by Nicole Mello
“That’s a great picture, kid,” he said, before continuing on his way down the line. My mother left her position behind the mashed potatoes and came to see what he was talking about. When she asked, I showed her, and she embraced me.
“Victor, I didn’t know you liked to draw,” she said, and I shook my head as I pulled back.
“I like people,” I told her. “I like to put people down on paper.”
My mother smiled and kissed me on the forehead. “It’s always something new with you, Victor.”
She returned to the mashed potatoes. I abandoned my sketchbook to follow her and help her pass out the food. I don’t know why this one incident, in particular, sticks out in my mind, but I remember my mother in that moment. She was incredible to me. She accepted everything I told her, everything I did. She was born to be a mother, I’d say; she was born to love people unconditionally. She did it well.
My father, you’ll remember, was a very busy man, being so important to Brooklyn as he was. He was well-respected, too, which only consumed more of his time, because people wanted to see him. He was gone for days at a time, it seemed; but, as I told you earlier, he always made time for us, usually in the form of those family outings on the weekends.
My father was rather spontaneous, when he set his mind to it. Sometimes, without warning, he would pull all four of us out of school — and Henry, too, most of the time — and take us out to lunch and a movie. That was just his way. It was like a reward, for us. We went to school, we did well, we got good grades, so we could afford to miss half a day to spend time with our father. He would also take us on these weekend trips, where we would do whatever activity we picked for that vacation.
My favorites, like I said, were the outdoor activities, even if I was physically unsuited for the great outdoors. Fishing, camping, hiking — anything that allowed me to be in nature, I loved, and, in turn, my father loved the opportunity to teach us how to do those activities. Sometimes, though, per the requests of Gloria, and, eventually, Will, he also took us into the city for our excursions. We might go to a museum, or a show, or just to get lunch at a much nicer, larger place than we were used to. Still we might also go on a road trip; New England was right next door, and the seasons could be breathtaking there.
My father recognized, in each of us, our individual interests, and what activities we took particular likings to. While we still had the group outings, of course, to spend time together as a family, he would also take us on individual trips with him as we got older. One time, I went fishing with him. He woke me up at three in the morning on a Saturday when I was sixteen so that we could drive out to some lake in the woods he had found upstate. We sat in that boat for hours, but we weren’t quiet, which was probably why the fish didn’t bite very often. My father and I talked about anything and everything that day. I remember this day, in particular, because my father decided to ask about Henry.
“So,” he said, in that comfortable way he had. “Henry.”
“Yes, what about Henry?” I prompted, when he stopped. He seemed to think very hard on his next words; I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. My father had a very expressive face.
“Are you interested in Henry?” he asked, finally. I was confused.
“Of course I’m interested in Henry,” I replied. “He’s my best friend.”
“No, Victor,” he said. He turned towards me, to make eye contact with me. “Are you interested in him in the way that I am interested in your mother? In a romantic way. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nearly dropped my fishing pole into the water; as it was, it slipped out of my grasp, and I had to lurch to grab it. My father snatched me back by the collar of my shirt so I wouldn’t fall into the water. When I was settled again, I looked down at my hands, wrapped around the pole.
“I don’t know,” I answered. I did know, of course, and the answer was yes. He knew it, too. Of course he did; my father was a very perceptive man. He accepted my answer, though, because he and I both knew I wasn’t ready. He nodded and returned his attention to his own fishing pole, but I remember watching him for a little while longer. He had asked so casually, like my answer wouldn’t change a thing, like he was talking about the weather or something, like it was no big deal. I felt relieved, like my chest had loosened. He was the first person I went to when I was finally ready.
Gloria and I, though, always had that six-year gap between us, and, as we grew older, the gap became more and more obvious. I struggled to keep up with Glo’s life, and she with mine, because we had been so close for so long. One of the ways we tried to keep close was one my parents never knew about. Gloria bought a car before any of us did, obviously. She was also — when I was in high school — old enough to take me out of school. She was listed as one of my emergency contacts at school, so she was, technically, allowed to pull me out if she deemed it necessary. Every now and then, Gloria deemed it necessary to take me out of my classes to go out to lunch with her.
Glo always treated me with respect. She never acted like I was a dumb kid, like the other students would sometimes say their older siblings did. She treated me like I was her equal. She talked to me like I was her peer, which, in her eyes, I suppose I was. It felt really good, to be treated that way, so I looked forward to our lunches, where I could speak honestly, candidly, about whatever I wanted to speak about, and Glo would listen without judgement. Sometimes, after lunch, we’d see a movie, or get ice cream, or go for a drive; Gloria always made those afternoons great for me. Once, we went to see a movie — I think it was some new fantasy movie — and we went to get sandwiches afterwards. While Gloria always allowed me to speak candidly, she usually listened more than she talked, and she rarely offered too much of her own life. Today, she was more open.
Glo had been dating someone, but she didn’t talk about whoever it was very frequently, and we had never met this person. She told me about her when we were getting our sandwiches that day. Her name was Robin Avery, and she had a very young son named Lewis. Glo was in love with her, she told me. She told me all about her, and I felt like I had become a true part of her life. I was honored to hear about Robin, to know what was happening in my sister’s separate life. It also served, to me, as something of a wake-up call; my sister had become an adult, seemingly while I wasn’t looking. I was a child still, a teenager, stuck between my infancy and my adulthood. Gloria, though, Gloria had her own life; she went to college, she had a job, she fell in love. It struck me, all at once, how finite my childhood was. I could never go back; I could only go forward. Life is fascinating that way.
Will, as I said, was the delight of our family. My classmates complained about being annoyed by their younger siblings, but it was quite the opposite for Will and I. I was captivated by his growth and development. Watching Will grow up was a singularly unique experience to me. I wanted to do everything I could to influence him, to be involved in the natural process of his life, his genuine maturation. I ended up taking it upon myself to teach my younger brother to read and write. He was ahead of all the others in his class when he entered school, and he was thrilled by that fact. The drive to learn and gain knowledge and information was strong for him, and he would come home to me every day and demand to know more. I was in awe of him; of course, I taught him everything I could, and answered questions every time he asked them. I gave him as much as I could.
On one occasion, I remember, when Will was a boy, he came out of his school with significantly less enthusiasm than usual. Henry and I were waiting outside, among the throngs of parents, to pick him up. Our high school was right next to Will’s school, and we got out a little while before he did, so we typically picked him up to make things easier. Will loved me, and he adored Henry; whenever we were the ones waiting for him, he would run to us, all excitement and smiles and a rundown of everything that had happened to him at school. That day, though, Will all but dragged himself over to where we were standing.
“What’s wrong, kiddo?”
Henry asked, before I got a chance to. He was much more sensitive and aware than I was, and better at dealing with people. Will shrugged. I took his backpack from him, and Henry lifted him up onto his shoulders, like he usually did.
“Did something bad happen at school today?” I asked as we walked. Will leaned down to whisper something to Henry, and Henry nodded before placing Will on the ground again. Without breaking pace, I took Will’s hand automatically.
“Victor,” Will began, then paused. “You’d never lie to me. Right?”
“Right,” I assured him. “I promise, I’ll only ever tell you the truth, Will.” I squeezed his hand and stopped walking, bringing him to a standstill beside me. I knelt down to bring us to eye level. “What is it?”
Will was silent for a moment. Then, “Is there really such a thing as Hell?”
Henry and I met each other’s eyes over Will’s head; Henry’s expression was plainly surprised. He mouthed something to me, but I missed it; I had already refocused my attention on Will.
“Why do you ask?” I inquired carefully, trying to keep the worry out of my voice. Will shrugged and looked down at his feet. “Will.”
“Brian told me that his older brother, Nate, goes to school with you and that Nate said that you and Henry are going to Hell,” Will confessed, in a rush. He rubbed at one of his eyes with the back of his hand, and Henry shifted and dropped down to kneel beside me. He pulled Will close and embraced him. Will buried his face in Henry’s shoulder, then turned his head so he could look at me. I laid one hand along the side of his face.
“Henry and I are not going to Hell, I can promise you that,” I told him. We didn’t discuss religion much at our home, but I didn’t believe in God, nor did I put much stock into any religion. I had just promised Will that I would never lie to him, so I wasn’t about to start now. “I don’t think there is a Hell, Will. Even if there was, I can assure you, Henry and I aren’t going there.”
“Promise?” Will asked. He hiccupped. I brought our foreheads together, something my mother used to do when I cried when I was younger.
“I promise,” I vowed to him. Henry pulled back slightly, and Will stood up straight, wiping his eyes on the backs of his hands. He hesitated, then threw himself at me. I was never very open, not like Henry was, but I did love Will dearly. I hugged him back, as tightly as I could.
“Why does Nate think you’re going to Hell?” Will asked, after he had pulled away from me. Henry and I stood, and we each took one of his hands. We began walking again, Will in between us.
“People assume certain things about people who spend lots of time together,” Henry explained. He was better with words than I was. “When those people are both boys, like your brother and I are, some people don’t always agree with the things they assume.”
“What do they assume?”
Henry looked at me over Will’s head. I lifted one shoulder.
“They assume that your brother and I are dating,” Henry answered. Will looked up at me.
“But you’re not,” Will continued. I nodded. I didn’t say I wanted us to be; I didn’t hint that I wanted anything different than what I had. I didn’t want to make Henry uncomfortable, or to confuse Will if nothing ever actually happened.
“We’re not,” I confirmed. Will looked from me, to Henry, then returned his attention to the sidewalk so that he could watch where he was going.
“It would be okay if you did,” Will commented absently, a little bit later, like it was nothing. “Glo’s dating a girl. It’s not a bad thing.”
“You’re right, Will, it’s not a bad thing,” I agreed. “And, when I do date someone, it probably will be a boy, so I’m glad to know you’re okay with that.”
Will made a little noise of assent. Henry seemed surprised; I thought he knew of my preferences, but dismissed his reaction for the time being. After a moment, Will, seemingly assuaged and feeling better, started to tell Henry and I all about his day, apart from the Brian incident. It was the wrong place, and the wrong time, but that doesn’t stop me from regretting now that I never said anything. I regret every second that I didn’t say something to Henry about my feelings.
You should know that my brother Will was very dear to me. I remember every moment that I spent with him very, very fondly. I miss him every day. Everyone should know that the world lost something incredible when we lost Will. He was going to be such a good man, such a strong, intelligent, powerful man. I could see kindness in his every move. He was so, so good. Doctor, I miss him. I sometimes wonder why he…
I’m sorry, enough of that. There will be plenty of sadness to go around later on in my story; these memories are meant to be my happier ones.
Chapter Six
Let’s see… Eliza. Eliza was as dear as a sister to me, possibly even closer than that. We spent a great deal of time together, even after I realized my feelings for her were not what I had believed they were supposed to be. I told her as much, and she understood. She even laughed, and told me I was her brother, and she didn’t expect anything remotely like that from me. She said I was overreacting. I suppose I was, but I’m a worrier by nature. I always tended to overreact, like she said.
Eliza was a year younger than Henry and I, and she was in the grade below ours. When Henry and I were seniors, that meant, of course, that Eliza was a junior. While we were getting ready to graduate and go to college, Eliza was still exploring her options, and preparing for the both of us to leave. It was November. Henry and I were both eager, so we were sending all of our applications in for early admission. It was frightening for Eliza, and Henry and I recognized that.
It was cold that night; like I said, it was November, and we lived in New York. Henry showed up at the door of our apartment with two thermoses of hot chocolate. He just smiled at Eliza, in that way he had, and the two of us brought Eliza up to the roof of our building. I brought a bunch of blankets, and I laid out a couple for us to lie on, then used the rest to cover us, so we wouldn’t freeze. Henry gave Eliza one of the thermoses, and he shared the other one with me.
“Are you going to forget me?” Eliza asked, breaking the silence, her voice soft. I don’t know if she really believed we would forget her, or if she just wanted reassurance. She had to know how much I loved her, how much we both loved her. She was lying in between the two of us; Henry pulled her head over, so she was resting on his chest. I took her hand.
“I could never forget you,” Henry assured her. I squeezed her hand.
“You’re my sister,” I told her. “I love you. You’ll always be my sister, no matter what. Nobody could take your place.”
“That goes double for me,” Henry teased. I leaned over and rapped him lightly on the side of the head. He laughed. “What? She’s my sister twice as much as she is yours, Victor. The sooner you accept this, the happier we’ll all be.”
I turned onto my side so I could tangle my fingers in Henry’s hair with one hand and hold onto Eliza’s hand with the other. I couldn’t see Henry from that position, but Eliza was in plain sight. Even though there was light pollution, the sky was so clear on that cold November night that we could see a fair amount of stars. Eliza raised her free hand to point up at one particular group of twinkling lights.
“That’s Cassiopeia,” Eliza informed us. Her hand fell back down to wind in Henry’s long shirt. “She was a queen. She was placed in the sky because she said her daughter was more beautiful than all the sea nymphs.”
“Were you her daughter?” Henry asked jokingly. “Is that why you had to be adopted? Your mom’s in the sky?”
“Shut up,” Eliza laughed, shoving at his side. “No, I’m not. Her daughter was Andromeda, she’s over there. But, now, Cassiopeia, on her throne, has to wheel around the North Celestial Throne. Andromeda was bound to a rock, to be eaten by Cetus, a sea monster. She was rescued by Perseus, and she married him.”
“Her knight in shining armor,” Henry commented, lost in his own thoughts, tapping his feet against the blankets. “Th
at’s a nice story.”
“Except for the part where Cassiopeia is still stuck up there,” I pointed out to them. Henry shrugged. Eliza turned her face towards Henry’s chest. I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.
“What am I going to do when you’re gone?” Eliza sighed. I pulled my other hand away from Henry to run my fingers through her hair.
"You'll be fine," Henry assured her.
"I know you will be," I added.
"When have you ever not been?" Henry kissed the top of her head. "I'm not worried about you, Elizabeth. You're going to be perfectly okay."
Eliza was, of course, perfectly fine. She was much stronger than she gave herself credit for, and, to be honest, she already gave herself a fair amount of credit. Eliza was one of the most admirable people I’ve ever known. I would never have harmed her; I would never have touched a hair on her head, if she didn’t want me to. I admired her, and, more than that, I respected her.
Henry, on the other hand, was an entirely different animal. He was something so incredible to me, so separate from the world that I seemed to live in, that even thinking of him now, I wonder, could he have been real? Could I have created him in my imagination? But, then I think — no, no, I’m not that creative. I could never invent someone like Henry.
Henry, by the time we were eighteen, towards the end of our last year of high school, had grown into himself. I was a fluke, ending up over six feet tall, and Henry was, at his tallest, just over five, but he filled out in a way I never did. My limbs were always long and awkward; Henry was graceful, flexible, comfortable in his own skin. I don’t want people to only think of autopsy photos when they think of my Henry; I want them to know what he looked like when he was alive. Make sure to include that in your reports, or your books, or whatever you’re going to do with this when we’re finished, Doctor.
I may be biased, but I still don’t think I’m wrong when I say that Henry was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He was my true north, he was the sun. That’s it, exactly it: he was my light, my sun. He always wore his hair long; it was so wavy, softer than any woman’s I knew, and the finest shade of auburn. He often had it loose, falling around his face until he pushed it behind his ears. His eyes were bottle-green, lively, and engaging, as captivating and expressive as he was. I loved his skin; I remember every inch of it. I could tell you the exact placement of every freckle he had, and he had many. What a blessing he was to me.
