Because You're Mine

by Rea Frey

  Noah waved to the slew of teachers in the hallway and slipped inside his gym. He checked his email before first period, and then his texts. His parents expected him for dinner tonight. It was his brother’s twenty-third birthday tomorrow, and Noah had snagged a set of Saturday Night Live tickets to surprise him. Wyatt had never been to a live production, or New York, but SNL had been his favorite program since childhood.

  It had been a while since he’d been back to Philly. He used to go most weekends, but life—and work—seemed to constantly get in the way.

  He breezed through the morning and left just after lunch, arriving in Philly early evening, tired and in need of a beer. He parked the rental car in the building’s garage and took the elevator up. He calculated how long it had been since his last visit. Christmas? He knocked on the door and waited for his mother to open it.

  Time had not been kind to her. Her eyes were marred by a network of lines that tugged her entire face toward her feet. Her shoulders stooped under her shawl. Her bones had grown smaller, and her silver hair reached for him, as though she’d been accosted by static. Errant hairs had escaped from her signature bun, and she hurried to tuck them back in with bobby pins she clutched in her fist like flower stems. His father, tall but spreading, sidled up behind her and pulled Noah into a hug.

  “He finally comes home.”

  “Good to see you, Dad.”

  “You too.”

  He could smell Hamburger Helper, the childhood staple Wyatt refused to let go of, even in his second decade of life. He moved to the kitchen. The casserole bubbled on the stove—cooked in the same pot his mother had used for thirty-plus years—and felt a small tug in his heart.

  “How’s Nashville?”

  “Good. Busy.”

  His father offered him a beer. “Good, good.”

  Noah popped the top. “I’ve been thinking of branching off on my own, actually. Getting some private clients.”

  “Why?” His mother grabbed a wooden spoon and lifted the top of the casserole dish. “That school adores you.”

  “They do, but there’s so much red tape there, Ma.” He took a swig. “More money and freedom on my own.”

  “But what about benefits? A 401(k)?”

  “You do what’s best for you,” his dad said. He lifted his spectacles, angled them up to the light, and wiped smooth, even circles with the lip of his shirt. “That sort of stuff tends to work itself out.”

  “Where’s Wyatt?” Noah could hardly contain the anticipation to see his brother. He thought he’d be waiting for him at the door, but no. His parents had probably not alerted him to his arrival.

  “Getting dressed.” His father glanced at his watch. “For the last twenty-five minutes or so.”

  Noah took another swallow and stood. “I’ll get him.” He walked down the carpeted hall and knocked on the first door to the right. Stickers covered the wood, and his eyes pored over all of the band names and hilarious quotes his brother had pressed there over the years.

  “Who is it?”

  “Noah.”

  He heard a sharp yelp, and the door opened. No matter how long passed between visits, he still saw the kid in him. Wyatt’s pale, freckled complexion and blond hair were a stark contrast to Noah’s dark hair and olive skin, but they shared the same green eyes. Wyatt’s face cracked in a smile as he elicited their secret handshake. No hugs. Never hugs.

  “How are you?”

  “Good. I am very good now. And how are you on this fine day?” He stared at the floor as he said it and shifted from foot to foot.

  “I’m great. Excited to see you. Do you want to come eat?”

  “What are we having?”

  “Hamburger Helper.”

  “Then yes. Yes, yes, yes.” Wyatt ambled to the front room, knocking into the edge of the piano with his hip. He’d always been clumsy, especially after he’d broken his right leg falling down a flight of stairs. His bones had never set right, and he often dragged his right leg behind him like a lame limb. Their parents were whispering in hushed tones, their backs to the stove. Noah cleared his throat.

  His father turned first and smiled. “Wyatt, is it good to see your big brother?”

  “The best,” he said. He turned to Noah. “How long can you stay?”

  Noah hesitated. “I can stay for a few days.” He scratched his chin. “Because, if I recall correctly, someone has a birthday.”

  Wyatt smiled and jerked a thumb toward his chest. “That would be this guy.”

  They shuffled into their proper positions around the dinner table. His mother scooped the casserole onto his plate, and he thanked her. Noah chewed a mouthful of the greasy fare and joined the small talk about the weather, the latest politics, and a recent school shooting in New York.

  Wyatt soaked up the conversation and asked his brother everything he could. Wyatt loved big, grandiose stories, so Noah dug deep and told him about things he didn’t over Skype. Things he only touched upon in his letters. He shared how he’d gone to Haiti last summer—though Wyatt already knew this story, he still loved to hear it—and built houses in the unforgiving sun; how he worked to bring clean water to small African villages and what vaccinations he’d had to get before going. (Wyatt was fascinated with needles.) He shared how he spent his free time on the weekends with kids like Wyatt, who were on the spectrum, kids with Down syndrome, and cerebral palsy. He told him about all the races he’d run for cures during the last twelve months, collecting jerseys like medals. How he’d crushed an Ironman in Hawaii. How he’d climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro. How he went scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef. How he’d taken up indoor rock climbing.

  What he didn’t tell him was why he did all these things. How it was all a distraction. How it filled time. How, if he couldn’t live in the same city as his little brother, he’d keep himself busy with other rewarding outlets. He’d spent so many years building his career, and he couldn’t leave—not now.

  Noah had always wanted to be there for his brother, to care for him in the same way he cared for his students, but his parents had moved from Nashville right before Noah started college. He’d already accepted his scholarship to Vanderbilt, and then his father had purposely taken a job in Philadelphia. It was too late to get into any other college or even apply. He was stuck with an impossible choice: move with his family or pursue his education and ultimately, his career.

  He’d never forgiven them for their abrupt decision. Even as he’d concocted ways for Wyatt to stay behind in Nashville, their age difference prevented it. Wyatt had been just a kid. And, as his parents had been so quick to remind him, Noah was Wyatt’s brother, not his parent. It was their job to raise him—not his.

  Wyatt asked endless questions at dinner until his parents went to bed. Noah soaked up his brother’s energy. This was what he’d come for anyway. He didn’t care to spend time with his parents.

  He just wanted his brother all to himself.

  28

  noah

  Noah slept fitfully on the pull-out sofa. He could hear the city sounds drifting into the cheap apartment windows: horns, car alarms, ambulances, bums. He’d always been shocked his parents had moved somewhere so loud, but his mother insisted Wyatt loved it. Even all these years later, Noah wasn’t convinced.

  He heard footsteps in the kitchen. Noah worked himself to sitting. His left shoulder throbbed from the odd angle on the couch. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled on a T-shirt, and padded to the kitchen.

  “Morning, Ma.”

  “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “It’s fine. Couldn’t sleep.”

  She shook some grounds into the coffeemaker. He filled the carafe for her and turned it on, and they both waited as the water started to heat and hiss into the pot. She seemed so frail, weathered in places she’d once been strong.

  “What’s on the agenda for the birthday boy?”

  “Well.” His mother opened the cabinet and pulled down two mugs. “We normally take him to the YMCA because he
can swim there. He loves to swim now. Did I tell you that?” She rotated in a tired circle and Noah removed the mugs from her hands. “There’s a wonderful instructor, Heather, who keeps an eye on him. I think he has a crush on her, if you ask me. But it’s been great for his leg. And then we usually do the library, a movie, or come back here.” She poured him a cup and pushed it across the island. “Too much isn’t good for him, you know…”

  He ignored the prick of frustration and drank his coffee. They treated Wyatt so gingerly, like an ornament. Wyatt thrived with order, physical activity, routine, and set social engagements. He consistently sent suggestions to his parents, made appointments for Wyatt that they canceled, and encouraged them to put him on the same curriculum as his students.

  But Noah didn’t live here. Therefore, he could no longer dictate his care. As he sipped, the irony was not lost on him that he took such precautions with his other students. He had their routines scheduled to the most personalized detail, but the person who mattered most to him lived in a cramped city, up here, in this tiny apartment, like a bird in a cage.

  “You need to expand what he’s doing, Ma. It’s important for him to try new things. Otherwise, he’ll become resistant to change.”

  Her fingers flexed around the shell of an egg, and he thought it might burst in her hand. “You know, Noah, we do the best we can. He’s doing just fine.”

  He set down his mug. “Is he? Is he really?”

  Wyatt shuffled out, hair on end, and lifted his hand in a wave.

  “There’s the birthday boy!” his mother trilled.

  “Happy birthday, buddy. How does it feel to be forty?”

  Wyatt stopped at the entrance of the kitchen and tugged on the hem of his T-shirt. “I am not forty. I am approximately twenty-three years old. You are eight years older than me, so you’re thirty-one years old. Which is very old.”

  “Don’t dig me an early grave just yet.” Noah hopped off the bar stool and rummaged in his bag to find the tickets. “I have a surprise for you. Sit.”

  Wyatt pulled himself onto the bar stool. “A surprise! It’s been so long since I’ve had a surprise.” He shot a knowing look at their mother. “Gimme.”

  “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

  Wyatt did as he was told. He could sense the nerves of his mother on the other side of the island as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. Noah laid the tickets in his waiting palms and watched as Wyatt’s eyes attempted to focus on the tiny print.

  “Do you know what those are?”

  “Tickets. They are tickets.”

  “Yes. But do you know what type of tickets?”

  Wyatt squinted and screamed. “Saturday Night Live tickets?” His eyes flew to Noah and toward his mother, just missing their mark. “Are we really going to go see Saturday Night Live? In New York City?”

  Noah smiled and his chest warmed. “Just me and you, buddy. A night on the town.”

  “For my birthday?” Wyatt clutched the tickets and vibrated with excitement.

  “For your birthday.”

  “For my birthday that’s tonight? For this birthday that is today?”

  “That’s right. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to surprise you.” Noah almost tossed his mother a smug smile but refrained. They never made him this happy. Why didn’t they surprise him? Why did they keep the world away?

  Wyatt bounced up and down on the stool like a five-year-old, scraping the bottom of the wooden legs across the linoleum. His mother cringed and opened her mouth to protest, but Noah stepped in. “You know what? Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll go play some basketball. Have you been playing?”

  Wyatt shot their mother another look, as though the concept of basketball—something he used to do daily for hand-eye coordination—was as foreign as the tickets in his hand.

  “That’s okay if it’s been a while. Go get ready, and I’ll take you out today. For your birthday. We’ll play basketball and go get some lunch. Sound good? Is that okay, Ma?”

  His mother turned back to the counter so he couldn’t read her face. “Sure.”

  His brother hopped off the stool, tickets clutched in his fist, as he yelled about going to New York.

  She turned, one hand on her hip. “That was way too generous, Noah.”

  Noah shrugged. “My brother only turns twenty-three once.”

  “Look—”

  His father walked into the room, a newspaper under his arm. “What’s the birthday boy so excited about?”

  “The SNL tickets,” his mother said, scooping eggs onto a plate. “Eat, or your eggs will get cold.” She dropped the pan in the sink and flicked on the water, and a plume of steam sizzled into the air. She wiped her hands again and left the kitchen, his father smiling uncomfortably as he grabbed a fork to dig in.

  29

  noah

  After a long day spent together, Noah felt right at home. He’d forgotten their hidden language; how navigating Wyatt’s mind was like a wildly inventive puzzle he loved to solve. He was a little rusty, but not by much. They showered back at the condo, got dressed, and gathered in the living room for a small birthday celebration. They sang to Wyatt, and then he blew out his candles on a cake bought at their favorite local bakery. His mother cut a wedge of vanilla cake with bright blue frosting and handed him a small, square piece.

  “Your lips look like a blueberry,” Noah said.

  “So do yours,” Wyatt added.

  “Do you have everything you need for tonight?” his mother asked, as she poked at the frosting with a plastic fork.

  “Tickets, check. Wyatt, check. I think we’re all good.” Sensing her nerves, Noah added: “Tell them we’ll behave, Wyatt.”

  “We will behave, Ma. We will behave,” Wyatt repeated. He dumped his paper plate in the trash and turned to Noah. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late. If we are late, we cannot go in. I have researched the schedule this afternoon. They are very strict.”

  “You got it, boss man.” They waved good-bye, took the elevator down to the first floor, and climbed into Noah’s rental car.

  “You ready?”

  “Born ready. Born ready,” Wyatt said, moving back and forth against the passenger seat. Noah had already memorized the directions, so he wouldn’t have to rely on an app. The constant verbal interruptions agitated Wyatt.

  Noah pressed play. He’d made a CD for him before he’d left. It was a compilation of his favorite songs—one for every year of his life. Wyatt sang, rocked, and clapped off-beat, and Noah joined in when he recognized the lyrics.

  The ninety minutes went fast, despite the insane city traffic. Noah felt the vibration from his parents’ obsessive texts in his pocket and clenched his teeth. He turned the music down as they approached the center of the island. “Welcome to New York, brother.”

  Wyatt gasped at the city streets. The glittering lights, clustered bodies, and urban mayhem took hold as Noah drove through Times Square. The city had a pulse, and they were situated right in the heart. Wyatt stabbed the button of the passenger window and thrust his large head into the noisy night. Life exploded in every direction. He reached out as if to collect the energy.

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “It’s majestic! Look!” Wyatt had extremely good hearing and perfect recall. He could recognize ambulances, sirens, car alarms, and any sort of traffic coming from a block away. But those were individual noises, always stories below, always containable. Was this too much?

  Wyatt turned and gripped the door with both hands—and for one frightening moment, Noah wondered if he was going to try and jump out of the car. “Why have Ma and Pop never brought me here?”

  Guilt knifed Noah’s conscience. He could have given him such a fulfilled life. He could have made him feel alive every single day. “I don’t know.”

  Drivers laid on horns as they inched by. Saturday evening traffic lurched in every direction while digital billboards talked, flashed, and rotated. Tourists gathered on sidewalks and in
streets. Stimulation edged its way to the very center of Wyatt’s brain, rewiring it. They were so close to the plaza, Noah could just park in a garage and they’d be there in minutes. But he wanted to give Wyatt more than this. It was his one night away from home. He turned right and headed away from Midtown.

  “Where are we going? Why are we leaving?”

  “We’re just going to park away from all the traffic, so you can see more of Manhattan. Is that okay?”

  “Are we going to be late?”

  “We have plenty of time, Wyatt.”

  He nodded rapidly. “Yes, then yes, then yes. I want to see more.”

  Noah thought of all his various trips to the city when he was young. His parents had taken him a few times before they’d had Wyatt. He had vivid memories of Central Park, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, and eating pizza in Brooklyn. Once Wyatt came, fussy and uncontained, they’d closed themselves in their house like an underground bunker. No more trips. No more spontaneity. They’d reduced themselves to rigor, order, and sacrifice for the past two decades.

  He found a parking spot close to the subway and killed the engine. “Would you like to walk or take the subway?”

  “Subway. Subway all the way.”

  Noah nodded. Wyatt loved subways and tunnels. He’d often sketched black, scary holes filled with trains in therapy sessions. He remembered that. They found the nearest station and descended down the stairs. Noah paid for their tickets. They pushed through the turnstile and stood on the escalator as warm, dank air rustled around them.

  Wyatt leaned forward and back on the platform.

  “Hey, Wyatt, what’s the difference between a teacher and a steam locomotive?”

  “One’s a person and one’s not.”

  Noah laughed. “That’s true, but a schoolteacher tells you to spit out your gum, while the locomotive says choo, choo, choo! Get it?”

  “That is a terrible joke, a terrible joke,” Wyatt said. His mop of blond hair shot into tangled waves above his scalp.