Lately I've been wondering about something, and it all has to do with what happened five years ago. I keep going back to that night over and over again in my head, and I keep wondering what would have happened if I had reacted differently. My father was a known and wanted serial killer, and my mother was a sort of Benedict Arnold of the FBI (not that I blame her, of course). Somehow the FBI had found our whereabouts and had basically destroyed my family on sight. It was in a public square, too, in Vienna. My twin brother and I were nearly twenty but it still stings me as bad as it would have if it had happened as a child. We were all there in the square, buying stuff for dinner, and suddenly, Dad was shot to the ground and we were all off and running. It happened so fast I woke up the next morning thinking it was all a dream, but it wasn't. Dad was dead and we had to get out of Austria. Fast.
My mother then insisted that we "vacate the nest" as she put it. We were nineteen, she said, and it was high time for us to strike out on our own. Needless to say the thought of being seperated terrified my brother and I. Not only was our father suddenly dead, but our mother insisted we leave home and begin our lives. I felt worse for Malachi: he and Dad were so close, too close I thought, they spent every waking moment together if possible. Malachi adored Dad in every way, and while I loved Dad too, I don't think I needed him half as much as Malachi did.
Malachi didn't speak at all for the first few days after Dad's death. I've come to believe it was not so much because of shock, but more of a dignity aspect: no doubt Dad's body was somewhere in the depths of the FBI, never destined to have a funeral of any sort. It would be studied and photographed and dissected. They would, naturally, probe his brain for any physical deformations that would have caused his "condition". Thoughts like these must have ravaged my brother, for sometimes at night I would hear him cry incessantly from his bedroom. His tortured wails would ultimately lead me to shed more than a few tears, and would lead to both of us crying together all night.
Malachi was a strange child and is a complicated adult. He seems quiet and passive, but really he is a complex and angst-ridden soul. I love him more than anyone else on this earth. Psychopathic behavior intrigues him, as it intrigued Dad. They used to spend long hours by the fire discussing infamous cases and ideas. Mostly Malachi dedicates his time to writing articles for scholarly psychiatric journals. Writing is his first love, and psychology is his second. Part of me has always believed he is so intense about psychology because he is driven to find out who—or rather, what—he really is.
But is my living with him hindering him from something? Its not that I feel I am intruding on his life or anything, seeing as he has no friends and has no interest in the fairer sex, but maybe there is a time and place where we should say goodbye, at least for a little while.
I'm pondering all this as I brush my hair in the full length mirror in our London home. Malachi is downstairs in his office like he usually is, tapping away in front of that ghastly computer he seems to love so much. I can smell breakfast coming from the kitchen. Jack, our modest American cook, is a "bacon and eggs" kinda guy. Neither Malachi nor I grew up eating that food, but I must say I'm beginning to like the smell of grease in the morning. It's something I can count on every morning.
I use the back staircase and enter through the side of Malachi's office where, just as I suspected, Malachi is typing furiously on the keyboard. Sometimes I wonder why the thing hasn't broken already.
"Hey," I say, breaking his concentration. "Breakfast is almost ready."
He looks up at me, his clear blue eyes a million miles away. "Yeah, be right there," he says in a far off tone.
I sit down at the table and start in on that wondrously fattening (but delicious) French toast. Malachi joins me a minute later with the latest edition of a journal in his hand. I grab it and put it down. "Look, I'm tired of just staring at the cover of a magazine all during breakfast. I wanna see your face, ok?" I say playfully to my brother. He smiles good-naturedly.
"Actually, its not a magazine. It's a journal," he points out. I roll my eyes.
"Yeah, whatever it is, it seems like it's more important than me."
Malachi looked hurt. "Oh Rue, you know that's not true." I laugh: Malachi takes everything literally.
"Aw, Malachi, you're a poet and you didn't know it," I tease. He smiles again, this time saying nothing. He is a quiet fella. I figure this is as good a time as any to bring up my concern over living together. Knowing my brother's feelings are easily hurt, I have to do this carefully. I really should think about it before I actually talk to him, but why put off tomorrow what can be done today? "Hey Malach?"
"Yes?"
"You know, I've been thinking…" I look over at him. I had his undivided attention now so I should probably tell him before he sticks his nose back in that damn journal. "Five years is a long time to spend with someone, isn't it?"
He scratches his chin. "Well, I suppose it depends on who you spend it with."
"Like us, Malach. We've been living together, well, all our lives, but five years alone together. I was um, wondering, well, am I inhibiting your lifestyle in any way?"
There is a look of profound confusion on his face. "No, of course not. You've known me long enough to know when I'm being bothered and when I'm not."
"No I don't. I can't read you at all. You've been my brother for twenty five years and I still haven't figured you out."
"Why would you want to leave?" he says curiously, with just a hint of hurt in his voice. This is where I had to be careful not to step on the feelings.
"Oh, Malach, I wouldn't leave if you didn't want me to. Its just that well…I don't think we can live together our whole lives."
"Why not?"
"Why not?" I repeat, searching for an answer. There has to be one. "We have to have our own lives."
"We do. I'm an author and you are too. We have enough space from each other, don't we?" he asks in a hopeful tone. His face changes into one of hurt. "Wait, am I doing something wrong? Am I making you unhappy in the way you live your life?"
See, that's what I'm always afraid of. He's so fragile yet so distant, its frustrating to know what to say and when! I can't figure him out! "No, Malachi, of course not. I'm just saying that maybe its time we had our own lives."
"But Mother always taught us there's safety in numbers."
"Yeah, and look what happened to Dad in Vienna," I say before I can stop myself. The pain coming back to him on that day is apparent in his face. I sigh. "I'm sorry. That was a little abrupt. Yes, Mom's right, there is—usually—safety in numbers. But what's wrong with being a lone fugitive?" I say in a light way. Although the heartbroken expression on his face is still there, he smiles in an amused way.
"Of course there's nothing wrong with it. And if you want to leave, then I cannot and do not want to stop you from doing it."
"I didn't say I wanted to leave. I said we should think about it."
"I'm thinking. I'm thinking."
"But do you see my point?" I say, by this time not even sure if I believe what I'm saying. I can't imagine a life without my brother, maybe not even a life where I don't see him everyday. Its not so much so that I can enjoy him, but so that I know he's ok. I worry when I'm away from him and I love when I'm around him—is the price of independence really that important? And in what terms of independence am I thinking of? I would say I've got a great life, a life that I love, right here between these walls. I had three published fiction novels and have another one coming out, I support myself entirely, I have many friends, and I love living with my brother. What was so awful about living with a relative?
"I don't know, Rue. Maybe you should sleep on it," he says in that voice to mean, 'Please don't do what you're thinking about doing'. I sigh.
"Ok, bro. I will." Maybe I just feel guilty for loving him so much that I want to leave. Maybe I feel its my fault.
To our surprise, Jack walked in the kitchen carrying the phone. "Hey, its your mother," he says, placing it down and leaving again. I hit speakerphone.
"Hi Mom!"
"Hello, Mother."
"Hi you two, how are you?"
"Good."
"Very well, thank you."
"Eating right?"
"You know it," I say as I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth.
"Some of us, anyway," Malachi says, arching an eyebrow.
"Well hey, I guess you're wondering why I called."
"What's up, Mom?"
"Oh, you know, the usual. The FBI traced my whereabouts, they are after me, and oh, they're after you too. Kids, leave the country, will you? I hear Ireland is lovely this time of year."
We'd gone through a couple "residence changes" in the last five years, so by now it was a completely normal thing to get a phone call from Mom in the middle of the night telling us to get the hell out of wherever we were. I leisurely took the last bite of my French Toast.
"I don't know. I've always kinda wanted to see Belize." I hear gunshots in the background as Mom fires off a few rounds.
"Well, wherever you go, make sure to stay together. You know, I don't believe I've ever told you this—" her voice gets a tad emotional as I hear a man screaming in the back "—but I am so glad you kids decided to stay together. You really do better as a team." Malachi shot me a look. "And I know how close you two are." A few more shots are fired and I hear Mom board a jet. "But anyway, I'm off. By the way, do either one of you happen to know how to fly a jet?"
"No."
"No."
"Damn. Well, I guess I'll figure it out on the runway. Kisses to you both. Bye." With that, Mom hangs up. I throw my napkin on my plate and take a deep breath.
"Well, Malach old pal, looks like we're on the run again."
"Pity. I really loved my computer."
"I think we've got a few spare fake passports in the bookshelf. Do you want to be Ralph Farraday or Roger Wagner?"
"Wagner, I believe. After the composer. Lovely works, you know."
I sigh. "I guess this solves our little problem over living together, hm?"
Malachi smiled. "When you're the kids of a cannibalistic serial killer, you don't have the luxury of complete and undying independence. You take what you can get."
How true.