Goodnight, Brian

by Steven Manchester

  “From the moment my family received the devastating news about my brother Brian’s terrible disabilities, Mama’s primary mission was to instill independence in him. He has been her purpose in life and before she’ll allow herself to move on, he’ll need to be able to do for himself. The way she sees it, they’re both in it together.”

  Most of the audience had no real context to understand the depth of love that their classmate was presenting, but they still slid to the edge of their seats to hear more.

  “When the doctor said that Brian wouldn’t walk, Mama said that he would – and he did.” She looked up, struggling to hold back the tears. “When the doctor said that Brian wouldn’t talk, Mama promised that he would – and he did. Sure, there are some people who might have trouble understanding my brother, but he communicates as plain as day to every one of us in the family. And we can each thank Mama for opening that channel.”

  There was a long pause, enough for Angie to settle herself. “The doctor swore that Brian would never swim, write his name or ride a bike, but that poor man had never met anyone like Mama.”

  There were a few chuckles. A woman from the rear of the room yelled out, “Amen.” Everyone looked back. It was Angie’s mother – Joan. Angie smiled when she saw her.

  “Angela DiMartino – Mama – has never won a gold medal or a trophy of any kind, but I challenge you to find another human being who could match her stamina or willpower. Her name has never appeared in the newspaper or her face on TV, but the depth of her patience and compassion is the stuff that true legends are made of. And Mama may never be proclaimed a saint, but there hasn’t been a soul that’s walked this Earth who’s had more faith in God and the miracles He can deliver – and deliver, they both have.”

  There was a final pause. Angie struggled against her emotions to finish. She looked up to find her mother smiling the proudest smile. It was all she needed to go on. “Every time I look at my brother, Brian, I see my grandmother’s faith and work, and I know that unconditional love is both possible and eternal.” She took a deep breath. “The person I admire most is Angela DiMartino – Mama.”

  To a small round of applause, she stepped out from behind the lectern and walked straight into her mother’s embrace. The room fell silent.

  Chapter 28

  Late Fall 1994

  Mama was sent home. Evidently, there was nothing that could be done for her in the hospital that couldn’t be done at the cottage – not to mention, the hospital staff had quickly grown tired of arguing with her.

  With Angie and Steph snuggled up against her in bed, Mama handed out a few more nuggets of wisdom. “You need to have a relationship with God, Steph.”

  “You’re worried about saving my soul?” Steph asked, surprised.

  “Lord no – I’ve known your soul since you came into this world and I’ve never known anyone kinder or more considerate. No, what I’m talking about is finding a faith that allows you to finally know that you’re not alone in this world…that it doesn’t have to be such a difficult walk all the time. I’m not talking about religion. I’m talking about faith.” She looked down at Angie and kissed her forehead.

  Steph grinned. “When we were kids, I remember you trying to explain faith to us. You said that Brian was a single ray of light. I’ve never forgotten that.”

  She grabbed Steph’s hand. “Sweetheart, we’re each a single ray of light in this world. That’s how we know the Lord is always with us.” Nodding, she gave Angie a squeeze to be sure she was also listening.

  While Angie hugged her back, Steph half-shrugged. “But religion…”

  “We’re not talking about religion,” Mama interrupted, her eyes growing distant. She smiled, her gaze returning to Steph. “God’s always with you, you know.” She tightened her grip. “And there’s no shadow large enough to conceal your light, Steph. Never forget that.”

  That night, Brian took his turn on the edge of Mama’s bed, holding her hand. She gazed into his gentle eyes and took an inventory of the eighteen year old: He has the mentality of a mischievous little boy, innocent and loving. He’s completely reliant upon the kindness of those around him and remains a walking test to all mankind. Fortunately, he’s surrounded by those who love and support him. He’s lovable and likes most people, especially the girls. Although I’ve tried to teach him better social skills and introduce him to the handshake, it’s clearly too impersonal for him. He’s a gift from God. Even when Frank and Joan got divorced, he kept the family together. He never gets angry. Even if someone loses their patience and yells at him, he never gets upset with them. He possesses the loyalty of a cocker spaniel.

  He can walk – and run and skip and jump. He can’t sleep unless he has his warm glass of Ovaltine and is tucked into bed. Fortunately, Angie is happy to see to it now.

  He can talk. Though he speaks like a stroke victim in bits and bytes, he’s also learned sign language. His dialect is always going to be a work in progress. His vocabulary is minimal and choppy, but the family understands him well – and that’s enough.

  He can write and draw. Although it’s from a child’s perspective, he can still create.

  He can ride a bike. It isn’t pretty to watch, but he’s learned to ride.

  He can swim – like a beautiful fish.

  He’s generous. Every Christmas, he makes his own gifts for the family and they’re always the most cherished. And he loves going out on field trips, a tradition that I’ve passed down to him. He knows everyone and everyone seems to know him. He waves at everyone until they wave back – which only happens a few times before they end up introducing themselves and a friendship is born. He’s very sensitive to other people’s feelings and is instinctive about sorrow. Many folks even cry on his shoulder without having to explain why, or him needing to know. He laughs a lot and invites everyone to join him…. Wiping her eyes, Mama smiled. He’s going to be okay, she thought. My butterfly will be just fine.

  A few weeks later, Mama looked like a frail child lying in bed, barely holding on to her to life on Earth. With Bob, Bev, Joan and John standing guard, she took only enough medication to manage the pain while still being able to carry on a logical conversation. “Brian’s with Frank?” she asked Joan.

  “Yes, Ma. Brian’s fine. You need to stop worrying about him. He’s grown now and…”

  Mama tried to laugh. “I doubt that’ll ever happen,” she slurred. “Brian’s Mama’s boy and he stole my heart the day he was born.”

  “I know, Ma. He loves you, too.”

  “Have Frank bring him over. I’d like him to stay the night.”

  “But Ma, you’re not feeling well.”

  The old lady smiled. “You’re right, so call Frank and tell him to bring me my medicine.”

  Joan looked up at John and gestured for him to make the call. He quickly left the room.

  Mama tried to pull herself up into a seated position. She barely moved. “When I pass…and don’t worry, it won’t be tonight.” She grinned. “It’s not my time yet.”

  Glances of relief were exchanged all around.

  “But when I do, don’t you dare cry for me,” she told her grown children at her bedside. “I’ve missed my ma and papa for too many years now. I can’t wait to hug my mom again; to smell her neck and feel her arms wrapped around me. I also can’t wait to dance with your grandfather and watch the sun rise upon his face again. And sit around with my aunts and uncles and share stories of what we did down here on Earth. Just wait until I tell them how special you all are and how blessed I was the day God sent each of you to our family; of all the love that we’ve shared. Nope, don’t you dare cry for me. If you want to shed a few tears for the short time that we’ll be apart, go right ahead…but know in your heart that I’m exactly where the good Lord wants me to be; exactly where I need to be. And also, know that my spirit is with you – always.”

  Tears streamed down their faces. “You need to get some rest,” Bob told her.

  She took a deep breath a
nd smiled. “Where’s Brian?”

  “On his way,” John answered from the doorway.

  She nodded. “Good. Maybe I’ll just take a little nap while we wait.” Within seconds, she was snoring.

  Strings of small white Christmas lights were wrapped around the trees that sprang up from the holes in the concrete. Giant wreaths were hung on street lamps that lined both sides of the street. Mama felt a squeal of joy start from her diaphragm and rush out of her mouth. It was the old neighborhood and it was the holidays. How wonderful!

  She nearly skipped down the street, taking in every magical detail. The cracks in the cobblestone trapped the melted snow and the light of the moon. Brick-faced brownstones covered in creeping ivy were protected behind ornamental wrought iron gates. Arched doorways, with heavy wooden doors and brass pineapple knockers, concealed a mix of English and Italian conversations. There was a warm light glowing from behind the lacey curtains in each apartment window; a sense of family, of belonging; of real community. With a quick glance into any of those windows, she could figure out much of what was being said, as most folks talked with their hands. There were no great mysteries here anyway. Old men talked about soccer, while old women talked about old men.

  Flying the red, white, and green flag of the old country, corner shops and quaint restaurants were interspersed amongst the apartment houses. She took notice of the hanging balls of cheese and sticks of salami in fine black netting. Her mouth watered.

  She rounded the corner and a dozen pigeons took flight. She was at The Mall, a small park with a statue of the Virgin Mary at its center. She genuflected, blessed herself and crossed the street.

  She peered into one of the café windows. There was an old man sipping espresso at a tiny round table. He smiled when he saw her. She waved to him.

  She moved on and passed a fancy restaurant with its white linen tablecloths and candlelit feasts. Wine bottles lay horizontal, corks out, on rows and rows of mahogany racks. Oil paintings of the old country hung over the tables and half-filled decanters were the center pieces. The ambiance was just as important as the aromas that filled the place. She inhaled deeply. “Mmmm…pasta with red gravy,” she purred.

  Hand-in-hand, a young couple strolled past her, unaware she was even there. The restaurant door swung open, releasing the nostalgic sounds of a whining violin and the crooning of a spirited tenor.

  Mama forged on and reached the pearl of the neighborhood. There were a couple of decadent pastry shops on the street – but Mike’s is the best, she thought. They carried any sweet you could imagine, including the devious monstrosity called the Lobster Claw – filled with real whipped cream and raspberry jam. You had to be nice to the ladies behind the counter, though, because there was no posted price list and prices differed every time you went in. A gentleman dressed in his pajamas sipped an espresso and enjoyed the evening paper at a small café table just outside.

  Beyond the bridal shop at the end of the street where young girls would go to gawk and dream of the future, she spotted the apartment where she’d been born and raised. It was right above Lucia’s, her uncle’s family-style Italian eatery that boasted the biggest and best raviolis in Little Italy.

  Sleigh bells called out in the distance and she noticed that it was starting to snow again, but she didn’t feel cold. The closer she got to her uncle’s restaurant, the louder the singing became. Sounds like there’s a big celebration being thrown…but for who? she wondered. A warm glow pulsated from the windows and every step toward it seemed to lighten her troubles. People were definitely singing, and the smell of burnt caramel filled the air. “Mama’s Christmas custard!” she blurted out and started running for the place on young, pain-free legs.

  When she reached the door, she threw it open and was faced with a hundred friendly faces. Family members and friends who had long passed away greeted her, as she made her way through the crowded room. She was overwhelmed with love. With each kiss and hug, the crowd parted and she sensed she was being drawn to a force much bigger than herself. A Christmas tree blinking in the corner had an aluminum foil manger beneath it. She giggled. Then, when Uncle Bob and Aunt Lucille stepped aside, she saw her mama and papa seated at a table for three, waiting for her. She started to cry and hurried to them.

  “Bella,” her father cried. “Oh, my Bella.”

  She reached for her papa and they fell into each other’s arms. Kissing his cheek, she turned to find her mother waiting, her arms opened wide.

  “Welcome home, Angela,” the woman said.

  Mama jumped into her arms. “I love you so much,” she cried.

  The woman wept like a child, holding her daughter in her arms and swaying with her like they had on the day she was born. “I missed you so…”

  Suddenly, Mama looked into her mother’s eyes. “I don’t want to wake up, Ma,” she pleaded like a child. “There’s too much pain.”

  Her mother smiled. “Just a little longer and then you’ll be home to stay.”

  Holding her mother close, she didn’t want to think about returning to the pain.

  “Heaven is our reality,” her mother explained. “It’s life on Earth that’s the dream.” She kissed her forehead. “But you need to go back now.”

  “But Ma…”

  “Just for a little while longer, Angela. Your work is not done yet.”

  Mama awoke to find only Brian seated beside her on the bed. There was no longer any delay in response from the cancer. Like searing fire pokers, pitch forks pierced her body, tearing at both flesh and bone. “My pills,” she managed past the nauseating waves of physical torment. Brian grabbed all of the bottles and dumped them on top of her. She fumbled for the right amber-colored tube, finally removed the cap and choked down two.

  Awaiting the effects of the medication, she panted like an overweight dog in the summer heat. Brian never left her side. Instead, he grabbed her hand and panted along with her. “K, Mama,” he reassured her between breaths. “K.”

  The pain was inhuman – unlike anything she could have ever imagined. As the large white pills fought for leverage, she tried to quiet her labored breathing. Brian did the same. She struggled to offer him a smile, unsure of whether she had pulled it off.

  “K, Mama,” he promised again, rubbing her back. “K, now.”

  She nodded. “Oh Brian, what are you going to do…when Mama’s gone?” she asked, still gasping for air. Tears filled her eyes. “When I’m not around…any more?”

  Without hesitation, he stood and left the room. Within seconds, he returned and took his rightful place beside her again. Smiling, he reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out the old lady’s portable telephone. He placed it into her hands. “Mama tuck, nigh nigh,” he said.

  She was certain that she’d managed the smile this time. “I bet we will still talk every night…won’t we? At eight o’clock, right?”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “Yets, Mama.”

  “I know, sweetheart. I know…” She nodded. “You would never give up on me, either.” While everyone else will say goodbye to me, she thought, Brian will only say goodnight. Our bond is eternal. “You promise?” she asked him.

  He stuck out his pinky finger. Mama locked on and they shook.

  “Go nigh nigh, Mama,” he said. “Go nigh nigh.”

  She patted the bed beside her. “You can sleep with me tonight, sweetheart. Is that okay with you?”

  The word “okay” wasn’t completely out of her mouth when he was already lying beside her, wearing his giant smile. Reaching into his pajama bottoms pocket, he took out his lucky white rock and placed it into her other hand. “For Mama,” he whispered.

  “Oh Brian, I can’t take that,” she said. It was as if he knew she was struggling to hold on with every breath and needed all the luck she could get.

  He closed her hand around it. “For Mama, you,” he said again.

  “Thank you,” she said, and held it to her thumping chest. “You ready…for tomorrow?” the old wom
an asked, still panting through the pain.

  “Mmm…” he said.

  “Use your words…sweetheart,” she moaned. “We…don’t mumble.”

  “Yets,” he said.

  She ignored the spikes in her side to pull the covers under his chin, and then kiss his forehead. Though he lived in the body of a grown man, his chestnut eyes were still as innocent and kind as a five year old boy’s.

  “Low Mama,” he yawned, and then giggled when she leaned closer to his ear.

  “And I love you, too. You are…the beat of my heart,” she managed against the typhoon of pain. “Don’t you ever…forget it.”

  “Yets, I knew.” He paused for a second and half-shrugged. “Mama skee.”

  “Scared about starting the new job…tomorrow?” she asked, pulling away a little to study his face.

  He nodded. “Yets.”

  “We talked about this, Brian. It’s nothing…to be afraid of,” she said, pausing to catch her breath. “We can do anything…we put our minds to. We’ve proven it…for years together.” She nodded. “Just believe in yourself…and know that both me and the good Lord…are right there with you.”

  He nodded.

  With a kiss on his cheek, the tiny, Italian matriarch eased herself onto her back and exhaled heavily. “Yes?” she asked, relentless in making him exercise his vocabulary.

  “Yets, Mama.”

  “That’s my boy,” she grunted, still struggling to get comfortable.

  For a moment, there was silence. And then Brian yawned, “Mama, nigh nigh.” His was still the sweetest voice she’d ever known.

  Smiling, the old woman nodded her curly, silver head. “Tomorrow night…at eight o’clock…we’ll talk about how good you did at work, okay?”