Michael tiptoed out of the strange bedroom, his pillow and his stuffed turtle clutched to his chest. The old lady was sitting in the chair in front of the TV, her head lolled to the side and her eyes closed. He froze for a moment, waiting, and the slow, rasping sound of her breath was enough to convince him that she was fully asleep.
He shuffled slowly into the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds, careful not to wake the strange woman. She seemed nice enough when his mother brought him there earlier, but he didn’t know her. He didn’t know if she could be mean, if she would yell.
If she would do worse if he made her mad.
He didn’t want to be in this strange place anymore. He just wanted his own bed. He just wanted his own house. He just wanted his brother.
Michael placed his pillow and turtle on the kitchen table, slowly and quietly dragging one of the chairs over to where a phone was mounted on the wall. At one point he stumbled, and the chair screeched against the linoleum; he froze, cringing as he turned toward the door. When a few moments passed, and he could hear nothing but the low murmur of the television and the soft breathing in the other room, he pulled the chair the rest of the way over and climbed on top of it.
He dialed the number, the one his brother made him memorize if he ever needed to speak to him when he wasn’t home. It was Aaron’s girlfriend’s house, the place he spent basically all of his time if he wasn’t spending it with Michael.
After a few rings, it sounded as if someone picked up the phone, but all Michael could hear was laughing and music. There were a couple of shouts in the background, but he couldn’t understand what anyone was saying.
“Hello?” Michael said softly into the phone.
“Yo, who’s this?” a strange voice said.
“Hi. My name is Michael. I’m looking for my brother Aaron.” He glanced at the kitchen doorway every few seconds, trying to keep his voice down.
There was a clatter, like someone dropped the phone, and then he heard a deep voice call, “Yo! Delaney! Phone!”
There were a few more yells and laughter, and then the music changed to something that thumped so loud, Michael couldn’t hear the voices anymore. Just before he was about to hang up and try again, he heard shuffling on the other end of the phone, and then finally, his brother’s voice.
“Yeah?”
“Aaron,” he said, his heart filling with relief. “I need you to get me.”
“Mike? Where are you?”
“I don’t know. The blue house across from the grocery store.”
“What?” Aaron said, sounding confused. “Why are you there?”
“Mommy made me come here. She said she had things to do and I couldn’t stay home tonight. I need you to come get me. I don’t want to be here.”
“Oh, buddy,” Aaron said, his voice sounding strange. “I can’t.”
“Please?” Michael said, trying to keep his voice calm as he glanced toward the kitchen doorway.
“Mike, I’m with my friends…I can’t…”
“Please?” he said again, and this time his voice cracked, much to his embarrassment. “I don’t like it here. I’m scared. I want to sleep in your bed.”
In the three years since his father had left, sometimes he would sleep with his brother when he felt scared, or sad, or when his mother was on the rampage. And even though Aaron was sixteen now, he never objected.
“Mike,” Aaron said, his voice almost pleading, and then he took a breath. “Shit. Okay. Shit…alright. I’ll be there in a little bit.” Aaron exhaled heavily and mumbled another curse.
“Thank you,” Michael said, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t you be sorry. Don’t you be sorry,” he said, his voice taking on that strange quality again. “Love you, Mike. I’m coming.” And then he hung up.
Michael hung up quickly and slid down off the chair, struggling to bring it back to the table without making noise. As soon as he did, he grabbed a napkin off the counter and wrote a note to the old woman, telling her he went home. And then he grabbed his pillow and his turtle and tiptoed through the living room to the front door.
He turned the knob slowly, his eyes on the sleeping woman the entire time, and gently squeezed out onto the porch, shutting the door softly behind him.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there on the porch in the dark, hugging his pillow and stuffed animal, but eventually he saw a pair of headlights coming down the road, and he smiled widely, walking down the steps and onto the sidewalk. As soon as he reached the bottom step, his smile fell slightly. The car had stopped a few houses down, and Michael realized with dismay that maybe it wasn’t Aaron. Just before he could step back up onto the porch, the car lurched forward, coming to a sudden stop again, and then it swerved slightly to one side before righting itself and continuing slowly up the street.
Michael stood there, his hand clutching the banister, the fear growing in his stomach. He should have waited inside the house.
Just as he was about to turn back, the car passed below a streetlight, and he recognized it as Aaron’s. Michael grinned and ran down the walkway just as Aaron’s car pulled slowly up against the curb and the passenger door opened from the inside.
Michael climbed in hurriedly, smiling over at his brother.
“Hey buddy,” Aaron said, his voice still sounding strange, and Michael stopped smiling.
“Are you mad at me?”
“‘Course not!” Aaron said a little too loudly, waving his hand at him dismissively.
Michael looked down at the stick shift in between them. “You’re acting different.”
“Nah,” Aaron said. “Just don’t feel good. I need some sleep,” he added, leaning over to help Michael with his seatbelt.
Michael leaned back slightly, away from the strange smell that seemed to be coming off of his brother.
“Are you sick?”
Aaron laughed softly. “Yeah, I’m a little sick. It’s all good though.”
That should have made Michael feel better, that there was a reason for his brother’s strange behavior, but it didn’t. He hugged his pillow into his chest.
“Sorry I made you come get me when you were sick,” he murmured.
“No need for sorrys, Mike. You know you can always count on me.”
Michael looked down and chewed on his bottom lip. The more his brother spoke, the more unsettled he became. Something about his voice wasn’t right. Maybe he should call the doctor?
“Hey,” his brother said suddenly, leaning over to turn Michael’s face toward him. His expression was serious. “I’d do anything for you. You know that, right?”
Michael nodded slowly, and Aaron smiled, letting go of his face as he turned toward the road. His brother had uttered those words to him hundreds of times, but tonight, they sounded so wrong on his lips.
“Okay,” Aaron said to no one in particular, shaking his head quickly, and he shifted the car into drive and stepped on the gas. They lurched forward slightly, the right wheel going up on the curb before he righted the car. Michael flinched as a few branches slapped against the passenger window.
“Whoops,” Aaron said. “Sorry.” He blinked a few times and widened his eyes, gripping the wheel and leaning toward the windshield. “Just…be quiet, okay? I have to think.”
“Okay,” Michael said softly, squeezing his pillow against his chest and closing his eyes. He just wanted to be back in his house, where his brother could lie down and take some medicine and feel better.
Michael kept his eyes closed, aware that the ride seemed exceptionally bumpy, that they stopped more often than they should have.
Then suddenly, too suddenly, it felt like they picked up speed. “Shit. Shit!” he heard his brother shout, and Michael whipped his head up and opened his eyes just as Aaron cut the wheel sharply to the left.
Michael felt himself fly across the seat toward his brother, and instinctively his hands reached out for something to grab onto, something to steady himself. He clutched frantically, his hands finding no purchase. Things were flying by the windows, colors and lights, and then he heard a horrible sound, like metal crunching.
“Aaron!” he yelled, but a loud screech drowned out the word, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Michael barely registered the feeling of little pinpricks dancing across his cheeks and his hands before there was a thunderous bang and the car jerked violently to the other side, ripping him away from his brother and throwing him back toward the passenger door.
His right side slammed against something hard. It felt like someone had punched him, and he knew he must have cried out, although he didn’t hear it. The pain in his side was excruciating, the intensity of it doubling and tripling until he was sure he was being ripped in half. He opened his mouth to scream, and then miraculously, as suddenly as the pain began, it stopped. Just like that. Like someone had hit a switch and turned it off.
As soon as the pain ceased, so did the sounds around him. It was deathly quiet, although they were still moving. He could see that. He could see the world outside the window in blurs and flashes, and he was vaguely aware that it shouldn’t be as quiet as it was. He should have been thankful—the silence was such a relief from the horrible sounds that filled his ears before—but instead, it terrified him.
They were going one way, and then another, before there was another violent jerk. His head slammed against something hard, bringing little fuzzy stars into his vision.
And then the movement stopped.
Slowly the silence was replaced with an empty, buzzing sound. His eyes were wet, he didn’t know with what, and the more he blinked and swiped at them, the worse his vision got until finally he didn’t know if his eyes were opened or closed.
He knew his mouth was moving. He knew he was saying his brother’s name over and over, although he still couldn’t hear anything but a soft humming.
And then everything went black.
Eventually, the blackness was broken up here and there with random things, flashes of images and sounds. Everything seemed blurry and unfocused: a white room. A soft beeping sound. Unfamiliar faces. Some of them looked sad. Some of them were smiling softly, saying words he couldn’t hear. Sometimes there was agonizing pain, and other times there was a peaceful dizziness that felt like floating. He didn’t know what was a dream or what was real, and he was just too tired to try to figure it out.
The first time he consciously opened his eyes, the first time he recognized that he was awake and what he was seeing was real and tangible, it was four days later.
There was a woman in his room, dressed in Daffy Duck scrubs. She smiled warmly at him, told him her name was Renee, and that she would take good care of him.
She gave him some water, rubbed his hair, and answered the questions he was too weak to ask; she told him that he was hurt, but he was going to get better. She explained that he had two broken ribs and a bruised lung. He had broken his arm, but the doctors fixed it by putting pins in it. She told him he was just like a robot now, and Michael was pretty sure he smiled at that. The brace around his neck was because he had severely pulled muscles in his neck and back. The bandage on his head was protecting his stitches. She told him he had a concussion, and she assured him that was just a fancy word for banging your head really hard and that a little rest would make it all better.
And then another nurse came in and put a needle into the IV in his arm, and he went back to sleep.
Over the next few days, he started waking up more often, and staying awake for longer. It seemed like the world inside that room was the only one he knew at first, and so he didn’t ask any further questions. The women were so kind to him, bringing him coloring books even though he couldn’t color very well with his left hand, helping him find his favorite cartoons to watch on TV, and some of them even brought him flowers and toys.
But as the days passed, and the pain meds decreased, his mind became more aware, until finally he asked for his brother.
It was the kind nurse who told him, the one who had spoken to him when he woke up that first time. She held his hand, she stroked his face, and when Michael cried, she cried too, holding him softly against her chest.
The first time he saw his mother was a week later, when he was finally cleared to go home. She had not come to see him once, at least not while he was conscious. As she stood there, signing the discharge papers, she looked old. Her face was drawn, her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, and her hair was a matted mess.
She didn’t speak to him the entire drive home, but Michael was used to her silence. He didn’t want to speak either. He was afraid if he opened his mouth, he would start screaming, and he didn’t think he’d be able to stop.
They pulled into the driveway of his house, and both of them sat there, staring out of the front window, until finally his mother turned toward him.
For a second, for one stupid second, Michael turned toward her, almost hopeful. But then she spoke the words that he himself had already known on some level all along.
“It’s your fault your father is gone,” she said, her voice shaking. “And now you took your brother too.”
With that she turned and exited the car, slamming the door forcefully behind her.
And Michael sat there in the car for hours, drowning in the silence and the awful truth that his mother had just bestowed on him.