by Adriana Law
“Don’t say that,” I mutter, falling into step beside her.
“Hi dad,” I say when his cell phone clicks over to voice mail. I hesitate. This is hard. It’s my mistake and now I’m asking them to fix it. “I’m ready to come home. I hate asking … could you please wire me the money for a plane ticket? I’ll explain everything when I get home … you can reach me back on this number. I’m sorry dad. I love you.” I hit end call and shove the phone in my back pocket.
Waiting is not good enough. Being in this apartment makes me sick to my stomach.
My heart races as I jerk open another drawer on the dresser. I turn the stacks of T-shirts every-which-a-way until my hand brushes the wood bottom of the drawer. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Slamming the drawer closed with a hip my gaze travels the apartment in search of somewhere else to look.
There has to be something; a debit card or a check book.
I’ve seen enough to ruin whatever feelings I might have had.
Dropping to my knees I look under the bed. There is nothing underneath the bed except for a sprinkling of dust over the light colored hardwood. My head snaps up, my attention landing on the door on the other side of the bed: Sterling’s walk in closet.
“You should have started there first,” I shove up from the floor and wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans.
I hit the light switch and the fluorescent overhead buzzes.
His closet smells like him, I ignore it not allowing myself to get caught up in it. Everything is color coordinated. Shoving dress shirts on the hangers aside I scan the floor of the closet seeing shoes lined neatly in rows. Reaching high above my head I feel around on the shelf, my hand stopping when it bumps something hard wedged between two plastic containers. Whatever it is it pushed to the back of the shelf. My stomach wrenches with curiosity.
Wrapping my fingers around it I gasp at the familiarity of its shape: raised wings and notched out feathers.
I bring down my eagle.
When?
How?
Why?
At the party, the party Sterling destroyed. I remember my father going to put the eagle back on the mantle in the living room. That was the last time I saw it. This single act changes the way I view Sterling. I no longer see a monster whose only intention is to hurt the people around him. Sterling doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but himself. I see someone lost and confused. Someone I can’t give up on so easily. I pull out Sterling’s phone and scroll through his contacts until I come to Sawyers name. Sterling will hate me for involving his younger brother, but I don’t care. It’s time to get Sawyer involved.
Family takes care of family.
Cops and the Bad Guy
Sawyer
Victoria leads me through the stench of shit.
I breathe through my mouth instead of my nose as much as possible.
“Damn it stinks in here,” I complain on the tail end of an embarrassing gag. This should not bother me, but something about the dump causes my gut to churn in ways it never has. I knew Sterling had a problem, but I didn’t know he'd sunk this low.
“What made you decide to call me?” I ask Victoria.
“Ya’ll are brothers.” She cuts me a sideways glance. “You’re supposed to beat the stupid out of each other, right?”
“Yeah. Right.” I return, a shitload of regret getting lodged in my chest.
When I was thirteen I'd wanted a Ruger Air Hawk rifle more than anything in the world. Hell, to me that damn rifle was the world. I’d begged for the rifle until my father finally caved and bought me one. Of course my father had to make it a special occasion. He’d bought the rifle for me getting into a fight at school. He was proud I’d only allowed the boy to get in one good punch before I’d tackled him to the floor, pulverizing his face with a fist until a teacher pulled me off. The boy’s face looked ten times worse than mine and I’m almost certain I broke his nose. I’d been expelled, which dad said was bullshit since the other boy started it and I just defended myself. He’d smirked with pride, a hand clamped down on my shoulder as we left the principal’s office, pink slip in hand.
“Oh well, you deserve a vacation. Those people don’t know shit and sure as hell don’t have the authority or experience to tell me how I should parent my sons,” my father said.
“You need to be careful with that thing,” Sterling warned passing through the living room with a fist full of paint brushes. My brother thought he was the next Vincent van Gogh spending hours in his room painting. Sterling was sixteen at the time; wearing a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off exposing spindly arms not fully development into man status. He’d like to think he was all grown up and tough, sometimes I had to point out he wasn’t quite there yet just because he’d finally grown a little hair on his face.
“Relax,” I told him. “The safety’s on.”
“Still, don't be pointing it inside and be careful you don't blow off a toe,” he returned, pointing a finger.
His bedroom door shut and I rolled my eyes, shaking my head as I continued to tighten the screws on the stock of the rifle. After dropping the screw driver on the cushion I wiped down the wood and metal with a soft cloth. I thrust the barrel back into place, shouldering the rifle, closing one eye and looking through the fiber optic sights. The gun shouldered well and had a comfortable grip. The tip of the rifle scanned the room; trees just beyond the glass door magnified through the scope. Cheek pressed to wood, one eye still squeezed tight I pretended to take a shot at a bird in the high branches beyond the glass. POW! I imitated the gun firing. Pow! Pow! My finger stroked the trigger.
I don't know what I was thinking.
I guess I wasn't.
The gun fired for real, the pellet hitting dad's television screen. Tiny cracks spread out from the small hole, resembling a spider web in the glass. Sterling charged into the room, his face red with anger as I leapt to my feet ready to defend myself.
“What did you do, Saw! I told you to be careful!” His mouth gaped.
We both stared at the screen in horror.
Ever had a moment where you wish you could turn back time? One minute things are fine, the next … everything turns to shit.
“I – I didn't … it was an accident. I was cleaning it and—” I stammered. Right then I heard the front door open and my body tensed all over. Dad was going to beat the everliving shit out of me. I deserved it; Sterling and I both knew it. My brother looked down on me barely blinking, his jaw clenched. Dad footsteps sounded in the foyer. I tilted my chin and squared my shoulders ready to take my punishment like a man. Sterling's hand shot out jerking the rifle from my grip..
“Hey!” I protested. “Gimme my gun back.”
“What the hell happened in here,” dad's voice exploded from the door way. His brief case clunked onto the floor. Dark brows lowered, his gaze landing on the rifle in Sterling's hands.
“I was showing Saw how to clean his gun and it went off.” Sterling said. “It was my fault. I guess I forgot to put the safety on.”
“You guess you forgot to the safety on.” Dad’s head snapped back. He stalked toward Sterling, a head taller and definitely meaner. “Why am I not surprised?” He grabbed the gun out of my brother’s hands. “You tear up my shit; it's only fair I get to tear up yours. Sounds about right, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir,” Sterling mumbled.
Dad slid out of his suit jacket, picked up extra ammo and turned on his heels. My gut wrenched knowing where he was headed. Sterling's face turned pale matching dad’s long strides, never once letting on to the truth. I wished he would tell. The guilt was eating me up inside.
Dad kicked open the door to Sterling's room and stalked over, collecting the canvas's propped along the wall.
“Grab that one on the easel too,” dad barked at me. My gut hurt at the sight of Sterling’s unfinished painting of a young boy playing in a sewer drain. I hesitated, but eventually scooped up the painting knowing what would happen if I didn’t. “Come on, Saw. Time for us to ha
ve us a little target practice.”
“But, he really didn't mean to!” I tried following my father all the way out into the back yard. “Please don't.” My head whipped around. “Ster, tell him the truth! I don’t care. I can take it. Honest.”
“Shut up,” Sterling snapped.
In that moment the difference in Sterling’s age and mine seemed astronomical. I’d respected my brother more on that day than I would ever respect my father.
Dad's angry steps crossed the yard. He leaned the canvases in front of trees scattered around the yard and backed up, aiming my rifle and firing, one shot after another. He smiled the entire time.
An old lady rented the carriage house on our property. Elaine was a weird old bag that kept to herself and never opened her blinds. My father rented the house to her for that exact reason, because he thought she would mind her own business.
On that day Elaine made the gun fire and the sixteen year old taking punches in the gut her business. The law had showed up twenty minutes after we’d gone back inside.
My father slung an arm around Sterling’s shoulders, crushing him to his side, beaming with fake admiration.
“Next time my boys and I decide to hang out we’ll make it a point to stop by Elaine’s to let her know there is no need to be concerned.” He flashed white teeth at the cop.
The cop sat his coffee mug down, burying his ballpoint pen in the pocket of his navy shirt as he stood up, sticking out a hand toward my father. “I think we’re all finished here. Sorry to interrupt your afternoon.”
“No. I’m the one who is sorry you had to come out for no reason on such a beautiful afternoon. You should be home enjoying your family,” my father said, following the cop to the door. The cop stopped and turned once more, shooting Sterling and I a look that said, listen to your father and behave.
Metal gleamed on cop’s shirt. A gun hung from his holster.
As soon as the door closed our father spun around and glared at Sterling.
“Don’t you ever embarrass me like that again,” he said his eyes full of loathing. He stormed off to the kitchen leaving Sterling and me standing there in disbelief.
“I’ve decided …” I said, pausing.
“What have you decided?” Sterling asked still staring at the front door.
“I want to be a cop.”
“Why would you ever want to be a cop, Saw.”
“So I could see through all the bullshit. I’d know what really happened,” I said.
“I never did much of the saving,” I admit to Victoria now. “It was always Sterling saving me.”
We reach the back corner of the building where my brother is passed out on a dirty old mattress with urine stains; some whore curled up next to him. I crouch beside the mattress seeing that familiar face from my childhood. Shit. I’m a guy. Crying is not acceptable, but fuck seeing my brother, the same guy who always bailed me out reduced to a junkie without anyone to come bail him out has the tears rolling down my cheeks. I absently smear them away and reach for his shoulder. His eyes are closed, but I don’t have to see them to know the sadness they hold, I’ve seen for years. Most of that sadness was put there by me. Sterling had an escape, a full ride to college, sometimes I think he blowed it to stick around for my sake.
He smells like the sewer he’s spent the last couple of days in.
“Hey, wake up. You’re going to get you out of this shithole.” I glance up at Victoria. “Thank you for calling me. He never would have.”
“He shouldn’t be here,” she says. Her arms are crossed over her chest a clear sign that this is more than she is prepared to handle. But her eyes say otherwise. Her eyes say she is in it deep with my brother.
“I agree,” I tell her. “You ready?”
She nods.
I give Sterling’s shoulder a shake. His heavy eyelids flutter and then he is cracking them staring up at me through their slits. I slide my arms under his armpits and haul him up to his feet. “All right, time to get you back to your apartment and your life.”
Victoria grabs a side without me even asking for her help.
“Dammit, just leave me alone. Just let me die here,” Sterling mumbles, attempting to shake off my hands. “I was having a good time.”
“Yeah. I could see that.”
His eyes focus on me now, a smirk coming to his face. “You won’t get far without a little effort on my part.”
“Shut up and let me bail you out for a change,” I return.
Day One of Sterling’s detox-Flu like symptoms:
Victoria
Sawyer left to go do what he hates most: work for his father. He said it is the best way to keep their father off Sterling’s back and to keep him from asking why Sterling isn’t showing up for work.
Sterling darts from the bed. The bathroom light comes on. I blink rising up on an elbow in his bed. He drops to his knees in front of the toilet, grips the sides of the bowl, his spine rounded as he violently heaves vomit spewing from his mouth.
Folding back the covers I go to the door of the bathroom.
He didn’t shut me out this time.
“Do you want me to go out and get you some ginger ale?” I offer.
“No. Go back to bed,” he snaps, gagging and coughing. “I don’t want you to see this.”
Liar. He wants me here. For some reason I am the only one he wants here: not Sawyer, not his father, not Starr. Sterling picked me to experience this with him.
The sour smell of vomit leaks out into the room. “I want to be alone,” he keeps saying.
I ignore his pleas and walk over and open the linen closet. The sound of running water drowns out his complaining.
“What’s that for?” he asks, staring up at me.
“It’s a cool wash cloth. It will help.”
Shifting to his rear-end he rest his back against the side of the Jacuzzi, legs bent, an arm draped over a knee the wash cloth in a closed fist. He looks doubtful about the wash cloth’s ability to make him feel better.
“Didn’t your mother ever bring you a cool cloth whenever you were sick?” I ask.
“No. My mother wasn’t the nurturing type.” He presses the cool cloth to his glistening forehead, to his neck. “My mother was always too busy trying to fit in.” Gray eyes lift to mine. “Your mother doesn’t really seem like the nurturing type either.”
I flop against the door casing staring at the floor. “She had her moments. She always made a big deal whenever I was sick. Ginger ale and cool wash cloths. I’d forgotten.”
“Maybe your mother isn’t as bad as you remember.”
“Maybe.”
I’m dying to ask him questions. I want to know him. I sense any question about his father would destroy what little progress I’ve made of getting beyond the wall surrounding Sterling.
“How about your brother? Were you and Sawyer ever close?”
“As close as my father would allow,” he laughed out. “I think he’s always been afraid I would corrupt Saw.” A tortured expression crosses his face. His gaze drops to the floor between his bent legs. We both know why he is throwing up. We both know Sterling is experiencing withdraws, but neither of us acknowledges it out loud. “My father’s probably right. I would corrupt him. Saw is on the other side. He wants to be a cop and I avoid them.”
“I’m sure Sawyer has his own demons. I think he secretly looks up to you. You are his older brother.”
He pushes up from the floor. “Yeah, well I’m definitely nobody’s role model. I need to stretch out for a minute before I pass out.”
And that’s it the walls come back up blocking me out.
The puking seems to never end. Just when I think Sterling has finished he darts from the bed and pukes again. When there is nothing left to come up he transitions into the dry heaving stage. Honestly, I don’t know which is worse: when he tossed everything in his stomach or when he lays limp against the toilet seat making the worst coughing/gagging sounds I’ve ever heard.
“I�
�m going to go get Starr,” I announce, handing him down the fifth wash cloth tonight. I turn to leave and Sterling lunges sideways from where he is sitting by the toilet, a strong hand clamping around my wrist yanking me down to his eye level.
“No.” He snaps staring deep into my eyes. “I don’t want her here.” A chill racks my body. His voice lowers, “I. only. Want. You. here.”
“But I feel helpless,” falls out. It’s the truth. I feel absolutely helpless.
“Do you really want to help me, Phoenix?”
I nod.
“Then help me get back in the bed.”
I kneel. He drapes a hand around my shoulder and I help him stand. He is weak, but still carries most of his weight. His body trembles pressed into my side. We walk slowly toward the bed and he flops down with a groan, draping an arm over his eyes.
He gives the mattress a light pat beside him. “Lie down, Phoenix. You need to sleep.”
I do as I’m told and lie down on my side of the bed. Rolling to my side I stare at him until he opens his eyes to stare back. He is on his side hugging his chest his legs slightly drawn up.
“Are you cold?” I ask. “Do you need a blanket?”
“Promise me no matter what happens you won’t call 911,” he mutters into the dark. “I can’t go to the hospital.”
“I can’t do this, Sterling.”
“Yes, you can. I trust you. Promise me you won’t call.”
I’m terrified of what exactly he thinks might happen.
“But—” I start.
“No buts. I need you to promise me.”
“I promise,” comes out strangled.
Satisfied, Sterling closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.
I watch over him.
Day two- Muscle aches and desperation:
“Fuck! I can’t take this anymore!” he grinds out, pressing into the sides of his head. “You’re going to have to go get me something!” he growls.
We’re both sitting on the floor. Sterling’s back is pressed to the wall; his knees bent, his thick forearms resting on his knee caps. “I’m serious, Victoria. You’re going to have to go to where you and Starr found me.” He motions over at the dresser. “There’s money in my wallet. Take it all … just get whatever you can find. I don’t care what it is as long as it takes this fucking pain away,” he moans, tugging at his hair.
