When We Were Bright and Beautiful(22)

I like to believe I helped Billy thrive, because I wouldn’t have survived childhood without him. When I was five and my biological mother died, I became preoccupied with death. My fears escalated at bedtime. Falling asleep seemed like dying, and I was afraid to close my eyes. What happened during the nothingness? What if I didn’t wake up? Night after night, I lay awake on red alert. When I did sleep, my dreams were terrifying. I fell off mountains, burned in fires, starved in caves. Lawrence and Eleanor tried everything. They read to me, sang to me, left me alone, slept beside me.

Nothing worked until Lawrence came up with a ritual. Each night, he carried Billy to my room, laid him in my bed, and told us stories about our lives. “Epic stories,” he called them. Sometimes he went backwards in time, telling us about CW and Rachel, how Lawrence fell in love with Eleanor, how Lawrence and Eleanor fell in love with Cassie, their “forever girl.” Other nights he made up tales from the future about Cassie, Billy, and Nate, his Three Musketeers on the beach. Through these stories, Lawrence showed me all the ways I belonged, that I was safe and wanted. His voice was the thread that tethered me to our family, who loved me beyond the beyond. But it was the ritual that connected me to Billy, to the warmth of his body, his silky hair and sturdy presence. Eleanor didn’t like Billy (or Nate) to sleep in my bed. She insisted that he return to his own room as soon as our epic stories were over. But sometimes Billy dropped off while Lawrence was still talking. On those nights, his dad let him stay, which filled me with unspeakable joy. Had Eleanor allowed it, I would’ve slept curled up next to Billy until we were grown. I still would.

*

Midafternoon on Tuesday, I’m perched on a chair beside a sleeping Billy when Eleanor steps into his room. She’s annoyed. “Let him be,” she whispers. But I don’t move. “What about your hair? Your appointment is today.”

I beg her to cancel it. “He’s been asleep since he got home. I’ve barely talked to him.”

Billy’s room hasn’t been touched in years. Clothes are stacked neatly in drawers, jackets hang in the closet, and running shoes are lined up on racks. Bits and pieces of his childhood are scattered all over—plastic dinosaurs, skateboards, his library of science fiction—and his shelves overflow with trophies, medals, and ribbons. But other than a Princeton pennant and the framed picture of him teaching a kid to read, there’s no sign whatsoever of my brother’s current life.

As a child, I spent as much time here as I could. After our epic stories, when Billy went back to his own bed, the house became a cemetery. The silence was unbearable. I felt so lonely. So, I waited until the clock said 9:30. Then I tiptoed through the long, scary halls, all the way to Billy’s room, and crawled under his blankets. The bed was soft, Billy’s body warm. I wrapped myself around him: my arm over his ribs, my nose in his neck, our feet entwined. Close like this, I could finally sleep.

“How long have you been watching me?” I hear.

Billy is propped up against the pillow, naked except for a pair of boxers. His torso is absurdly lean; his chest and shoulders are hairless and pale, and a faint scar, like a faded zipper, runs along his sternum. The paleness cuts off at his biceps, which are tan and rounded with muscle. His forearms, also tan, are roped with cords of tendons that look like telephone wires under his skin.

I offer a sheepish grin. “If I said since yesterday, would you think I’m creepy?”

“Too late; I know you’re creepy.” Billy stretches. “But please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Of course I’m kidding. You’re not that important.”

My brother’s longer hair makes his face look girlish, but he’s bulked up since Christmas and his body is as hard as granite. Sparse hairs trail down to his groin and vanish inside his waistband. Eyeing his phone, he yelps. “Holy shit, it’s almost two! Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You said you hadn’t slept for days.”

“I couldn’t. That place was loud, and I was too scared.”

Yesterday, on the ride home from Trenton, Billy was quiet. He needed a shower, badly. His hair was greasy and matted; his face, drawn and washed out. He looked defeated. As we pulled out of the courthouse parking lot, he started to cry, which made me cry. Eleanor pulled out tissues, and gave Nate the wad to split between us, like we were little kids. Billy rested his forehead against the window and tried to relax, but every few minutes, some sound—car horn, pothole—startled him awake.

Nate couldn’t bear the silence. “So, what happened?”

“Nate,” Lawrence warned. “Let him sleep. He’s exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.” Billy’s eyes were closed. “That place was, like, major sensory overload. The smell was unbearable. It was a combination of sweat, piss, puke, and Lysol. I tasted it every time I swallowed.”

“With Diana.” Nate was insistent. “What happened with Diana?”

Billy ignored him. “It was grim as fuck. Guys jammed together, no privacy. You’re always on guard. I mean, it wasn’t Attica. People weren’t bashing each other’s heads in. But you never knew what was coming. So the threat hung there like, I don’t know, like foul air.”

After a long silence, Nate said, “Sounds like you miss it, buddy.”

Billy grimaced. “With my whole heart.” Minutes later, he nodded off. He slept until we got home. Then he took a long, hot shower, ate two bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios, and crawled into bed.