10
Alina
I never thought I’d be a twenty-three year old and still have a treehouse—or be living with my brother—but, hey, that’s life for you.
I first moved into Lucky’s place because a) he was rarely home due to his job with Canadian Armed Forces, so I’d have my privacy, and b) my illness didn’t exactly allow me to keep a steady job, so it wasn’t like I was rolling in money. Lucky knew I was struggling to find a new game plan after I’d dropped out of college, so it made sense financially, seeing that odd jobs were all I was capable of at the time. But now, I stay for me. I’m healing, and am starting to feel some semblance of happiness, something I haven’t felt in a long while.
As for the treehouse, in my and Lucky’s first family therapy session, Kristie—my therapist at Sheena’s Place—had asked me when I was the happiest and what memories I held on to most, and I’d immediately said: “Our treehouse.” My admission of how much I loved our childhood treehouse, the time spent learning about the stars and constellations alongside my brother, reflected when I’d felt not only the safest, but also the happiest and the most loved. Escaping to the treehouse with Lucky and looking at the stars, as if we were in our own little world where nothing bad could touch us, had probably been what saved me.
After we moved out of Aunt Liz and Uncle Virgil’s, Lucky took my comment to heart, and went ahead and used some of the inheritance money from our parents’ deaths to commission a new treehouse in the backyard of our house in Scarborough, up in an old oak tree. It was his way of giving me a safe space while I was in recovery. He wanted to give me my happy back, and over the last year that’s exactly what it’s done.
Lucky decided my mental health and welfare were important enough to go against the promise we’d made long ago, that we were never going to touch the inheritance and insurance money from my parents’ deaths, unless it was an emergency. Especially after we had to cut all ties with Aunt Liz and the rest of her family when everything I’d dealt with at the hands of Aunt Liz had finally come out after I got so sick. Lucky was adamant that my feeling safe was the least our mom, and even our dad, could do for me all these years later.
That’s Lucky for you. Always looking out for me. Always there.
In the end, I’m glad he broke our vow to leave the money untouched, because the treehouse is not only my safe place, but I think it might be Lucky’s, too, even if he is twenty-eight.
So, after every therapy session, I find myself climbing the narrow staircase that leads up to the spacious room with the rustic oak branch beams running overhead encasing a bunch of mismatched, reclaimed windows which act as a ceiling, open to the sky, allowing me to feel closer to the one place I’ve always felt a connection to. Lucky gave me everything I ever could have imagined, and more. The space has electricity, with strands of white twinkle lights adorning the weatherproofed walls, a bunch of pillows surrounding a small carpet, an amazing telescope, and a pretty wooden bookcase holding some of the best stories I’ve ever had the pleasure of getting lost in. He also lugged up a few folding chairs, for when I want company besides him, which so far has yet to happen. It’s my happy place, and I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to share it with anyone other than Lucky.
Reaching into the bookshelf for my self-soothe box, the one I made after learning about them in group therapy a few months back. I slide the wooden lid open and reach inside for my journal and pen, before laying down on my back on the rug, crossing my right leg over my left knee to support the journal. I begin to jot down the beginning of a new song, one I’ve decided to call “Whisper Tree”.
I can literally lie here for hours processing, journaling, and writing lyrics; especially on nights like this, after therapy. Therapy sessions make me not only reflective, but somewhat fragile and scared, and this is my place, the one spot I can get away from everything. I visit with the stars and dream as I look through the windowed ceiling, trying to spot some of my favourite stars as they soar by in the night sky. After scribbling down most of the new song’s lyrics and swiping a few tears, I reach inside the wooden box again, feeling like I need a little more reassurance tonight. Shifting past an old iPod, the “Peace” essential oil rollerball, and a Yoda Pez dispenser given to me by Siobhán, I smile as I pull out a small stack of photos, pictures I’ve stored here for times when I need reminders of all the good in my life. There are a few of Lucky and me over the years, the girls and me jamming onstage at our first real gig at Fyst, and a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Vasquez, Lucky, and me at their annual Cinco de Mayo barbecue. After looking at each one, I gently tuck them back in and pull out a piece of paper inscribed with one of my favourite quotes in the whole world. It’s a quote that has always resonated with me; one I recite every night I’m out here. Unfolding it, I read the quote by Vincent van Gogh, and expel a long hard breath. “For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.”
God, the power of those words. They’re as beautifully strung together as the constellations above me, as if they were the lyrics to my soul. The stars may tell our history, but they also bring about a sense of wonder and hopefulness for the future that I’ll always thank them for. I might not feel the need to try and fly up into the night sky like I did when I was a little girl, but I still rely on their beautifully poignant light and twinkling as I struggle to find my inner beauty all the way down here on earth, where I’m fighting to allow myself to shine.
“Room for one more tonight, Squirt?” I hear Lucky’s voice, and it pulls me from my thoughts. I imagine him standing underneath the treehouse, gazing up, waiting to hear if I want his company in that way that’s uniquely his.
“Always.” I peek out the window and smile down at my brother standing at the foot of the stairs to the treehouse, waiting for permission and gauging my mood.
“What do you have for me tonight?” I ask, noticing the familiar cardboard takeout tray in his hand which holds two familiar white-and-green cups I’m hoping he won’t spill as he shifts through the small doorway at the side of the treehouse. Lucky’s a big guy, at 6’2” and 220 pounds, so watching him struggle to get up here always makes me giggle.
“A pumpkin spice latte, skinny, half the flavour pumps—despite my better judgment, as always—plus a new constellation called Auriga, and a group of four stars called Capella, to show you. If the clouds cooperate, that is,” he says, handing me my PSL before taking up residence in one of the black folding chairs.
“Thanks.” I raise my coffee cup. “I’m building up to one day order the full-fat version, with all the sugary pumps. It’s a goal,” I tease, and he rolls his eyes, knowing I’m full of shit. There are some things I just can’t commit to, and upping the fat content of milk is one of them (along with the five million other foods I’d rather not ingest, but, hey, I’m working on it). “Auriga and Capella, eh? Cool names.”
“You want to talk first or listen tonight?” He takes a sip of what I assume is a triple-shot latte. He always gives me the choice. Some nights, I have an overwhelming need to get things off my chest, to open up and share exactly how I’m feeling. Other nights, I want him to talk until I’m ready…if I feel ready.
“Listen first, I think. I’ll interrupt if I change my mind,” I laugh, taking another sip and reaching for the basket holding a couple of old astronomy books.
“Sounds like a plan. You seem contemplative tonight,” Lucky observes, perceptive as always.
“Yeah…maybe…a little.” I shrug. “I’m okay. Just a lot of memories surfing around tonight, I guess,” I sigh. “I’m glad you’re here now, though. I’m ready for some company.”
“Well, I am pretty awesome in the company department,” Lucky says, and I agree.
“You really are, Luck. And I’m so sorry you have to spend so much time dealing with me and my issues when you’ve got your own stuff to deal with,” I say, taking a deep breath.
The month after the first time Lucky confronted me about my illness, and then tried in vain to convince me to seek treatment, he’d started to drink. Heavily. I blamed myself for pushing him to go there by refusing to take the help he was offering, and had worried he’d follow suit and take the long, winding path our mother had chosen. So, a month later, when Lucky sat me down and presented me with a pamphlet for Sheena’s Place, I slid him one for a place called Therapy Heals, because if we were going to do this, we were going to do it together. That afternoon—after a lot of honesty, tears, and strong resolves to heal—Lucky and I both sought treatment. Don’t get me wrong, I know it wasn’t my illness that put the bottle in Lucky’s hand. He’d always been a bit of a drinker, using it as a tool to forget and numb his memories of our childhood, and some of the things he’d seen on the various missions he went on with the military before he decided to pursue becoming an avionics technician, but if I was going to work towards recovery, I knew I needed him to be strong, too, because I couldn’t do this without him.
“Hey, now. You didn’t do anything to me, Ali. I did it,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “I should’ve got help years ago. I don’t blame you in the least. We’re family. I’ll always be here no matter what, just as you are for me. If anything, I should be thanking you. The way I see it, your issues are mine and vice versa, we’re a team. And you’re doing great, Squirt. I’m proud,” he says, sincerity lacing his tone. I nod, tears starting to fall again.
“You’re doing amazing, too, big brother. I’m prouder. I love you, Lucky,” I tell him honestly, because it’s true. Just last month, I’d attended a family session with Lucky to celebrate the fact he hadn’t had a drink in over eight months. Not a single drop, and the best part was hearing how he’d found so many other things to turn to instead. Rather than heading to the bar to simply watch sports, he’d started playing hockey in a men’s rec league, and when he did want to watch a game, he invited his buddies over to watch it at home instead of going to the local pub where the temptation to drink would be higher. He’s also changed his views on alcohol, working to alter his mindset from seeing alcohol as a painkilling crutch to suppress negative feelings. He’s talking to a therapist, and realizes booze can’t mask problems, it only pauses them, if anything. Now, if only I could switch my own mindset to match his. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m determined to get there one day. It’s going to be a long road for both of us.
“Me too, kid. Me too,” he smiles, leaning over, positioning his thumb and index finger over my nose as he swoops in and steals it. “Haah, got it!”
“Did you seriously just steal my nose?”
“Sure did. Had to break that shit up. Was getting too deep, there.” He winks, holding my nose up for inspection.
“God, I swear you’re as bad as a five-year old sometimes. Really, you just stole my nose?”
“When in a treehouse,” Lucky chuckles, waving his arms around the space I love.
“Whatever. You know you love it as much as me. Keep teasing all you want. I promise I won’t tell any of your dates about the fort you have in our backyard, especially Teresa,” I taunt, earning a low groan. Lucky has been seeing Teresa now for about six months. She’s a paramedic, and they met through Lucky’s friend Smith, who also works in avionics with the Canadian Forces.
“Dude, I’d lose my Man Card for real. Hey, wait,” he pauses, rubbing his chin, “you know, chicks might dig this place, all romantic under the stars. Maybe Teres—”
“Stop right there.” I raise my free hand. “This conversation is not happening.” I fake yak, and Lucky laughs out loud.
“As if I’d let anyone up here. This is our place. Well, yours…and mine when I’m worthy.”
“You’re always welcome, Lucky, you know that.”
“I know, kiddo, and I’m happy you’ve gotten this far. I’m proud of you, Al,” he adds, and I swallow past the lump in my throat, knowing just this morning the bully I thought I was shutting out wasn’t nearly as dormant as I needed her to be.
“Anyway, are you ready to tell me about Auriga now?” I ask, ready to listen, ready to end this conversation before it goes somewhere I don’t want it to go.
“All right. So, the name Auriga is Greek for charioteer. Capella is the brightest thing in that constellation and is known as the Goat Star, even though it’s actually four stars clustered really close together. The constellation is visible for most of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.”
“Why a goat? How does Capella look like a goat?” I ask, excited. I love these nights, I always have. The world is a scary, overwhelming place, but the sky…the sky at night is a beautiful wonder. So many bright lights fighting for dominance, yet all adhering to some unspoken rule where they allow each other to have a turn to sparkle each given their chance to be seen and appreciated for its uniqueness, rather than be shunned for it.
“Nah, unfortunately, it’s not a goat shape. Capella means goat in Latin. Some ancients thought that Auriga was a goatherd because of the crook he held, and that the Capella star cluster represented a goat being held by Auriga, that’s how it got it’s name. And how Capella became a guiding light for shepherds,” Lucky says, standing from his chair, opening one of the glass roof flaps, and setting up the telescope.
“Oh, boo. What makes it special, then?” I ask, propping myself up on a couple of the pillows.
“Well, it’s not only the brightest group of stars in the Auriga constellation, it’s also the sixth brightest in the entire night sky,” he says, reaching for one of the astronomy books, flipping it open to the index then finding the corresponding page before turning it for me to see. “I’d say that’s pretty cool.”
“Most definitely,” I smile, running my fingers across the page, tracing the lines that make up the Auriga constellation and finding Capella. “Wow. It’s relatively close to earth compared to some. Capella is only 42.2 light-years away,” I say in awe, reading all the facts I can.
“Here, take a look,” Lucky calls me over to the telescope.
Looking into the ocular lens, I can’t keep a huge smile from my face as I stare up, seeing the Big Dipper. I find the bowl of the dipper’s top two stars, then follow them to the right, swinging the telescope to follow the imaginary line which points me in the right direction. It’s then that I find Capella, and zoom the telescope out enough to see the whole Auriga constellation, and try to decide if it looks more like a charioteer or a goatherd.
“…Lucky?”
“Yeah, sis?”
“I fucking hate oranges.”
“Ooo-kay,” he responds, his voice confused, because every week he buys them and thinks I eat them, when in reality, I just throw them out. At least, that’s what I’ve been doing for the last year. Without looking away from the shining stars, I decide to share a little piece of me with the one person I know won’t judge me.
“The oranges. They help to mask the smell. The oils from the skins mix with the shower steam when you peel them. I used them in the dorms at school at night, then for a while when I moved back home. So…don’t buy them anymore, okay?”
“The smell of?”
“…” I stare at Lucky, and make the fake yakking motions again.
“All right, Al. No more oranges,” he says playfully, shoving me aside so he can take a turn at the telescope, letting me know that we don’t need to talk about that subject anymore. He gets it.
“Easy, pushy. I know how to share.” I elbow him in the side.
“Hey, Al?” Lucky says, after a few beats of silence.
“Yeah?”
“I fucking hate oranges, too,” he says, and I giggle, loving my brother even more if that’s possible. “Know what else I hate?” he asks, and I sober, hearing his tone turning more serious.
“What?”
“Ice cubes.”
I cock my head in confusion, and then make the connection. Ice cubes and Scotch; Scotch on the rocks. Lucky’s drink of choice.
“Yeah,” I say, “ice cubes suck, too. Fuck them, and fuck oranges.” We both carry on as if we didn’t each share an extra little piece of our struggles. Some people say addiction is genetic, and I often wonder if that’s true in Lucky’s case.
We spend the next hour looking at the night sky, and I talk a little about the songs Happenstance has been rehearsing in case we do get a shot at the audition, and how cool it would be to tour for the summer. Lucky talks about maybe taking Teresa to Quebec City for a weekend getaway, which I tell him is a great idea. Teresa is good for Lucky, and he deserves to be happy.
What I don’t share is how I’m petrified. Afraid that I’ll somehow do something to mess everything up like Aunt Liz always said I did, and how, once again, I might let down the people I love most. I wish I could be like Lucky and have faith in myself rather than continually fighting myself from within.
You’ll never be enough…