Wake Up

“Will you look at this? I bet you remember these.” She pulls a plastic bag with crumpled pieces of paper as we sift and sort her stuff for the upcoming move to a retirement home. I immediately recognize the papers as she holds them. I do not not touch them, but I remember, they have haunted me for years.

I wake and stare at the ceiling - the silence is noticeable, unusual for a Sunday. 

I get up and dress. I stop in the doorway - mom sitting at the kitchen table which is adjacent to the living room where my door opens. Nowadays, the salesperson would say the mobile home had an open floor plan.

Our eyes meet – her gaze tells me to go back to bed, run away and don’t look back. She waves her hand, beckoning me. I take the 12 steps from my doorway to the table and there is something in her hand. Clearly, she has been crying.

“He left these for us,” she glances back-and-forth between the tiny pieces of paper and me.

“Who? What?” I am confused. Did God leave us messages on Sunday morning? Had Dad finally showed up and left apologies? 

“Your brother,” she motions towards his room which is adjacent to mine.

“Oh, okay, what?”

She answers my question by handing me one of the papers – the one addressed to me. 

“You are a great kid. I am sorry I let you down, but I always loved you. Please don’t take this personally. You’ll be a great guy.” I read and reread and flip the paper before looking up, I am confused and really thirsty. She hands me another one of the notes addressed to her.

“Mom, don’t blame yourself. I just cannot take this life anymore. I love you.”

My face goes cold, as if the blood is gone (that’s how I always saw it described in books). I feel like I am shaking, but I notice my hands are perfectly still. My heart is racing, like it will explode. I want to walk out the door and never come back, but this is nothing new – at 15, I am counting the days.

“He’s gone?” I ask her in my normal voice while being frightened at what I just said, the silence of the morning shatters. I cannot figure out why we are reading these notes and standing here if my brother is dead. Why has she not called the police? Where is the coroner? Will detectives ask me questions? Should we have touched the notes, are they not evidence? I watched too much tv.

“I don’t know.”

“What? The notes say … wait, what … wait, you haven’t checked? Is he in there?” I turn and look at his doorway I realize she he has done nothing since finding the notes, and now I wonder where the notes were found. Were they left on the table? More importantly, when did she find them?

“I think so.” 

I stand motionless and stare at his doorway. I want to go as far away from that room as possible, I don’t want to know what has happened, what he has done. My brother is gone and she is sitting here in her robe. I have never been this scared, but outwardly everything is fine.

“Can you go see … see … just check?” She points at his room. 

“What?”

“Go in there and see, check to see if he is … just check on him. I can’t do it.”

“Fuck.” Her face says it all.

I turn and walk – everything in super-slow motion. My feet drag like walking in quicksand. I turn and look back - mom is a mile away. I reach the doorway and stop – staring into the darkness. I do not want to do this.

The silence is deafening. No sounds from anywhere and nothing from the tiny room. The fan on his dresser is idle, this is alarming as he always sleeps with it in motion. My heart is pounding, blood pulsating in my ears. I wonder what a stroke feels like.

He is a snorer, I always hear it through the paper thin wall separating us. There is no snoring today, but is he breathing?

It seems like an hour passes before I take a step. Budweiser and Old Forester bottles on the dresser with a full ashtray on the nightstand. It take a few steps stumble over a pile of clothes. I catch myself on the dresser, not wanting to fall onto a dead body.

I stop and stand at the edge of the bed – complete darkness (a blanket covers the window) and silence. It reminds me of a game he and I play – we scare the hell out of each other by hiding and jumping out when the other least expects. 

The best way to do it is finding a hiding spot and remain there for a while – allowing everything to settle. One time I stood behind the bathroom door as he showered – stayed there probably 15 minutes before he stepped out and I got him. There were never any relaxing walks or moments when the other was home. Now that I think about it, it was quite a challenge to hide or sneak up on anybody in an 800 square foot house.

I think for a moment he will turn over and scare the crap out of me and we laugh. Of course, he is probably dead and not sleeping which makes me think of the phrase ‘dead asleep’.

I lean forward and listen – I hear nothing, it freaks me out. I mumble his name a few times with no response. The clock’s red eyes scream at me – 11:00. I think of the tv shows where they turn to another person and announce the official time of death.

I stand completely still for a few more minutes, dreading touching him. If I don’t touch him then he is still here and this never happened. I stare at his back, trying to pick up any movement indicating breathing.

At 11:05 I reach forward and nudge him, he slowly moves and opens his eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get out of here.” He grumbles and turns over.

I am stunned, I had convinced myself he was gone. I quickly retreat to the kitchen without saying a word since she heard it all. I want to scream or maybe cry.

“Well, I am keeping these notes, he needs to tell us what he was doing. Do you want to keep yours?” The trance is broken and she is moving back and forth in front of the sink. She extends her hand with my personal note.

“No.” I grab a glass, fill it with water and drink over and over. The tears retreat as I will them away. There is nowhere to go. I make toast and return to my room. I don’t know what I am supposed to feel, I am stunned.

“Yeah, I remember, why did you keep them?” I am back in the moment, and for the second time I refuse to take what she is offering.

“I don’t know, it seemed like something that needed to be saved.” She mumbles to herself while examining the paper. Her hands are shaking, so I grab them and give a reassuring squeeze. 

I stare at her. He has been gone four years, in the end he left no notes. I miss him every day. I suddenly do want to see the little notes, but not in front of her - I’ll get them later. He said I’d be a great guy, am I?