I was going through my files and found this almost whole short story. After reading it, I decided I had to post it. I'll put an ending to it soon, but I wanted to share.
Untitled:
“Why are you here?”
“You know why I’m here, Sarah,” I
answered, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. The fact was, she knew exactly why I
was at her apartment and it hadn’t been the first time I dropped by unannounced
for the very same circumstances.
“I know why you probably think you’re
here, but I want to know who called you and why. What did they tell you?” Sarah was feigning indigence or even outrage, but to me she
just looked like my scared little sister.
“It
doesn’t matter who called me. What
matters is that I’m here. I’m here
to help.”
“It’s
not your job to help me, Matt. Nor
did whoever called you have the right...” she paused, not having the strength
of will to summon the words. “Just
go home.”
“Whether
it’s my job or not, I’m not going.
Not until I know you’re going to be okay.”
“I’m
sitting right here aren’t I?
Christ, Matt.” She looked
away from me, pulling her thin legs underneath her. She seemed small in the oversized recliner, almost
childlike.
I
took off my coat and tossed it over the banister that half enclosed one length
of her living room and separated it from the foyer.
“Please,
Matt. Make yourself at home. Stay awhile.” Sarcastic, Sarah.
The one who knew everything.
The one who was smarter than everyone else. The one who needed no one. Not for advice, for comfort and certainly not for affection.
“What
happened? I thought things were
going okay?”
“Things
are going okay. And they’d be much better if you’d
leave.” Sarah stood abruptly and went
to the kitchen. She returned
moments latter with a glass of water.
“You know, why is it that the only time I see you anymore is when you’re
astride your lame white horse and under the impression that I’m in distress.”
“Aren’t
you?”
“Was
that a rhetorical question or are you that much of a dumbass?
It
was fruitless to enter into such a discussion with her, but after thirty some
years as siblings, it was nearly impossible not to. After all, regardless of how extraordinary our situation
might be, we were still brother and sister and some things are just
universal. Somewhere I imagine,
there are siblings who feel no need to compete against each other and can just
as easily back down and defer to another for the sake of peace and out of the
strong desire to see the other happy.
I’d like to believe that I felt that way and it was only she that held
us at arms length from such a connection, but the truth is that I also felt the
compulsive need to be right, to be coy and condescending.
“Are
you going to insult my intelligence or can we just both agree that we know why
I’m here and that you aren’t okay?”
“I’d
rather insult your intelligence.
It’s a whole lot easier.”
Sarah
looked away again and after a long tense moment laid her head against the cushioned
fabric of the chair. I watched in
silence for a moment and then took a seat on the sofa nearest her.
I
was tired. My own life seemed so
out of control and alone I was plagued by the nausea of free fall, yet here I
was playing the stable sibling helping my wayward sister out of her
crisis. Or at least leading myself
to believe I was helping. Despite
my confident stance in front of her, I didn’t feel confident. In fact I feel like a middle aged pile. Overweight, divorced, with a job I felt
bound to, I wasn’t really in any position to deal out advice.
“Besides,”
she quipped, “You aren’t exactly the picture of a man who has it all
together. You think maybe you
should concentrate more on your own problems rather than avoiding them by
coming here?”
Siblings
always hit deep when they’re pushing you away. Sarah had been pushing her family away since she was sixteen
and had developed a particular talent.
In my case, she had a sixth sense.
I
tried not to bite. It was the
worse thing I could do if I wanted to get through to her. It was what she wanted. A fight that would lack any semblance
of substance and would end in my leaving and her not having to have had to face
up to anything. I failed.
“There’s
a big difference between my life and you trying…”
“Yeah,
I have one.” Sarah shook her head,
stood and walked out of the living room.
Her
statement certainly had an element of truth. I had no life to speak of, only a routine I walked blindly
through each day. Her life was a
cycle of abuse, failed, dangerous relationships and a constant flirtation with
death. It was filled with anger
and sadness; what she might call passion in her more romantic inner
deception. I guess there was no
denying it was exciting, but not in the way a life should. Some people can live seemingly on the
edge and yet remain at peace.
Sarah knew no peace. Even
her sleep was plagued by demons.
I
waited for her to return, mostly unsure of what to do next. We had no parents in whom I could seek
guidance. Although it was little
more than a statement, all she and I had was each other. Seeking inspiration, I scanned the
living room and took in what I could of the last twenty-four hours of her
life. The place littered with
empty cans of soda and beer. There
were no empty food containers as one might expect and except for the cans there
wasn’t much trash or filth about the place. Nevertheless, the room seemed skewed. Everything was somehow out of place and
ill fitting. Nothing so drastic as
overturned furniture, but more like someone had come in and as part of some
bizarre practical joke had moved everything in the room six inches to the left
or right. Sarah herself was that
way. Just out of place on the
surface, while myself and anyone who cared for her waited for her to trip over
the distorted landscape of her life.
She always managed to step around at the last possible second, remaining
upright despite all predictors to the contrary. This fueled her indigence and her refusal to come to terms
with any of her problems. Her
sidestepping of disaster did not have a grace or smooth instinct guiding
it. She would like to belief
otherwise, but she had been lucky.
Lucky in that she had yet to fall down completely. This was the only luck Sarah knew. Any smart gambler dealt one of her
hands would fold every time.
Sarah
came back into the living area and brought a different attitude. This was the Sarah that craved
emotional contact. Needed
desperately to connect with someone, as long as that someone was not her family
or friends. As long at it was
someone who could and would eventually hurt her.
“Tom’s
on his was up. You have to
leave.” Her voice was a mixture of
panic and excitement.
“Actually
I’d like to speak to him. He’s
certainly part of the reason I’m here.” Part of me wanted to believe he was the only reason Sarah’s
girlfriend’s had asked me to come over, but that would be my own delusion. Sarah was an active part of her self
destruction.
“No,
Matt. You need to go. There’s nothing you need to say to him.”
The
lock in the door turned and Tom walked into the room, acknowledging no one
until he returned from the kitchen with a beer. Sarah he greeted with a slap on the butt and a smile,
neither of which was cute or endearing.
To me he nodded.
“Hey,
baby,” Sarah whispered, stroking his unkept hair behind his ear.
“What’s
up? Why’s the Pillsbury fireman
here?” Tom smiled. To him this was apparently a witty
statement.
In
another life, I had been a firefighter, but that was seven years and forty
pounds ago. Now I was a computer
technician. The relationship
between following your dreams and using your degree was the same as the
relationship between six figures and fulfillment. I’d like to say that because my alimony checks are paid on
time without significant financial burden to me gave me fulfillment, but it
wouldn’t be true. The money just
makes it easier to spend my free time self loathing.
I
knew better than to try subtlety with Tom. Nothing about Tom was subtle, especially his ability to
communicate. “I’m here because
Sarah almost died last night and nobody even took her to the hospital.”
“Please,
that’s ridiculous.” Tom put an arm
around Sarah and gave her a rough squeeze. “Nobody was dying.”
“How
many pills did you take, Sarah?” I
hadn’t planned on being so direct, especially in front of Tom, but it just came
out.
“I
didn’t try to kill myself. How
dare you?” Tears began to run down
her gaunt cheeks.
“Maybe
because it wouldn’t be the first time.”
Tom
started to speak but my eyes did not leave Sarah’s. I had laid open the wound. Said aloud what nobody ever said, only danced around. I hurt her, and twisted at my tired
heart, but at least it had been said.
Finally said plainly.
“She
did too many drugs chasing her buzz.
Let’s not get all drama over it.”
“Like
being strung out, whether it’s too much or just enough isn’t something to be
concerned about.”
“Are
you living in the eighties or something?
Just say no is not exactly the norm nowadays. She just took it a little too far.”
My
eyes still had not left Sarah’s.
Tom, only a different name for the same guy who had been in and out of
Sarah’s life, was shaking his head.
I don’t think he was even feeding me a line of crap. I think he was so shallow and self
absorbed that he didn’t see Sarah’s problems, her pain. Her illness if that’s what it was. He slept with her doing god know what
to her every night and he was completely ignorant.
“Do
you think you could give Sarah and I a moment alone?”
“Bull,
I live here. Why don’t you just go
take a moment alone to yourself.”
Again the smile. It was
almost sad.
“Just
go, Matt. You came and saw
me. I’m fine, now you can
go.” Sarah’s eyes shrank from mine
and she left, going back toward the bedroom. I knew she wouldn’t come back out. Not with Tom here.
I had lost my chance, if I believed I ever had one.
“Bye,”
Tom said, tipping the last of his beer.
I
turned to leave and without thinking said, “Next time I’ll just call the police
and have them sort everything out.”
I
felt Tom’s large hand slap against my back as he grabbed my jacket and shoved
me hard into the closed front door.
My mouth hit the door and could instantly taste blood.
“Call
the police and just see what happens.
Don’t you threaten me,” Tom hissed. He shoved me against the door again and then released my
jacket. “Get out.”
Hopelessness. I was consumed by it. Enveloped in its bitter aroma. I opened the door and walked out.
. . .
The way home did nothing to clear
my head or raise my plummeting spirit.
I don’t know what I was expecting.
I knew from experience not to expect much from Sarah and yet every time
I let the frivolity of my feelings for her cloud my common sense. But then, when does common sense and
family ever really coexist. In my
family’s case they are mutually exclusive.
I
was lost in this negative thought that had become my world and almost ran over
the lumpy sack the pickup driver ahead of me tossed from his window. I swerved, testing the new all wheel
drive system on my SUV and it performed a series of computer adjustments,
remaining both upright and successfully dodging the sack despite my last second
reaction.
Something
about the scene made me pull over to the side of the road. I don’t know if I had seen the bag
move, which didn’t seem possible at the speed I was going, but as I got out of
the Toyota and approached the sack, it was in fact squirming. Stories I had given little serious
attention to rattled in my head and as I opened the bag and was struck by the
stench, I realized that not all ridiculous stories are rumor. Inside the bag was a half dozen black
puppies, several of them surely dead.
The stench was a rancid decaying smell. The three dogs that were living must have been seriously
injured and ill. My stomach turned
both from the smell and the outrage of what I was witnessing. Not sure of what to do, I gingerly
picked up the bag and carried it back to the Toyota.
After
several calls for information on my cell, and an hour of driving around I found
a veterinarian near my house who would take in the puppies. I dropped them off, finding that
sneaking optimism creeping up, setting me up for another let down. The vet did not expect much, but I left
my number anyway and asked to be called if their condition changed.
At
home, finally, I say down in my easy chair, noticing the silence only an empty
house can provide. A sack of dead,
dying and diseased animals.
Somehow this paraphrased my life.
. . .
Weeks
passed without event. I neither
heard from my sister or her friends and went on the assumption that her latest
episode had passed without my help and probably would have without any
intervention on my part. Having
the episode pass was not my hope when I went to her apartment. Hope, my new four letter word, would
have been that she would get better.
After all, there was no telling how many passes she had left before her
flirtation with death became a meaningful relationship.
The
weeks of monotony were broken by a call from the vet and within minutes of the
call, I found myself in the car driving to the office. Again, what drew me to care so much
about the fate of these abandoned puppies I do not know, but I was drawn and
felt no desire to stop the sensation.
It was at least feeling other than self loathing and pity and in a life
dominated by such avarice emotion it was good to know that there was room left
for something else.
Against
formidable odds, one of the puppies, all black Labradors, had survived both the
fall from the pickup and the various infections acquired in her short neglected
life. It had taken four weeks for
the little girl to pull through and she was now putting on weight, eating solid
food and was officially a healthy puppy.
This information I received from the vet assistant who led me to one of
the patient rooms at the back of the clinic; information that she delivered
with considerable enthusiasm and possible a touch of salesmanship. To put it plainly, I think she was
buttering me up for something. I
of course was so wrapped up in the negative, that instead of assuming the
obvious, I incorrectly guessed that the veterinarian was going to ask me to pay
the bill.
Now
there are few things in this world cuter than a puppy. Certainly there are more beautiful,
profound, moving, and even cuddlier things, but not cuter. And I would like to think that as a man
I am immune to the effects of cute, cuddly things. It turns out that I am not. Perhaps it was the profound implication of the metaphor I
had so recently used to describe my life rising out of the sack of sickness and
death, but I cannot honestly say that was anywhere near the forefront of my
mind. The vet opened the doors
leading to the back rooms, and entered carrying the little, squirming ball of
fluff and I was sold. Ready to pay
whatever cost had been required to save her, I instead signed adoption papers, which
were easily thorough enough to have been for a human adoption, and drove back
home, this time with a passenger.
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