Regarding My Brother
By Louise Cruz
Content Warning: Mentions of Self Harm, Drug Use, Driving Under the Influence, and Death
1. Presence
My brother’s presence used to fill up the house. Whether it was rap music thumping through the drywall, the faint smell of marijuana and perfume, or the continuous stream of his friends stomping through the house, there was always something reminding me he was there. Once Harrison started college, he spent more time outside the house than in it, and the signs started trickling away. I developed a habit of stealing things from his room, and when he was home to catch me, I’d tell him straight “Hey, I’m here to steal this” and he’d say OK.
I figured that presence was important in my younger years. Living upstairs could be isolating, and as a mentally ill teenager, isolation was no good. My freshman year, I guess something got to me I’m no longer sure. I hurt myself pretty bad. And, for whatever reason—perhaps subconscious self-preservation—instead of my bedroom, I stuck myself in the bathroom up against my brother’s room. I remember his presence shadowing over me. Once again, his rap music was quite loud. I thought of him finding my body.
I guess I had to traumatize him somehow that day. I walked into his room with blood dripping down my arms onto the carpet. It was 3 am and he was the only one awake. I asked him to help me wake up Mom so I could go to the hospital. He said of course, but took the time to stare fascinated by the injuries, like watching a gory scene in a horror movie. It was a long night.
A year or so later, Harrison would ask me to help cut him to draw blood. He wanted to gift a vial of his blood to his strange girlfriend, and asked me for help since I was “good at that sort of thing”. That fucker.
2. Car Chase
Recently, my grandpa on my stepfather’s side died at 94. Grandpa had passed not even 7 months after his wife of 71 years. It seemed amazing, but we didn’t know him very well. The funeral was much colder than Grandmas. There was no official ceremony, just straight to the burial grounds. It wasn’t out of rudeness, but a lot had happened recently, and my family was running out of funds for death. Still, a lot was said in commemoration. Strained, awkward words
which couldn’t fully encapsulate the complicated relationship everyone had with him. Pained words that taught me my stepdad was a lot like my grandpa. The silent, dominating presence, the unforgiving harshness, and the soft sides which made you forgive him anyways. It was odd.
My stepdad had driven me and my mother to the funeral. It was quite unpleasant. Grandpa’s ashes sat next to me, buckled in the other seat. My step-dad was in a poor mood of course. I had angered him somewhere but I couldn’t tell when. I I felt like I should’ve been making conversation with someone. Perhaps the box?
The funeral also happened to be the first time I got to see Harrison in quite a while, and we got to catch up as he drove me home. I was sure it’d be interesting at least he was never not. The drive started slow, soaked in a surreal, off putting fog. Every single thing said about our grandpa was just so similar to our stepdad that the funeral could’ve been his. I suppose most people will organize their parent’s funerals at some point. Harrison and I decided when the time came, we’d do our best not to fight (and have some good food at the procession). I appreciated seeing my brother, but his car wasn’t the place I wanted to catch up with him. I was sure he’d eventually pull out a joint and make some questionable choices on the road. And I was right: it only took two stop-lights for my brother to bust out the old rolling paper. I guess I didn’t mind.
What I did mind was the driving. Early in the trip, a woman in a white van cut us off, and Harrison took unreasonable offense. He began to honk incessantly, speed up, cut her off back, and give her the finger a few times over. The honking was quite loud.
“Y’know,” I told him a moment after, “I’ve been driving for a bit, but I still don’t have any instinct to honk at people. I just get out of the way and tense up. Plus, I feel kinda mean about it.”
“That’s no good,” Harrison responded. “You need to get in the habit. Honking isn’t mean. In fact, it’s the right thing to do, like putting on a blinker; it’s just another form of communication.” He thought for a moment then smirked. “That back there, though? That was pretty mean.”
I guess he was right about it being mean, because the van from earlier seemed pretty pissed and began tailing us. Harrison didn’t seem too bothered. He made a few risky, last-minute turns to check, and the van trailed as we suspected.
“Should we drive in a circle, maybe?” I suggest. “Or just go home?”
“Nah. I’ll call up a friend with a gun if I need to and we can go to their house.” Anxiety filled my chest. I couldn’t be involved in all that, I’m still in my funeral heels.
“But what if she calls the police?” I eyed the joint between Harrison’s fingers. “We can scare her off. And well, I could outrun cops.” I felt like I should expect this kind of response, but my brother was always finding new ways to bewilder me.
“What?? How do you know?”
“Well, I’ve done it before.”
I stared incredulously at my brother.
“Seriously??”
“Yeah, once. Now, watch this maneuver.”
I thought we had passed our chance to merge onto the highway. Harrison thought no such thing, and jerked the car left, driving full force through the border lines separating the roads. I grasped the dash as we snuck in, the van following suit.
We weaved quickly through the lanes with his small car, angering other cars in record speed. Despite Harrison’s reckless driving, and a dial approaching 130mph, he still used his blinker religiously.
My brother’s “maneuver” was working. The large van couldn’t keep up with us, and we began to lose her in the afternoon traffic. My head throbbed with adrenaline.
I watched Harrison piss off drivers at an incredible rate. It could’ve been funny if it wasn’t so dangerous.
“Yknow,” I chimed in “I feel like all the anxiety you were meant to have was given to me instead.” Harrison glanced over to me.
“It’s not like I’m not anxious” he responded. “I just can’t be, ’cause you’re here.” Once, his words would have felt out of character, but he had grown since he moved out. “I feel like if I was you, I’d be more nervous ’cause I’m here though,” I said, glancing into the rearview mirror just to be safe.
“Well, you’re not an older brother. It’s different.” Harrison said it like a common fact. I guess it was to us.
We finally shook off the van and drove calmly into the neighborhood. It was like nothing even happened. On the car blu-tooth, Harrison played me a song by Outkast called “Roses”—a strange song about eating out women. I didn’t offer him a hint of curiosity, but he gave me his lengthy opinions on the topic anyways.
I struggled to exit the low car in my heels as Harrison continued his bizarre monologue. I recalled this morning the silent, angry drive to the funeral. I suppose the drive back was a little better.
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