The last time I see my brother.
It's 1987 and I'm standing in Atkinson's supermarket in downtown Ketchum, Idaho--a geography I know Peter has come to but where precisely he lives in Ketchum I am uncertain. It's 90 degrees outside, but inside the store it's winter--the air conditioners have been working overtime to produce an unseasonable cool. I've been choosing bread in the bakery department, trying to find the perfect whole grain loaf. There's a lot to choose from, so I've been here for several minutes, focusing on plastic wrappers and labels that reveal the amount of barely-disclosed sugars injected into each of these loaves. I've squeezed a few loaves also, checking for freshness, as a loaf that's more than a day old feels tough and resistant to the touch.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him, scurrying amongst the cheeses and the salami. He's wearing a blue T-shirt, the kind that has writing silk-screened onto the front, or at least it looks this way. I can't tell what his shirt announces as he's too far away, but I can see he's overgrown the size, as his triceps and belly extend out beyond the edges of the cloth in a way that screams--in need of a bigger size.
My first impulse is to shout, to say loudly across the bread and the cheese displays, "Peter, I'm here!" or "Peter, it's Christine" or "Peter, it's your sister...I can't believe I've found you." But I say none of these things. Instead, I just stare for a moment or two, confident that somehow he will still be there if I take time to absorb what I see. I want to stay here, just for a breath or two, take him in, the brother who let himself be lost. It's been years since I've seen him, years since we hiked together up Fourth of July Creek over in the Whiteclouds, just an hour from Ketchum. I still have that photo, taken in 1978: Peter and I standing side by side, and Chamberlain Basin at our feet. Peter has his hands crossed, his hiking mode, and I look adoringly into the camera--I'm in love with my brother, with his charm and golden aura. We all are. Peter is everyone's hope, particularly my father's.
But here in Atkinson's I see none of my brother's charisma. He looks harried, overweight. Nothing like the brother I think I know, but it's been years since I've see him, eight to be exact. So what do I know of my brother? When he doesn't turn in my direction, I know that I need to get his attention, say something. So, I stop my bread squeezing finally and focus my attention on his visage, his bulky form, his blue-T-shirted torso and arms. I reach inside myself and feel for words I need to say--braille I assume must be there if only I can apply a delicate enough touch to listen.
"Peter," I shout across the rows of neatly lined cheeses and meats. "Peter" I say even louder, not certain if he's heard over the din of other shoppers making their selections.
There's a moment then, a moment I will remember--the moment when the world changed for me, or at least the assumptions I had about it. I see Peter raise his head, the golden sweep of his hair settling back down on his head and shoulders as he levels his eyes at me. I remember this hair, this crown, as my brother's signature statement--something sensuous and lovely that all of his women found irresistible. And there were lots of women, broken women who needed my brother's religion to save them from themselves. Even then, at the time of my hiking photo, Peter was a saver, a man who saw himself as God's gift to women in need. I don't mean this in a mean or ungodly way--Peter did really see himself as a tool of salvation and he did do a lot of good with his tools. As a member of People's Church in Tacoma, Peter beckoned all his flock to attend, finding infinite ways to spread God's love, even amongst twenty-something eligible women.
So, Peter is looking right at me and there is a span of a second or so when I think maybe I see my brother, despite the physical changes in his profile. Our eyes lock, and I can see he recognizes me, the sister he knew but has chosen to forget. We stand this way for a minute or so, and I can feel my body sweating, feel the perspiration ring in concentric circles under my arms, feel the sweat slip out from beneath my breasts, till it's rivering down my belly and spine, catching in the waistband of my jeans. I can't think of what will happen next, I just know I don't want to stop looking, stop taking him in. This may be all I get.
And then, it happens, the thing I hadn't imagined--my brother takes off at a run. I see him turn his bulky middle towards the chocolate and the nuts on Aisle Two, and waddle his middle down the aisle till he reaches the spice rack and the end of the aisle where the gourmet crackers and cookies are kept. He runs faster than I can imagine someone his size can run, and just as I think to pick up my own feet to chase after him, his bulk disappears into the next aisle, beyond my sight. Soon he's out the door, or at least I imagine this is so.
"Peter," I shout after him, albeit a bit too late. "Peter...come back to me." But I know he can't hear any of this, as he's already out the front door of the Atkinson's and safely ensconced in some vehicle of choice--maybe a VW or a Honda, something inexpensive but dependable. He's gone, gone, gone...gone missing...and there's nothing I can do about it.
I chase after him, or rather I chase after the space he has occupied, knowing that my attempts to track him are feeble at best. My feet hit the store's Linoleum at a run, slipping a bit on the polished squares as I attempt to turn the corner and head for the door. But despite my sprint, he's gone and I am here, standing in the checkout stand at Atkinson's grocery, wishing I was somewhere out there, paired with my brother, arm and arm, no matter how many years have kept us apart, no matter how much dysfunction might be in the way. I love him that much.
Sometimes not even wishing is enough.
Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--
4 comments:
Wow, what moment.....what was happening in his head?
As a younger sister, I idolized my older brother. When he would come back from Art school, I would sit on the couch with him and go through his sketchbooks, page by page, seeing what he was seeing. He told me about Franz Kline and walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. Later I came to realize my brother was very fragile. He took his life apart, abandoning what remained of our little family and me. I didn't understand. He died for me in some ways, I still can feel grief for the him and the great times we used to have,laughing it up.
He's doing good now, living on the other side of the world... I know his lovely daughters, I'm glad for that.
Annie: Oh my, my...how powerful. You speak of your loss with eloquence. Were you close to your brother--you mention idolizing him...does this mean you and he were close? And I didn't know he was an artist too--does this feel like a bond between you and he even now? Your statement--"he took his life apart abandoning what remained of our little family and me" moves me--I can't stop thinking of this. C.
I have been thinking of your brother and my brother, how similar they might have been...yes we were close, I was 6 years younger and thought everything he did was the jam.....He went to art school, Pratt, in 1969, New York City, An interesting time to have his values and his life-path set. The commercial aspect at Pratt killed art for Mark, he hasn't picked up a paintbrush in years. He has had a creative life through music, not art. This left space in the family dynamics for me to become the family artist. Several years ago, Mark gave me a trunk full of linen, which he had saved. I've used it all up. For 40 years, Mark has been an outrageous guitar and hammer dulcimer player, his girls all play music too. Back to your brother and mine. Mark became spiritual,in a new age kind of way, not traditional. Part of that metamorphasis was shedding his past. He even changed his name to River for awhile. He gave away everything, including his share of our family property here on the island. That was difficult for me to process. I took it as abandonment as there wasn't much family ...no aunts, no uncles, no cousins,and no parents. It was just my 2 brothers and me, and he severed the one last thing we had to share. Now I see things in a different way, it is both a joy and a burden to own land on this island. In other words, you had better be getting a lot of enjoyment out of it. I can see for my brother, that he wanted to be free of it, and free to live a life of his own choice. As it turns out, he has citizanship in New Zealand, and is happy there, I think. He is married to a german woman, who helps ground him. Life turned out Ok for Mark, I'm happy for him. Now, those times with your brother when you are laughing so hard you are crying, I have with my other brother John.
Annie: Thanks for your words. I keep thinking of your description of your brother--of him wanting to be "free." I suppose that everyone wants this at times--to be free of all the muck and mire of family, of property ownership. And yet the interesting thing is that your brother Mark and my brother Peter actually did it--divorced themselves of this baggage, these bonds (depending on how you look at it). While it sounds like Mark is not totally cut off (as you know where he is and you know his girls), my brother is. Mark seems content....and Peter seems full of anger. I wonder sometimes about Peter's days--about what gives him joy. I wonder how he can live with it--the collective weight of his resentments, his anger, his sense of being abandoned by his family. His brief visit to my family and my phone call with him suggest that he is not really "free' despite trying to be so. He just has more to carry.C.
Post a Comment