Lydia Cooper - My Second Death

“I don’t know,” Stephen says. He’s talking quickly now. “It was sort of weird. He called my cell phone which is, like, weird on its own, and then he starts talking about this really strange stuff, like, he kept asking if I understood the heart of God or some bullshit like that. Then all of a sudden he asked if I still had the birthday money Grandma and Grandpa sent me.”

“Do you?”

Stephen shrugs. We both know the answer. Stephen is a packrat. He saves everything. “I sort of lied and said I’d spent about half. I mean, what does he need my money for? The only thing I can think is he’s, you know, doing drugs again, or — I guess still , maybe. Right?”

There is a faint convex shadow on the wall. Like the house has imperceptibly sagged with the years and the drywall is slowly caving between support beams.

“Probably. Don’t give him your money, okay? If he calls back, just tell him I’ve got him covered.”

“Are you going to send him money? Mickey? Do you send Dave money?”

I don’t say anything right away. Then I look at Stephen. “Either way,” I say, “he’s my problem.”

Stephen looks uncomfortable. He shifts on the sofa. Looks down at the photo again. “He’s my brother, too.”

“No, he’s not.”

Stephen looks up, surprise etched around his eyes, his chapped mouth.

I wave my hand briefly, erasing the words. “I mean, he’s like, what, fifteen years older than you? He’s old enough to be your fucking father . Forget him. Okay?”

“Forget him.”

“Well, whatever, just don’t worry about him.”

Stephen watches me for a minute. His lips squeeze together. Then he slides the photo back into the textbook and closes up his backpack. He stands up. “I like your — um, your TV. This is a cool pad.”

I watch him make his way to the door. He stops by the door again. “I’m glad we had this talk, Mickey.”

I laugh. “This wasn’t much of a talk, little brother. You should raise your standards.”

He shrugs a shoulder, hesitates.

“Well. Bye.”

I hear his feet trundling down the steps. He jumps off the last two. I go over to the living room window and watch him jog across the street. I watch until the knit cap bobs out of sight around a corner.

Then I go into my room and pull out my cell phone. I sit for a long time. A slow pulse of pain tightens my scalp. Pressure increases, steady as a heartbeat. After a while, I call Dave.

The phone rings for a while. When he answers, he sounds groggy like he just woke up.

“Wha — Mickey?”

“You’re a fucking pathetic loser,” I say. “What the fuck are you on? You can’t hit your seventeen-year-old brother up for cash. You utter shit .”

“Oh.” He coughs, spits. “Hold on, babe, you’ve got the wrong — I would never do that. Okay? Never. I mean, maybe I did call him, maybe I made something up about — but what else could I do? I’ve called you how many times since you’ve moved in with that pretty art creature? How many times? And you never call me back.”

When I don’t say anything, he says, “Twelve. Did you, can you fucking believe it? My own sister.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Nothing. I’m sorry, babe, it was nothing, it was, I was just really fucking lonely, you know? And our darling parents, well, dearest mum is so sweet it gives one cavities and you know I have such father issues, and I—”

“You can call me. I’ll talk. I’m—” The word sticks. I swallow. “I’m sorry . Okay?”

“Oh, Jesus, come on, babe, don’t be such a fucking martyr. I’m not asking you to do anything — just a few words, the pleasure of your company, not anything so terrible, is it? Is it?”

“Don’t,” I say. “Just — try not to be such an asshole.”

He laughs. “What about your lovely roommate? Do you speak to him? Do you gossip like starlings about his poor dear murdered mum? His feelings regarding the great loss?”

I hang up on him. The phone falls to the floor. I sit and stare at the fallen phone for a long time. Then I get up and go for a run.

Early evening. The frozen crust of earth purls with trapped melted snow. The scent of snow, of wet crumbling tree bark, of exhaust. And under it all the sharp bitter smell of scorched wood, melted rubber, overheated metal, the last traces of an apocalyptic fire. Overhead an exuberant, limitless arc of night swirls with dazzling white stars.

I run hard. The pounding rhythm of my feet, the whisk of breath. The trail winds its way down and the gurgle and lap of water rushes through the dark. I come out on an outcropping of rock and see a flare of ice-white foam, water cascading down tumbled rock, glittering in the moonlight.

Just like last night, Aidan doesn’t come home until almost two in the morning. He stumbles against the edge of the kitchen counter and whispers, “ Ow .” I lie in the dark listening to the muted fumbling noises as he trips taking off his boots, his jacket. His keys fall on the floor. Finally his bedroom door creaks and the night grows quiet again.

In the morning I make coffee, set a red-capped bottle of ibuprofen next to the pot, and write dumbass on a napkin, which I fold creatively behind the pills.

He comes into the kitchen rubbing his eyes. He notices the bottle and gives a cracked laugh. “Thanks, Mickey. You don’t have to.”

“Damn straight,” I say.

I watch him sit carefully at the table, lowering himself as though his joints hurt. He sets the bottle of pills between his palms and drops his chin toward his chest.

I watch the creases in his face, human hieroglyphs of suffering.

I go to the refrigerator and get out a carton of milk. Pour a glass for myself and one for him. I set one glass in front of him. He reaches it for it. My hand remains touching the cool surface. His fingertips brush mine. He glances up, surprised.

“Your mom was a child psychologist.”

“No.”

“What?”

He reaches for the glass. Cups a pill into his mouth and then drinks. When he lowers the glass the skin around his eyes looks frail as parchment. He rubs his wrist across his milk-glazed mouth. “I mean, she wasn’t really a doctor or anything. She was a ‘play therapist.’ She mostly just played with kids.”

“Yeah? Interesting choice of career.”

“She used to work in a daycare.”

I go to the cupboard and pull out a bag of bagels and put one in the toaster.

“Till your sister was born, you mean.”

Aidan coughs a little and takes another drink of milk. He sets the glass down, puts his hands on the edge of the table. He picks at a hangnail, sucks his finger. “No,” he says. “Till she was diagnosed.”

Outside the living room window the street buzzes with life. Car horns honking, people calling to each other.

“With what?”

He takes a breath. “Autism. She’s severely autistic. She used to be pretty high functioning. She regressed after the—” He swallows hard. “ — the fire.”

The answer surprises me. Autism seems so garden-variety damaged compared to the more homicidally-inclined psychiatric diagnoses I was expecting.

I think for a while. Then I say, “Did you know that I went to about a thousand shrinks of every stripe and color when I was ten?”

He raises his eyebrows, looks up at me.

“Wouldn’t it be weird if I’d gone to your mother?”

Aidan doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he says, “I think I’d have remembered that.”

“Not really. You would’ve been, what? Four? Five years old?”

He looks down at the kitchen linoleum. Then back up at me. “Did you?”