Joshua Mohr - All This Life

Noah911 has hunkered down under that same blanket and watched the YouTube clip over and over. Oddly, it’s the only thing that temporarily conquers his symptoms. Noah911 can’t stop watching it, watching her. In each viewing, he pauses it right before anyone breaks from the pack and jumps. Pauses it right before the moment becomes something else. Pauses it so he can gaze at Tracey, his happy sister, moving along the walkway and playing the clarinet with friends, and there’s nothing wrong, just Tracey and her band doing the thing that makes them feel the most alive in the world.

Pressing pause: In that way he can stop time. He’s not interested in trading futures; he’s trying to prevent one.

Noah911 should be watching the video right now, god damn it, but the empty suitcase and the red-eye flight and their — his — parents won’t get out of the way.

What he needs is an excuse.

The easiest way to get out of this is a text. It’s so passive, so one-way, so devoid of confrontation. Empty of any opportunity to get talked into anything. Noah911 can type and send and the conversation is over. He talks, then no one talks. Delivering his news free from outside input. It’s a perfect method to disseminate bad news. Flake on a dinner reservation. Blow off a massage. Skip your kid sister’s funeral.

A few words and he’s free.

Noah911 still has the programming of an athlete. He sees competition in every direction he looks. It certainly helps him professionally and it helps when he picks up women, not interested in a relationship but securing a one-night stand is its own short-term futures contract. He takes, or had taken before all this, impeccable care of his body, eating all the right stuff, lifting weights, tons of cardio, 7 percent body fat. But somewhere along the way he forgot to take care of Tracey as she needed him to, which reminds him of his senior season on the lacrosse team. A skinny freshman had made varsity. Kid was so quick and elusive, a little water bug out there that no one could keep up with, but the coach knew that other teams would target him, try to outmuscle the kid, render his skills meaningless if he was always being knocked around. Coach asked Noah911 to protect him out there, to take a penalty if he needed to put some people on their asses to alert them that any cheap shots on the kid would be avenged. But being a midfielder kept Noah911 busy in all sorts of ways, and during a particularly contentious game, he forgot about the kid. Or he remembered, but the responsibility to protect him plummeted down his list of priorities, and some muscle-head on the opposing side checked the kid so ferociously that he rocketed to the grass, separating a shoulder, his head hitting the ground so hard he lost consciousness for a few seconds. His parents never let the kid step foot on the field again, and Noah911 carried the taste of that around for a few years, couldn’t shake it. He had been charged to act as the kid’s protector and couldn’t live up to the task. If it took him so long to get over something like that, Tracey’s death will smother him forever. He’ll replay it over and over, the things he could have done differently for her, the ways he could have been more involved, more accessible.

And if her death represented the end of the most important game of his life, then the funeral and seeing his parents were the post-game press conference, where Noah911 has to stand at a podium and answer for his terrible play. Reporters champing at the bit to skewer him, and the microphone isn’t big enough for Noah911 to hide behind. He cosigned the death of his sister through his slack protection, and he needed to be held accountable for that.

“Don’t you think Tracey deserved better?” someone will ask.

And Noah911 would break down crying. Right there at the podium. That would be his answer. That would have to do. Cameras going off, capturing him in this way, putting pictures of it in newspapers and online so everyone can see him for what he truly is: the brother who neglected his sister. Or worse: the brother who let her die.

Finding the right words to text his parents proves difficult. Or the reason he can’t come home proves impossible to find. An illness will not suffice. This he knows from years of watching him and Tracey with stuffy noses and swollen tonsils, coughing and wheezing on the school bus. His parents won’t accept any sickness as an excuse, their father always prescribing Tylenol as the cure for every ailment.

He sends this message to both his parents’ phones: I got beat up and can’t travel. Sorry.

Does his dad even know how to text? His mom certainly does, often lobbing phrases in the third person to make him feel like crap as he reads them: Mothers would sure love hearing from their sons soon. Or: Experts say that sons should call their moms regularly to lead fulfilling lives. A million others like these. She used to do it over email, a cyber-nag, but last year she switched to an exclusive text-only assault. No one can make you want to cut your heart out quicker than your mother.

But wait.

He’s already made a mistake.

Seconds after sending his text to his parents he realizes his error.

What he should have done is disable the tone that alerts him he’s received a new text, should have minimized any temptations to analyze responses from them.

He’s still standing in his bedroom, right in front of that splayed suitcase, its black material looking like a filleted seal. He’s wondering what you do with this two-ton guilt and how you’re supposed to live through this suffering and endure a life with constant grief, those sounds wheezing in his head like an old coffee maker, and then his BlackBerry beeps.

He knows that the text is from one of his parents, probably his mother, and he knows that reading a message from either of them is a bad idea, and he knows that if he reads it he won’t be able to sever the conversation there, and yet he can’t stop himself. He so badly wishes that he could resist this bait, but he’s not strong enough.

Here’s his mother’s response: What happened, sweetie?

Got mugged. I was punched and kicked a few times. Broken nose. Cracked ribs. Etc.

Hold on. .

There’s about forty-five seconds of nothing, time for Noah911 to put his phone down. Go outside. Take a shower. Eat something. Do fifty pushups. Don’t read any more of their texts. All these directives whirl around his head and yet he does nothing except sit there.

Another alert.

This is your sister’s fucking funeral!

That’s his father’s foray into the conversation, and it sends a shudder through Noah911. A rictus jimmies onto Noah911’s lips. Finding it funny, actually, reading and rereading the inaugural text from his father; he can’t help but hear the message in his father’s voice. Like he’s in the room. Yelling it. That exclamation point is like a lightning bolt. Many a time in Noah911’s formative years he’s seen his father’s exclamation points in person, punching holes in walls, chucking china. He never put his hands on his wife and kids, but he governed through fear and the possibility of violence.

Noah911 texts back: What can I do? I’m injured.

Be injured on the plane. Be hurt here.

I can’t even walk.

Get your ass to the airport!

If he had it to do over again, he might have tried something surgical. An appendectomy. Or an exotic disease, like dengue fever. That’s a thing, right? The kind so contagious that the authorities wouldn’t allow him on a plane for fear of infecting others. He should have thought this through more.

From his father: Call us.

My jaw is sprained and broken nose kills when I try to talk.