Between Brothers

Chapter 2-3

Once I’m on the interstate, after the traffic has thinned and the scenery begins to rush by me in a monotonous blend of autumnal hues and stark, bare limbs, my thoughts turn in the direction I’m heading—Wildwood, “by the sea” as it’s written on the postcards they sell to tourists visiting the island. Home, to me.

I’m the oldest of two boys. When I think back to my youth, my childhood is a series of sepia-tinted snapshots, square pictures with rounded corners and cracked edges. The color yellow stands out vivid in my memory—the golden couch we used to have, the blonde wood paneling that once covered the walls in my parents’ living room, dandelions like little spots of sunshine scattered across the thick, green grass in our back yard. My dad’s yellow El Camino, which my mom made him sell when Joey was born. The yellow and brown striped shirts I always seem to be wearing in these old photos.

I don’t actually remember those early years—these images are taken from my mother’s photo albums, memories pinned down in time like captured butterflies tacked to cardboard for display. In my mind, my parents have never aged—they’ve always looked exactly the same as they did the last time I saw them, despite any photographic evidence to the contrary. The people in these old pictures resemble my parents the way a candle’s flame resembles the roar of a bonfire. I see pictures of myself as a child and I don’t quite believe that’s me.

In photos there was a time before Joey, but I don’t remember it. My earliest memory plays like an old silent film, scratchy in parts, jumping across the movie screen of my mind. In it, I am awake at an impossibly young age, no more than three or four—I lay in the darkness listening to the sound of my baby brother’s cries. After several minutes, when it becomes obvious that my mother sleeps too soundly in the other room to hear him, I slip out of my toddler bed and cross the room to his crib. “Shh,” I whisper through the bars, imitating my mother. I don’t hear my voice, but like in a dream I just know what’s being said. With one small hand, I pat the crib bumper the way I’ve seen my mother pat the baby’s back to burp him. “Joey, shh.”

He hiccups and continues to cry. With the fearless dexterity of a toddler, I pull out the drawers on the nearby changing table and use them to climb into the crib. The old wood creaks beneath my sudden weight, silencing my brother. In the faint glow from my nightlight I can see his wide eyes watching me as he sucks on one small fist. “Shh, baby,” I say again. This time I pat his leg—with a giggle, he kicks out at me and I tickle the bottom of his scrunchy little foot.

Getting back out of the crib seems daunting, so I stretch alongside the baby and snuggle up to his tiny warmth. In the darkness of our bedroom, he sticks his tiny, perfect fingers, saliva-slicked, into my mouth, my nose, my ears. I keep a protective hand on his warm baby belly and whenever he hitches his breath, I pat his stomach and murmur into his scant hair, “Shh.” Eventually we fall asleep spooned together.

When my mother found us the next morning, she used half a roll of film taking pictures until the click and whirr of the camera finally woke me up. I still have one of those pictures tucked deep into my wallet, hidden away. I haven’t seen it in years, but I know it’s still there.