When you pick your brother up from the rehab center, he will not look like he did when you saw him last at your cousin’s birthday party, when you didn’t know he had white powder in his zipped-up cargo short pocket. His hair will be longer but flatter, combed out of his face. He will walk with his head down. He will tremble.
You will try to smile at him and make normal jokes. You will hand him the paper bag with puppies on it, and he will pull out the granny square blanket you spent the last four months working on every night after work. He will wrap his shoulders in it and sigh.
You will drive him to your condo because your parents said he’s no longer their son so you said they’re no longer your parents and now it’s just you and him. You will take him to the room that you painted bright green because that’s his favorite color.
He will let you cook dinner and he will look at you in a weird way that reminds you of how kittens look at people, with fear and curiosity at the same time. He will fall asleep while you show him photos from your latest night out, and you will bundle him in the granny square blanket, and you will fall asleep with his head on your lap. Your legs will go numb.
You will have to stay home for a couple of days to make sure he settles in. He will sleep most of the time. You will make sure he takes his medication and showers. You will tell him how much you love him about a million times. He will watch you with misty eyes and say he loves you too and he will thank you so many times that you start to resent the words. He will throw up. You will apologize for his suffering. He will apologize for taking up your time. You will cry as you tell him he is not taking up your time and that you are so happy he is still alive to take time. He will cry as he thanks you again and again and again.
Rachel E Parks writes in California and enjoys writing just about anything that pops into her head.
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