The Lost Boy

You’ve gone missing again.

Mom just called me. She said you left the house awhile ago, and you’re not answering your phone. She has been trying so hard to help you get clean. I know you’ve been trying, too. I’ve lost count of how many times you have detoxed, gone to rehab, stopped using, and had the glassy stare of intoxication be replaced with the glimmer of hope in your eyes that arrives when you achieve sobriety.

But the cycle has begun again. You’ve relapsed, and we’re scared. Mom doesn’t know where you are, but she’s certain that you’ve gone to score your drug of choice.

Perhaps choice isn’t the right word.

I remember a man who spoke at one of your meetings. He said that most drugs will get you high, but heroin is different. She is a lover. And I hate that she has seduced you, my little brother. I’ve watched you battle her, break up with her, but over and over again, she pulls you back into her arms by piercing the veins in yours. You are a fighter, but she keeps winning.

Mom asked me if I could track your location. I told her I would need your login information, but she only has your email address. I let her know that this will probably not be enough, but I will try my best to find you.

I’m on the website now. My eyes land on the link that I’m hoping will connect us:

Reset Your Password

Click.

Two options are given: verify by email, or answer security questions. I choose the latter.

What is the name of your childhood best friend?

I flashback to our younger years. Our birthdays are a little less than two years apart, and we are teenagers who aren’t allowed to drive yet but are old enough to roam the neighborhood without adults. You are riding a bike while I stand on the pegs attached to the back wheel. We are not alone. Your friend who lives around the block is exploring with us, and we’re thinking about going to the convenience store to get some energy drinks and candy. I was scared that at some point, you would be embarrassed to have your big sister around while you were hanging out with your pals. But that never happened, even when this same friend confessed to having a crush on me. I was always welcome. I miss those days, the feeling of my hands on your shoulders while you pedaled, the trust I had that you wouldn’t let us crash. It felt like flying.

For a moment, I wonder if I am the answer to this question. More than once, we had told each other that this was the case. But as siblings, we are more than that. There are times when you have been my worst enemy. Right now, you seem like a stranger. The bond we have surpasses childhood. It is bigger than friendship.

I type in your friend’s name.

Robert

Click.

The next question loads on the page.

What was the make and model of your first car?

We are older now. We’ve upgraded from two wheels to drivers licenses. My first car was Grandma’s old one that she basically donated to me, and it was falling apart. But you had specific tastes. I took what I could get, while you saved up for a white, lifted pickup truck that you had wanted since before your age hit double digits. You envisioned something that you could take off roading and that had space for dirt bikes.

You sold the truck not too long after you bought it. I hate knowing what you ended up spending the money on.

My fingers return to the keyboard.

Dodge Ram

Click.

Create a New Password

I feel silly that I thought this would be harder than it was. Of course I would know the answers to these questions. I know you.

Or, at least, I used to.

I could just make a new password and give Mom the instructions on how to find your location. You still live with her, and I’ve moved to a different city about half an hour away. You’re likely much closer to her, meaning that she will be able to get to you faster. But she is not as familiar with how to use the tracking feature. I decide it would be better for me to check myself, let Mom know where you are, and she could take over from there.

Find my Phone

I guide the cursor until it hovers over the three words. I hesitate before choosing the option. A part of me is scared to see where the dot will appear on the map. Simultaneously, I am filled with strange guilt. I am in the middle of a technological lie. It is not my phone. Suddenly, my guilt becomes anger. I don’t want to be angry with you. Addiction is a disease, with one of the most hurtful side effects being deceit.

You were there the day I got out of the hospital after having my appendix removed. Only hours later, my pain medication went missing. Like you are now. But I knew the bottle didn’t just disappear. You never admitted to it, and I don’t blame you. You stole my pills, and addiction stole the brother that would have never done something like that.

Maybe some of this is my fault. Remember that time we were at that playground, and threw sand in each others’ eyes? You started crying, but we were both guilty of the same crime. Two against one, we convinced Mom that our older brother was the culprit so he would get the punishment we deserved. It was an impressive conspiracy for a five and three year old duo.

I am sorry that I taught you how to lie.

Click.

I find your location, and to my surprise, you are only five minutes down the road from me in a gas station parking lot. I should go get you. I should come to your rescue, bring you to my place, and hug you. I should forgive you. I should tell you that no matter what you’ve done, I will always love you.

But you are so far away.

I text Mom your new password, and pray that you will let her take you home.