I took the coffee he got me even though I had said I didn't want one. Weak hospital coffee doctored up with sugar and those little cups of half and half. Dad glanced at me, nodded as I took the coffee, and then turned his attention to Craig.
Dad dragged the other fake leather chair with the wooden armrests, he dragged that chair next to the bed and took Craig's hand and I saw the tears swim in his eyes. I felt like the pressure was off a little bit now that dad was back. More and more I felt uncomfortable around Craig. We needed a buffer.
I sat back and watched them, watched dad talk softly and gently to him, watched Craig try to listen and attempt to answer dad's questions. It kind of amazed me, sometimes, the devotion dad had toward Craig because he wasn't even really his kid. But it was one of the things that so endeared my father to me, I could barely put it into words. Jealous as I was sometimes that Craig was taking everything from me, everything that was rightfully mine, still, I adored my father for being so devoted to him.
I was a mess, though. Vacillating wildly from one extreme to the other, feeling the relief and love sweep through me one second and the thought, thank God, like a prayer deep in my head. Then the next second I'm pissed, looking at him and his bruises and his injuries and his way of fucking up our lives, my life and dad's life. We're always just waiting for the next crisis he's going to drag us through.
I had to go. I couldn't stay there one second longer. I stood up, nearly knocking my coffee off the arm rest where I had set it.
"Uh, I have to go. I really should go," I said, and dad looked at me with his mild look. Craig's eyes were closed. I went over, kissed dad on the cheek, leaned over and hugged Craig but gently. He was so skinny, so hurt, I didn't want to hurt him anymore. I kissed his scruffy cheek and then he did open his eyes, and he looked at me for a second like he used to look, like he looked when he was 14. It made me so sad to see that flash of who he used to be because it was so brief and then it was gone.
"Bye, Ang, I love you," he said, and I nodded.
"Love you, too," I said, and then I was out of there. I was flying down that hall and I knew I left my coffee in that room but I didn't care. I was crying, everything was blurred, but I knew these hospitals like my very own bedroom and I didn't have to look to know where I was going.
In the elevator, alone thank God, I let out a shuddery sigh and wiped the tears away. Craig. He wrenches me. Over and over. It is so hard to have a family member like that, someone who is so sick, so needy, who is just a mass of brokenness, lost potential. And I was going to fail this year of college if I didn't defer it, or something. I had to do something. I didn't know what to do. I felt so insignificant next to Craig and his life or death dilemmas.
Back to the college. I sat in that little lounge and just sat, felt wrung out. Craig exhausts me, he really does. I put my head down on the table, thought about getting a chicken sandwich or something but I just didn't have the energy. The bright lights overhead didn't bother me. I felt numb. Couldn't feel hot or cold. Nothing was effecting me.
"Hey, Angela," I picked my head up. It was Shawn, a kid in some of my psych classes. I looked at his long trench coat and faded baggy jeans, his long sandy colored hair pulled back into a ponytail.
"Oh, hi, Shawn," I said, trying on a smile.
"What's wrong?" he said, looking at me with such concern that I felt like I was about to cry again.
"Nothing, it's just my brother…it's a long story," I shrugged.
He smiled at me, a kind of dazed, sleepy smile. Shawn was kind of short, an inch or two shorter than me. He seemed to always be around, just popping up between my classes. He was one of those people you didn't have to look for, he was just there. That was good. I didn't have the energy to look for anybody.
"Want to go get a drink? You look a little stressed out," Shawn said, and I closed my eyes. A little stressed out. That was an understatement. I laughed, a jagged, shuddery laugh. I sounded as crazy as Craig was.
"Yeah. A drink would be good,"
I knew I shouldn't drink that way, drink because I felt so pulled apart that no one could tell if maybe my laugh wasn't a scream. But right then I didn't care. Jesus, it was one or two drinks, which were perfectly legal. Craig was shooting up heroin, for chrissakes.
We entered the dimly lit bar and sat at a booth, and I felt almost like I could relax for the first time that whole day. Shawn ordered a beer and I ordered a martini. He raised one eye brow when I ordered it, and I glanced from him to the skinny little waitress jotting our orders down on her tiny notepad. I liked when waiters and waitresses wrote stuff down, less chance they'd forget.
And the drinks arrived, lovely little drinks in glasses, and the condensation was visible on the outside of the glass. I took a little sip. A martini was a drink that still scared me. Shawn sipped his beer, leaned back, smiled at me.
"So. Tell me about your brother," he said, and I realized then that I never really talked about him outside the confines of the family. It was almost like a secret. I felt bad, kind of sickened by myself. Why would I do that to Craig? I treated him badly, in my mind at least. And Shawn's question felt kind of good, like I could talk about it, it. It wasn't just Craig and what he did and how he was, it was more than that. It was how he affected dad and how he affected me and how he'd just been like this tornado in our lives, tearing up the trees and the houses, downing the power lines.
"He's such a fucked up mess," I said, sipping my drink, "so fucked up,"
I listened to Shawn in class, heard the things he raised his hand and said. He was analytical. He liked to see the deep causes of the events and actions in people's lives. Well, he'd have a field day with Craig.
"He's my half-brother, actually. But our mother died when he was almost 12, and I was only like two. So I lived with my dad, who is wonderful. I mean, my dad is so supportive, so loving, so much of everything you'd ever need. I missed my mother, I missed not having her in my life because I could hardly even remember her, but my dad really did almost make up for it. But Craig lived with his dad, who was not so wonderful,"
Shawn drank his beer and I sipped my drink, and he listened. It felt good to talk about it, this whole dynamic I'd been twisted up in my whole entire life.
"What was not so wonderful about his dad?" Shawn said, and I thought about it. Craig's dad. Such a kind of shadowy, nightmare figure even in my life. When Craig first came and lived with us I knew those bruises and injuries were from his dad. I knew that when Craig would have nightmares and wake up crying at night that it was because of his dad. I had been afraid of him, too, sort of. I was afraid for Craig and for myself in a weird way. And when his dad died in that car accident I thought he might become a sort of a bad spirit and come and get us.
"His dad was a doctor, a surgeon, I think. But he hit him all the time, Craig, my brother, he'd beat him with his belt and golf clubs and he kicked him and punched him and everything. It was bad. Once, when Craig still lived with him, he brought me to the park this one time," I paused, remembering it. I hadn't really thought about that specific day in a long time.
"Anyway, he brought me to the park and we were just playing, you know. But I kind of landed on him wrong, and his shirt lifted up a little, and he yelled out in pain and I saw this, it was all purple on his side…it was awful. So I asked him about it but he lied to me, said dinosaurs did it or something ridiculous, and the thing was I sort of believed him. Sort of. And I asked him if it hurt and he got real quiet and real serious for like a second, and he said, 'yeah,' with this like incredible sadness…"
Shawn was a good listener. He wanted to be a psychologist or something. It's like they eat up other people's pain. I sipped my drink and looked at him, and he finished the rest of his beer.