Brother

The day my little sister was born was supposed to be the best day of my life. I was going to be the big brother to an annoying little sister who looked up to me. All my friends had little sisters who thought of them as a mighty prince that would always protect them. I didn’t want to be the only one left out. Her name was going to be Emily and she was going to be her big brother Mitch’s biggest fan. But when I walked into the hospital room with Dad and saw the bundle of blue instead of pink in Mom’s arms, I was furious. They promised me a little sister, not a noisy screaming brother.

The next day when we went to take Mom home, the doctor said that Tristen failed his hearing test. For the next two years, every free day was spent in dozens of doctors’ and specialists’ offices, always getting the same answer. He was deaf. Everyone was full of information about how much this would change his life and my parents’ lives, but no one told me how much it would change my life. Ever since that day, I’ve heard all the warnings: “Hold his hand tightly, Mitch, not just in the parking lot.” “You have to look at him when you ask him something.” “You need to learn to sign.” “Stop signing swears at him, he’s a child!”

After years of having to watch him over like a tiger stalking its prey, I was entering high school as a senior. One more year and I could be out on my own and rid of him. The pain in my eyes continued as it always had. I blamed it on my parents demanding I never let my eyes drift from watching Tristen. Walking down the hall, I waved to the juniors and sophomores that recognized me and eagerly waved back. One lifted his phone and snapped a picture but the flash caused the pain in my eyes to spike. I cried out and held my eyes. The pain went from surprising to unbearable. I fell to the tile floor, crying and screaming. Teachers tried their best to calm me down but no one could figure out what was wrong. The pain was so severe, they called an ambulance. Hours later, in the emergency room, under the influence of heavy pain medication, I was finally seen by an optomologist.

“You see, the nerve cells have developed a mutation, where they are growing faster than the healthy cells can die. So tumor has been created right on your retina.” he explained as he touched what sounded like paper.

“What does that mean?” I asked. I couldn’t open my eyes or the pain would come rushing in again.

The doctor gave a sigh and I could hear him nervously fidgeting through his papers. “It means, you have cancer in both your eyes. And,” he paused, “the only way to remove it will be to remove your eyes.”

I opened my eyes to look at his face, to try and detect any bluffing in his face, but the pain instantly returned and I went back to my previous state of staring at my lap with closed eyes.

Everything after that was a blur. We tried chemo, radiation, laser, cold, heat, even aromatherapy. It wasn’t long until my parents consulted me.

“Mitch, nothing is working. Our only hope is the surgery,” Dad said.

I shook my head, trying my best to look at them with my sunglasses, “I refuse. I’m 18, I can decide for myself.”

Mom’s tears started to trickle down her cheeks, “Mitch, please! If you don’t do the surgery, it’ll spread to your brain and you’ll die!”

I felt a lump in my throat swell up. I knew she was right but I was afraid. Losing my sight, potentially forever? I’ll just be another embarrassing freak like Tristen, but I suppose I’d rather be a mutant than dead.

“Don’t touch the bandages,” Mom reminded me as she led the way. The cane tapped on the ground in front of me. It soon hit something plastic. Suddenly a car alarm went off, surprising me. I jolted backwards but a small hand gripped mine tightly to keep me from going too far. I jerked away from Tristen.

“Don’t touch me,” I wish I could have glared at him. Mom turned off the alarm and I heard her open the door. Tristen’s small hand grabbed mine again and pulled on me. I pushed him off, reaching forward for the door myself. I feel the cool leather of the interior and slowly make my way into the car. I feel his hand hold my waist but I shoved him again and slammed the door on him.

I remember waking up the next morning, screaming. I could only see the dark and nothing more. I fell off my bed and continued screaming. I could feel my hardwood floor but I couldn’t see the fine dark grain I remembered. I heard the heavy hurried footsteps of Dad climbing up the stairs. “Mitch, hey, hey, calm down,” I heard the floor creak as he knelt down, “Deep breathes. You’re okay.”

I tried my best to do as he said but each breath out was shaky. My hands trembled against the floor as Dad rubbed my back. I wanted to cry but the familiar tears wouldn’t well up. “I can’t cry,” I sobbed, “I can’t cry.”

I heard tiny footsteps come from the hall. I could feel his icy blue eyes stare at me. I suddenly felt his hand in my hair and launched back against my bed. “Get away from me!” I kicked my legs in what I believed was his direction, “Get away, get away, get away!”

I heard his breath speed up and him stumble to the ground. I continued to kick my legs and thrash. I heard him scoot as far away from me as he could, his head hitting the wall. Dad grabbed my arms and legs, trying to hold me still. “Mitch! Calm down, you’re okay! You’re okay!”

My writhing slowly ceased, burying my head into Dad’s chest as I sobbed. I could still hear Tristen’s deep breaths. Soon his feet scampered away downstairs. It took my five days to get used to the dark, each morning almost the same. He didn’t stop trying to touch me, regardless of how much I screamed and flailed. He’s such an idiot.

During the next couple months, I refused to leave the house. I didn’t want to run into someone I knew and embarrass myself. I got used to walking downstairs and finding my way to the kitchen by myself. I can make myself cereal as well. I would then go back to my room and drown myself in my music, my favorites always playing in just the right order.

“How about we go bowling?” Mom said one night at dinner, “No one goes to Gulliver’s anymore so you won’t run into someone you know.” I had learned to use the scraping sound of my fork to know I was twirling the pasta onto it. I was too focused on the small screeches to listen to her.

“Okay, whatever,” I mumbled before putting the fork in my mouth. Dad gripped my other hand.

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t care,” I muttered, putting another forkful in my mouth. I could hear my parents give a mini celebration and Tristen give a small giggle. They were probably doing their dumb victory dance. I’m actually glad I can’t see that embarrassment.

I forgot how noisy bowling alleys were. The pins from an alley a few spaces down sounded like gunshots in my ears, regardless of how far away they were. I followed my parents voices. I tapped my cane in front of me to make sure I wouldn’t run into anything. Once we arrived at our aisle, I felt the vintage suede seat before sitting down. I was able to untie my shoes by myself but normally Dad would help me put them back on. However I heard his voice to my right, “Do you want bumpers, Mitch?”

I shrugged but suddenly felt the bowling shoes touch my toe. I kicked my leg forward, panting a little. “Mitch!” my mother cried out, “You almost kicked Tristen!”

Of course he’d be the one to do it. I felt the shoe tap my toe again. Though I wanted to jerk away from him, I knew I’d be in more trouble for doing it again. I let him put them on but shoved him away to tie them myself. “All right, you’re up first, Mitch,” Mom said.

I stood up and walked towards the sound of the ball machine belt. I felt Tristen grab my sleeve and pull me to the left. I shoved him off, reaching forward to find the spheres. I felt around for the holes but soon, the ball was turned. I knew it was Tristen. “Hey, stop,” I said, pushing his hand off the ball and picking it up myself.

Holding the ball by my fingers, I walked towards the alley. In the next aisle over, the pins boomed like a cannon. I took a short step. There’s nothing for me to touch. Another boom of the pins. I took another step. My breath was quick, my nerves heightening. Another boom. My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe anymore. How long had I been standing still? Another boom. I felt someone grab my left hand. Without missing a beat, I flung the ten pound ball at the culprit. I could hear it land in their chest as another boom resonated from the pins. I heard Tristen’s voice cry out in pain and his back and head hit against the ground.

I heard Mom scream and run to the eight year old. Dad ran towards me and grabbed my shoulders. His breath was ragged and he was in undeniable anger. He had had enough. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” his voice bellowed, “He’s just trying to help! Do you know the shit he’s done for you?! Every morning, he opens your door to make sure you don’t run into it! He’s moved the furniture countless times to make sure you don’t run into them! When you pour your cereal and milk, he moves the bowl to keep you from spilling it all over the table! He makes sure whatever song that plays next on your phone is just the way you like it, even though he can’t hear it for himself! He follows you around the house all the time to make sure you’re safe! And this is how you repay him? By being an utter asshole and jerk to your only brother?! Regardless of how you’ve treated him since the day he was born, he loves you and only wants to help you!”

His hold on my shoulders weakened, his tone changed to soft but stern, “Be fucking grateful to have someone like him in your life. You don’t get many of those.”

My whole body trembled. The urge to cry returned, but I could only sob from my lips. Once he let go of me, I fell to my knees and the despair washed over me. I heard fabric shuffle against the floor and felt small arms wrap tight around my frame. The bright red locks I remember curl against my cheeks. I removed my hands from my face and wrapped my arms around his tiny frame. How could I have been this way to him? Just because he couldn’t hear. Why had I been so shallow and obsessed with my image? He’s my only little brother who wanted nothing more than to help me, a duty I refused to take as his older brother. I sobbed harder as the memories of my cruelty to him through the years; the shoves, the kicks, the middle fingers. I clutched him tighter and cried out my apologizes, regardless of how he wouldn’t hear them. I knew I had earned his forgiveness when I felt his cheeks expand from his smile and a small barely understandable voice say, “i-I-I lof-f oo…”