Oliver's Favorite Memory

My brother, Oliver, and I try not to talk about what happened to our parents. He was only six when it happened but he remembers everything that happened. Oliver didn’t want to talk to anyone after that except me. I always knew Oliver was a bit odd and shy compared to most of his classmates, but being in that car crash, seeing our mom get showered in glass, he became almost catatonic. Getting a whisper out of him was like pulling teeth, but I would do anything just to make sure he was at least somewhat okay. No social worker could get through to him, but at least if I was there, he would respond.

I was twelve when mom and dad died. They were coming to my school to pick me up from soccer practice and I saw their car a block away. I was just standing there when I saw their car get hit by some distracted driver that wasn’t paying any attention to the red light in front of him. The huge bang and screech grabbed everyone’s attention, especially mine.

“Stacey!” I heard, coming from my best friends’ lips, “Oh my god, isn’t that your moms’ car?!” She looked at me and saw me standing still, in shock, and so she grabbed my hand and pulled me down the street. What I saw in front of me that day is something I hate to recount, but I’ve had to do so at least a dozen times. My best friend, Ruby, did most of the talking at first, but I hated putting her through that. She called the police, she tried to get Oliver out of the backseat, she took the lead. All I did was try to wake my mom up by shaking her shoulder and yelling her name.

Oliver and I became orphans that day. That was two years ago and we were quickly put in an orphanage, since we didn’t have any other family. The place was more like a weird boarding school, rather than an orphanage, but it was all the same to me. Chicago has a messed up system, but it’s also a huge city, and nothing I could do or say would make anything better. The only thing I could do was be there for Oliver. I made it very clear that we should be put in a house together, but no social worker cared about the thoughts of some young teenager in their system. They sure cared about their own statistics or whatever, but I never felt cared for by any of them.

Last year, Oliver was taken in by some family that just thought he was really shy. The Rochester family knew about what happened to our parents, but they didn’t know that Oliver was pretty much catatonic. I begged the family, the social workers involved, everyone that I should go with him, but it was only up to the family. They wanted a younger kid, not some teenager about to, “cause problems in the house.”

I kept in touch with Ruby and it was especially helpful that she actually lived near the Rochesters. She was pretty nervous about keeping an eye on Oliver for me, but she did it anyway. Ruby felt that she would get in trouble if she poked around too much, and her mom was pretty protective over her after what she witnessed happen to my parents. Ruby would text me updates and call me sometimes whenever she would see Oliver. Over time, she started to notice them getting more agitated with him, even yelling at him in the car. Ruby kept her distance, but let me know what she could. I really appreciated Ruby.

The last update I received about Oliver was three months ago. I could tell that Ruby was starting to get in trouble for what she was doing for me and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but the worry was starting to overwhelm me. Yesterday, I gave her a quick phone call in between my classes, and she hastily answered, “Oh hey, Stacey. What’s up?”

“Ruby, hi! Are you busy?” I asked.

“Umm, well I’m at lunch right now. You okay?” She answered.

“Yeah, but um…” I lowered my voice as I continued, “Have you heard anything about Oliver lately?”

For a moment, all I hear is the background noise of the cafeteria through the phone before she answered in a hushed voice, “Um, not really. I’m sorry, I just haven’t been—“

“Don’t worry about it” I interrupted her, “But when you can, do you mind swinging by?”

“Well, that’s the thing” Ruby responded, “I’ve been by there a couple times, actually. I just haven’t seen Oliver. I see the mom and dad coming from work and all, just no Oliver.”

I paused for a minute until the hallway bell rang, signifying that the next class had begun, and I spoke up, “Thanks, Ruby. I have to go to class now. We’ll talk later.” I hastily hung up before she could respond and I went to my room, instead of class. I was tired of putting Ruby in that position and I had to go see him for myself. I pooled together all the research I could on how to get to the Rochester house and when they wouldn’t be home, so I could sneak in and talk to Oliver.

This morning, I pretended to be ill to the nurse at school and I stayed in my room, watching the clock. I ignored Ruby’s texts, so I wouldn’t feel the temptation of telling her my plan. The last thing I wanted was for Ruby to get into trouble for knowing about a crime I’m about to commit.

As the clock strikes three PM, I sneak out of the bathroom window and onto the fire escape right outside. I plant my feet and quickly make my way down until my shoes reach the pavement. I hop onto the Halsted bus as soon as it arrives; a little late, but I know it’s faster than running it or waiting for a ride. My stop is about thirty minutes away, so I start going over my plan in my head. The photos and texts Ruby had sent over the last year really helped me figure out the best way for me to sneak into their house.

Once I get off the bus, I walk for about ten minutes down some semi-crowded street filled with small businesses. I find the Rochester home, a condo not too far from the baseball stadium. There are no cars in the driveway and I find the basement door. Luckily, they live on the first floor, so I won’t have to do any climbing. I look around me, making sure I’m alone, as I search for as spare key that Ruby mentioned they may have near the door. I find the key under a fake flower pot and I use it on the door.

The moment I step through the door, I look around inside and then place the key back where I found it. I slide inside and close the door behind me. The room seems to be an entertainment room, judging by the huge couch and television. I begin to open every door I can find, hoping to find Oliver’s room. Soon, I find myself upstairs, near the kitchen in a room filled with semi-built furniture and a couple of baseball posters on the wall.

I have searched every single room, but I find myself coming back to the same one. Soon, I hear a car in the driveway and I look outside, seeing the dad pull in. My heart starts to race as I frantically pace the room before deciding to hide in the closet. The door unlocks and footsteps begin growing closer to me. As I look around inside empty closet, I see a small shoebox hidden in a cubby above the closet door. This shoebox may hold some answers.

Using my phone as a light I open the shoebox and find familiar items, effects that belong to Oliver. My hand begins to shake as I search through it and I find an old Polaroid photo of Oliver’s favorite day. The photo has my brother and me on top of the bull statue near Grant Park. My dad and mom are next to us, and the raging bull statue is facing the camera as well. I remember kept calling the statue a cow, no matter how many times my dad corrected him. We took the photo about six months before the accident.

The closet door suddenly opens and I see this man with a baseball bat in hand surprised to see a girl in the closet, kneeling over a shoebox. He recognizes me and as soon as he puts the bat down, I start to cry, “Where is he?!” I yell, “Where’s Oliver?!”

His face becomes pale and he sits down near me and looks at the photo I’m holding, “I’m sorry” he finally says, “Oliver… isn’t with us anymore.”

I know what he is trying to say but I have trouble processing it.

“A couple months ago” he continues, “We took Oliver to our cabin in Michigan. He never spoke much...” His voice begins to crack, “We just assumed he knew how to swim.”

My heart begins to shatter as he continues to speak. I don’t need to hear anymore, I just want to see my little brother. My tears barely let me see anything, but I can see the photo so clearly. Oliver had such a smile on his face, and it’s my favorite smile in the world.

By the time I turn to him, Mr. Rochester is looking up at the posters on the wall, holding back his tears. My cries are the only sound in the room for a while until he speaks up to say, “I’m sorry no one told you. I swear, Linda was supposed to call you, but she has been having such a hard time with all of this.”

My anger rises as I respond, “Fuck Linda! I am his sister, I love Oliver! Fuck you, you son of a bitch! I told you to take me with you but—“ My breath gives out on me as I begin wailing and I scoot into the back of the closet, holding my knees and the photo.

This man lost my little brother and there is nothing he can do or say to bring him back. All I have left is this shoebox. Oliver was so sweet, so curious, and incredible at cheering me up. He hated seeing other people sad and he would give any person a hug if he felt they needed one. All Oliver wanted was to make people happy and then the world took away our parents. Now I’m all alone. I don’t know what to do anymore or what my life will become without Oliver. I have nothing to look forward to anymore.

As I sit in the closet, I look at the shoebox and see a paper folded neatly inside. I slowly reach for it and wipe my tears with my sleeves of my sweater. I know Oliver’s writing when I see it, and this is his handwriting. The way the letter is written, it looks like he writes one sentence, then comes back days later to write the next one, and it continues on that way. The letter reads:

“Dear, big sister. I miss you and I love you. I hope you’re okay without me. I want you here, but I know you have school. Hope to see you soon. Next time we see each other, I’ll give you the biggest hug ever.”

I could tell Oliver was not done writing the letter, but now he’ll never have the chance to finish it. I miss you too, Oliver. I wish I could feel your hug one more time.