Emily
Moira emerges from the bedroom at around half past three. Her hair is messy and her eyes are wide and bloodshot. “Never sleep in the day.” She groans as she walks across the room, dragging her feet, and into the kitchen. She pours herself a glass of water and returns to me on the couch.
My nose is buried deep in the nursing book. I’ve gone from general housekeeping to assisting in advanced operations. I’ve learnt about hospice care, which sounds tragic but also somehow beautiful, to childcare and general nursing duties. When Moira sits next to me, I place the book on the table.
“Enjoying it?” she asks, but I can see by her bright eyes and her smile that she knows I am.
“It’s okay, nothing special,” I reply, years of being forced to hide my interests coming to play. I can’t even fool myself.
“Yeah, right.” Moira drains her glass of water and leans back on the couch. “When I came in here, you looked like a little kid, all excited because the next book in her favorite series was out.”
“I feel like my mind is electrified,” I tell her, wondering if I’m putting into words what I’m feeling. But that’s the only way I can think to describe it. It’s like my mind, stunted and ignored and battered for so long, has finally been set free.
“I know what you mean,” Moira assures me. “That’s how I felt when I first started. It’ll all the new knowledge. It makes sparks when it goes into your head.”
I giggle. “Is that the scientific explanation?”
“Don’t laugh at me, stupid girl!” Moira cackles, waggling her finger, doing an impersonation of some despotic matron on a hospital ward. She settles down. “I’m glad you like it. Do you think nursing is something you’d go into?”
Before I’ve even formulated an answer, I realize I’m nodding. Nodding eagerly, too, like it’s something that’s been building up my entire life.
“Wow, enthusiastic,” Moira says.
“Overenthusiastic?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Whoever told you there was such a thing as too much enthusiasm?”
Patrick.
“Just . . . people.”
“Well, people can go to hell. Let me tell you something, Emily. There’s no such thing as too much enthusiasm for learning. I remember school, how the kids ridiculed the smart kids. A kid did well in a test, he was beaten and insulted because of it. Why do you think that is?” She barrels forward, pausing for a quarter-second before going on with her machine-gun speech. “It’s because the kids were jealous. They wanted to be smart, too. Maybe they knew they could’ve been smart if it were not for their desire to be popular—”
The apartment door opens and Jude walks in.
Moira and I turn.
Patrick, I think again, but this time I feel an old reflexive twinge in my chest. I remember watching once as Patrick got the crap beaten out of him by some of the older kids at the orphanage. It didn’t happen often, but even a mean huge man like Patrick struggled with five on one. I watched, backed against the wall, as they kicked and bit and punched him. This was years after he had started beating me. I remember thinking: I should be happy. He’s getting what he deserves. But I wasn’t happy. I was terrified. Hateful or not, evil or not, he was my brother . . . He is my brother, I think, staring at Jude, bathed in blood.
Moira shoots to her feet. “I have to go,” she says, facing away from Jude.
“Sorry, sis,” Jude mutters. “Slipped my mind about, you know—”
“About me not enjoying the sight of my brother covered in somebody else’s blood?”
Jude winces. “Yeah, that.”
“Right. You know, Jude, for a man who saved my life, you sure are a piece of shit.”
“Ha, ha.” Jude steps aside. “I’ll see you later, sis.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Moira collects her things. She leaves one book on the table, the one I was reading. “You can keep this, hon.” Before she exits, she scrawls her cell number on a piece of paper, folds it up, and slips it into my pocket, all while I sit statue-still. “If you ever need to talk,” she says, and then leaves.
I don’t hear her. I don’t hear anything. My mind is spinning. The man I’ve given myself to, the man I very well might love, has just entered the apartment covered in my brother’s blood. Ha! Some twisted part of my mind cackles. What sort of joke is your life, Emily? You fall for a man, he shows you things about yourself you never knew, and now here you are, sitting on his couch when probably less than an hour ago he was killing your brother. What sort of sister are you? What sort of woman are you? He’s your brother, your family! Are you going to stand for this?
Moira leaves the apartment. I gaze blankly down at the nursing book as Jude walks across the apartment and leans down into my field of vision.
“Emily?” he asks.
I try to speak, but I feel as though something vital has been wrenched from deep within me. I hate Patrick; he’s my brother. Patrick hits me; he’s my brother. Patrick ridicules me, insults me, resents me; he’s my brother. Patrick is an evil drug-dealing man; he’s my brother. It seems the latter always, no matter the circumstances, overrules the former. Brother is a trump card my emotions, my mind, my everything can’t help playing. And no matter how much I try and fight it, I can’t. When you’ve lived with something your entire life, it’s difficult to just let it go. I feel like a woman’s who’s lived her entire life with a glass eye, only to find that the eye has rolled out of my socket and disappeared. Maybe the glass eye was a nuisance, maybe it was a chore, perhaps it was annoying, but it’s been there forever and that’s all I register.
“Emily?” he prompts.
“I asked you to leave him alone,” I say. My voice sounds distant, disconnected from my body. It’s an out-of-body sensation I know well. It’s the same one that comes over me every time Patrick beats me.
“What?” Jude flinches. “Are you serious right now?”
“What do you mean, am I serious?” I look deep into his eyes. I feel rage bubbling over again. The presence of the rage provokes more rage. I don’t want to be angry with Jude. I want to be close to him, love him, and yet when I think about him laying into Patrick, the rage turns volcanic.
“That’s not your blood,” I mutter.
He takes a step back, regarding me with a perplexed expression. “No,” he says. Something in his face hardens. He’s not even sorry about it! “No, it’s not. But you shouldn’t even care, Emily.”
“Well, I do!” I explode onto my feet, waving my hands at him. “I do care! Do you understand! I. Do. Care. I can’t help it, Jude. We talked about this. I said I wouldn’t go to work as long as you left Patrick alone! You completely ignored me! Do you even care about me, Jude? Or are you just using me for sex?” The words spill from my lips as though somebody else is talking. I don’t even think about what I’m saying. I just ride the wave of rage. “Well?” I bark, when he just stand there, blood-flecked features getting harder each moment. “Do you even give a shit about me? He’s my brother!”
Jude paces up and down near the table, shaking his head, muttering under his breath. “After everything he’s done…so what if I did…after everything he’s done…so what if I did…”
“Jude.” Voice shaky, threatening to blow up. “Jude, you’ve ruined my life.”
Even I’m not sure what I mean by that. But then, it isn’t me speaking. It’s the scared little girl in the orphanage who, despite everything he’s done to her, sees Patrick as her only lifeline.
“How the fuck would that even be the case?” he snaps. “Look at your eyes, Emily. How long until they heal? How long until you don’t look like a woman who’s been in a car accident? I can’t believe you’re defending him again.”
“What if it was Moira, huh?” I chuck the question at him like a knife. “What if I came home one day covered in Moira’s blood? Wouldn’t you care? Wouldn’t you defend her?”
“It’s not the same.” Jude stops pacing and turns his blood-ringed eyes to me. “Moira is a nurse. She spends her life helping people. Patrick is a fucking monster who spends his life hurting women.”
Suddenly, unbidden tears sprout from my eyes. They slide down my cheeks, over the pitted bruises. My tear ducts don’t seem to see the irony in crying over the man who caused the black eyes; they just go right on ahead.
“You’re . . . crying.” He speaks in a tone of complete disbelief. “Why are you crying? Even if I . . . He’s not a good man, Emily. I can’t have you defending him like this.”
“You can’t have it?” I hate how my voice sounds, tear-choked and desperate. “It’s none of your business, Jude. It’s not up to you how I deal with my own brother . . . Oh my god, Patrick. Patrick is dead! My big brother is dead!” I sound hysterical. I pity the woman. I pity how under Patrick’s thumb she is. But then, when you’ve lived your life under somebody’s thumb, that thumb doesn’t dislodge without a fight. I try and think: This is good. Patrick was a bad man. But my mind just plays the brother card, halting that train of thought.
Jude walks to the bathroom door. His boots leave bloody prints on the floor, on the rug I bought for him. It seems grotesque, my brother’s blood staining the rug, which after all is a sigil of my dedication to Jude. Suddenly, the dedication seems misplaced. I feel lost.
“I’m going for a shower,” he says. “We’ll talk when I get out. There are some things I want to say. I’ll . . . I’ll explain everything after the shower.”
He goes into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. Without giving myself time to think, I charge to the front door, pull on my sneakers, and walk out into the hallway. As I’m walking down the stairs, I misstep and trip. My arms flail and I manage to catch the banister, but the sensation of falling doesn’t stop, even when I’m in the street, even when I walk away from the apartment, marching blindly through the city. I’m still falling, reeling, spinning. Control has been wrenched from me. I feel as though I am lost at sea.
I tell myself, time and time and time again, that Patrick is—was—a bad man, but bad man or not, he’s the only family I ever knew. He was the one constant in an otherwise hectic life. He was the man who—who what? Who beat you? Who hated you? Who made you feel small? I want to listen to this voice, part of me knows it’s talking sense, but a bigger part of me keeps imagining Patrick on his back, Jude’s boot stamping on his face. I hear Patrick screaming in agony, begging for mercy. Surely Jude must’ve paused, just once, and thought that Patrick is my brother. Surely he must’ve thought how this would’ve affected me.
But, in the end, my first observation about Jude was right. He doesn’t care one tiny bit about how I feel. My desires mean nothing to him. In the end, all he cares about is himself, his own desires.
I pause at the end of the street, wondering if I should turn back, but then my mind throws up another image, this time of Patrick cold and blue.
I keep walking.