Never Doubt Me: Judge Me Not #2(15)

“’Night…and stop yawning.” I stifle a yawn of my own. “That shit’s contagious.”

Will laughs and heads upstairs. Meanwhile, I make sure everything is locked up, since, unfortunately, there will be no visit from Kay tonight. When I’m done, I jog up the steps. But as I’m making my way to my bedroom, I just about trip over something that’s lying on the floor. I turn on a light and discover it’s Will’s duffel bag that’s in my path.

Standing at the bathroom door, it’s clear that the shower is still running. I shake my head and start to toe the bag out of the way, but suddenly, this feeling comes over me, like maybe I should take this opportunity and check to make sure my brother’s not toting around any drugs or alcohol. I hate to go through Will’s stuff, but he did recently borrow money from me under false pretenses. Shortly after I (ill-advisedly) loaned him some cash, our mom found his stash—weed he had bought with my money.

With my foot, I push at the duffel bag. What should I do…what should I do?

I’m not so much worried about weed in particular. I already told our mom the kid’s bound to try it. But I do worry bud will turn into a gateway drug for my brother. After all, he has the same genetics as Mom and me, and God knows, she and I have fought our addictions.

Mom spent years gambling. And me, well, I was into just about every drug you could name, except for heroin. That one exclusion didn’t mean I wasn’t in deep. Cocaine had me by the balls for a long time. And I sure as f*ck don’t care to stand by and watch my little brother follow in those same footsteps.

Despite feeling shitty for what I’m about to do—rummage through his things—I push all that shit aside and crouch down next to Will’s duffel bag. With the shower water echoing in the background, I reach out, unzip the bag, and proceed to go through my little brother’s belongings.

I’m relieved at once when I find no drugs—no alcohol, either. Will’s bag is crammed with mostly clothes, in addition to some other things, like shaving cream, disposable razors, shit like that.

I chuckle when I come across a box of condoms. When I tuck them back under one of Will’s T-shirts, I send up a prayer that my brother is actually using them.

With my search complete, I start shoving things back into the bag. But in doing so, I discover a sketchbook at the very bottom. I pull it out, lean back against the wall, and start thumbing through a bunch of colorful comic panels Will has drawn.

A few of the scenes are familiar. I recognize them as the same pages Will e-mailed to me when we started talking again back in June.

Taking in the intricate detail of Will’s futuristic, annihilated Las Vegas, I can’t help but smile. Despite the bleak subject matter, Will’s art is f*cking impressive. It’s good, really good—professional, even. My brother’s comic book is definitely polished enough to be published. And that makes me feel so f*cking proud of him.

I become so wrapped up in Will’s creations that I barely notice when the water abruptly shuts off. But once I do, I hurriedly toss the sketchbook back into the bag.

When I start to pull the zipper closed, unfortunately for me, the teeth catch on a pair of Will’s cargo shorts. “Fuck,” I hiss.

I fumble a few seconds with the zipper, manage to get the shorts unhooked, and shove everything deeper into the bag. And that’s when my thumb brushes over what feels like a folded piece of paper that’s been jammed into an inside pocket. The paper feels like a page from a sketchpad. But it’s too smooth, like in a worn-out way.

This can’t be what I think it is.

But when I lift the piece of paper, carefully from the narrow inside pocket, I discover it is indeed a page from an old sketchbook, a page from one of my old sketchbooks. And it’s exactly what I think it is.

With shaky fingers, I unfold the yellowed page. Still feeling stunned, I stare down at the tree house sketch Will told me the other night he no longer had. This is the same sketch my brother once told me gave him hope. So that begs the question of why Will would lie to me. Why did he say the sketch I drew him all those years ago was long gone?

I blow out a breath. My brother has had his hope with him all along. But perhaps even more mind-blowing than discovering the tree house sketch still exists is the fact my brother took the time to pack it in his bag and carry it with him across the country.

Fuck, f*ck, f*ck.

My eyes tear up. I mean, shit, all this time I’ve been thinking my brother has been struggling to forgive me for letting my ass get locked up. But maybe he never really gave up on me in the first place.

Why else would he hold on to this sketch—one of the first things I ever drew for him?

I shake my head. I failed this kid, but he obviously never stopped believing in me. He held on to hope even when I’d forsaken it.

I run a fingertip over what I drew so long ago. The blue walls of the rooms are faded, and there’s a double water ring on top of the green foliage on the tree, like someone used the sketch as a coaster once or twice. But despite the wear and tear, the truck parked at the base of the tree—Will freaking loved that thing—still looks good, all big, badass, and bright yellow.

More importantly, though, when I look past all the aesthetics, I finally see what Will has seen all along in this drawing, what he saw so many years ago. I realize why something created by my hand once gave him hope. Somewhere, in between faded blue rooms and water-marked leaves, every ounce of love I felt the day I sketched this for my baby brother is clear. My love for him resonates in every line, every curve of colored pencil. There’s love even in the once-colorful shades. This sketch is something special. It’s from a different time, a time when we all had different lives, lives filled with so much love it was f*cking unbelievable.