow out of it,â my mother said consolingly in a voice that wanted to seem confident, but instead wavered slightly, unsure. So I tried to ignore those intermittent snubs, pretending they didnât matter, when in reality, every unkind word my brother hurled toward me burned its way into my brain, lodging there indelibly.
âSo why donât you just say no, then? Why do it at all if it just makes you nuts?â
He reached over and grabbed my chips, popping them into his mouth one after the other.
âI donât know,â he said after a long moment. âI guess itâs too much hassle to say no, to make a fuss. And I donât care enough to bother. So I just give in and go along with it. The way I do with everything elseâschool, Mom and Dad, applying to college, whatever.â
I wrinkled my brow in confusion, trying to understand.
âBut I thought you wanted to go to college? Right?â
His face closed off the way it always did when he didnât want to talk about something, and he turned away from me, switching on the TV, his eyes flickering across the images on the screen. I knew enough not to ask any more questions. Even though in the past few years Iâd seen these moods get stronger, occupying Lukeâs attention for longer periods of time, there were moments of grace, long stretches when the darkness would lighten and heâd be the brother I knew so well, the guy who pushed me on the tire swing in our yard until his arms were sore, who sat with me at the kitchen table working through a problem in algebra, his unfailing belief in the power of numbers, the logic of them somehow soothing, marching across a pristine white page. But once Luke was in a mood, there was no busting him out of it until he was good and ready. You left him alone until it broke, like a fever. Until he snapped out of it. And sooner or later, he always did.
Except for the one time he didnât.
I want to talk to Ben, to hear his voice telling me everything will be all right. It occurs to me that he probably needs the same thing right now, and that as much as I want to, I canât be the one to say it to him, canât wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. The thought makes my chest seize up like a car out of gas, the needle falling into the red. I picture us in our separate houses, grief pinning us to our beds. I
âWhy do you hate it so much?â I asked again, trying to detract his attention away from our parentsâ closed motel room door.
âIt makes me feel like Iâm not real,â he said, shrugging. âLike sheâs searching for evidence of . . . I donât know
what.
Itâs so fake. Itâs like she wants proof that weâre all so fucking happy all the time, that weâve had such a
nice
family vacation.â When he said the word ânice,â his voice rose to a falsetto, such a keen, cloying imitation of my mother that it made me flinch slightly.
âWell, havenât we?
Arenât
we?â I stuffed a handful of SunChips into my mouth, chewing distractedly. We had just raided the vending machines in the motel lobby, and I was looking forward to a night of eating junk food and drinking Cokes in front of the TV. Luke didnât answer, just opened a package of peanut butter crackers, cramming two squares in his mouth. In the past two years, Iâd grown accustomed to my brotherâs cryptic silences, his mood swings, how one moment he could be thrilled to see me, and the next heâd be just as likely to slam his bedroom door in my face, shutting me out completely. It never stopped hurting my feelings, but I had accepted it as just One of Those Things. âHeâll grow out of it,â my mother said consolingly in a voice that wanted to seem confident, but instead wavered slightly, unsure. So I tried to ignore those intermittent snubs, pretending they didnât matter, when in reality, every unkind word my brother hurled toward me burned its way into my brain, lodging there indelibly.
âSo why donât you just say no, then? Why do it at all if it just makes you nuts?â
He reached over and grabbed my chips, popping them into his mouth one after the other.
âI donât know,â he said after a long moment. âI guess itâs too much hassle to say no, to make a fuss. And I donât care enough to bother. So I just give in and go along with it. The way I do with everything elseâschool, Mom and Dad, applying to college, whatever.â
I wrinkled my brow in confusion, trying to understand.
âBut I thought you wanted to go to college? Right?â
His face closed off the way it always did when he didnât want to talk about something, and he turned away from me, switching on the TV, his eyes flickering across the images on the screen. I knew enough not to ask any more questions. Even though in the past few years Iâd seen these moods get stronger, occupying Lukeâs attention for longer periods of time, there were moments of grace, long stretches when the darkness would lighten and heâd be the brother I knew so well, the guy who pushed me on the tire swing in our yard until his arms were sore, who sat with me at the kitchen table working through a problem in algebra, his unfailing belief in the power of numbers, the logic of them somehow soothing, marching across a pristine white page. But once Luke was in a mood, there was no busting him out of it until he was good and ready. You left him alone until it broke, like a fever. Until he snapped out of it. And sooner or later, he always did.
Except for the one time he didnât.
I want to talk to Ben, to hear his voice telling me everything will be all right. It occurs to me that he probably needs the same thing right now, and that as much as I want to, I canât be the one to say it to him, canât wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. The thought makes my chest seize up like a car out of gas, the needle falling into the red. I picture us in our separate houses, grief pinning us to our beds. I
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