My Brother

When I was a young girl, I looked up to my brother. He was ten years older than I - enough of an age gap for him to feel like an authority figure to me. My brother was extremely intelligent. He had a naturally witty and in-depth view of the world, albeit usually cynical. He believed so strongly in his opinions and I admired that. Throughout my childhood, I was extremely close to my brother. He was the closest thing to a father figure that I had. He taught me how to play baseball and football. He would furrow his brow as he leaned over to adjust the positioning of the baseball bat in my hands. We stood in the street in front of our home, my brother pitching to me.

At times his temper would flare, as when I couldn’t catch on to a change he wanted me to make in my swing. But, for the most part, I truly liked these lessons. I enjoyed the attention he gave me. I enjoyed feeling the pride he had in me each time I’d crush the ball. I looked up to my brother. I was proud that he was my brother.

As he began high school, the volume of calls and visits to our home by his female classmates rose greatly. He was the guy that girls wanted to date; he was the guy that other guys wanted to be friends with. He was social, athletic, outgoing, often eloquent and his looks didn’t hurt his chances with the ladies either.

My brother had just turned sixteen the first time I remember him coming home drunk. I was in my bed when I heard my brother trying to make his way into the living room from the front porch. I could hear my mother call out to him from her own room, “Barry, is that you?” My brother tried to control the tone of his voice the best he could, “Yes, Mom. Goodnight.” A few seconds later, I heard a loud thud. “Barry!” my mother called from her room, “what was that?” “Uhhhh, I stepped on Emmy’s shoe,” my brother grunted. Soon, the sound of my brother’s staggering feet faded as he was finally able to make his way to his room. By the morning, my brother was back to being my brother. “Hey kiddo” he said to me while walking into the kitchen as I readied my cereal. He patted my head before grabbing the milk from the fridge. I didn’t really know what to think. I knew that drinking was bad, but at the age of six I really didn’t realize the dangerous road that my brother had started speeding down.

By the time I was nine, I had learned that my brother’s habits were damaging him. My brother’s temper slowly escalated. Our time together dwindled as he often spent most summer days in bed, recovering from his hangovers. My memory is drawn to one summer day in particular. I opened the front door to get the mail. Our family dog spotted a squirrel in our front yard and dashed past me before I could grab her. Our dog was rather large and weighed more than I did at this point. She dashed into our neighbor’s yard, racing after the squirrel while knocking over the neighbor’s potted plants. Our neighbor hated dogs and had seen our dog in his yard one too many times. He snapped. “Kid! You get that dog out of my yard right now or I swear to you I will shoot that dog dead! I’m sick of this!” I raced after the dog in his yard, but my efforts were fruitless. The dog was much faster and bigger than I. My neighbor retreated to his house while yelling, “That is it!” My eyes widened; I turned back and sprinted into my own home. I dashed into my brother’s bedroom, yelling, “Barry!”

My brother’s bedroom had the stench of alcohol-clogged pores, of beer soaked clothing. My brother was in his bed, motionless. I ran to him and shook his shoulder. “Barry! Help me! That crazy guy on the corner is going to shoot our dog! Barry?” I shook my brother’s shoulder again. He did not respond. The dark circles under his eyes accompanied by the pale skin of his face made him appear dead. “Barry?!” I lifted my hands from my brother’s shoulders and placed them on my mouth. ‘Oh my God,’ I thought. ‘He’s dead.’

My first, most prominent thought was wondering how I’d be able to tell my mother that her first born and only son was gone. I dropped to my knees. ‘Oh my God.’ ‘No, what am I going to do?’ The seconds felt like hours. Just then, my brother’s chest suddenly raised and he coughed. I stumbled to his bed side. “Barry?” My brother still would not wake, but now I could see his chest rise and fall. I lowered my ear to his mouth. I could barely hear his breathing, but it was there.

Little did I know, this would not be the first time I would fear the death of my brother at the hands of the alcohol he clung so tightly to.