How to Save a Life(8)

He brightened immediately. “Okay,” he said, and began prattling on about the science fair at his elementary school.

Shane sat in sulky silence, like a petulant little kid, arms crossed over his narrow chest. He had multiple sclerosis, the relapsing-remitting kind, now in relapse. It left him skinny, weak, and living in fear of its eventual return.

It was terrible watching the disease take a physical and mental toll on my adopted brother, and it pissed me off that our parents only gave him treatment for the physical symptoms. Shane took out his unchecked rage and fear on me, casting me as the interloper out to steal his future at the auto shop with my strength and health. Worse, he made my life a living hell at school. I tried to remember how scared he must be. He was fighting a battle he couldn’t win. I hated he had to suffer it. But I guessed after the fallout from my little stint at Woodside Institute, the Salingers weren’t about to have two kids who required mental health care services.

As if shit weren’t hard enough for me since Woodside, Shane used Merle for a bodyguard and attack dog. Shane channeled his rage right into Merle. Merle—one year younger than us, but a good five years behind mentally—was more than happy to oblige. Whatever Merle lacked in brainpower, he made up for in muscle. Shane liked to sic Merle on me right before school, or right after. Before work at the shop so I’d show up with blood on my shirt or a shiner that didn’t look good in front of customers. Harris hated that.

I watched Shane elbow Merle and the big guy nodded, shoveling food into his immense bulk. My hackles went up immediately.

“Boys, dishes,” Norma said.

On cue, we all stood up, the parents to the TV room, leaving us boys to clean up.

Merle pinned me against the pantry as soon as Norma was out of sight. He jammed his thick forearm under my chin, pressing hard against my throat. Shane sneered at me over his shoulder.

“You think I’m blind? You think I can’t see what you’re doing? That f*cking business is mine. And Merle’s. We are the sons on the sign, not you.”

I shoved Merle off of me and stood ready, my muscles coiled, and my nerves jumping, ready to defend myself.

“Let it go, Shane,” I said. “Just f*cking drop it.”

I tried to push past them, to end it there, but Merle grabbed the front of my shirt and shoved me back. I tore his hand loose and we stared each other down. There was nothing in Merles’ piggish eyes but dull hate, put there by Shane. Garrett stood behind us, in the center of the fluorescent yellow kitchen, shifting his feet from side to side and worrying his lower lip.

“I don’t want to fight,” I told Shane. “And I don’t want the business. After graduation, I’m out of here.”

“Goddamn better be,” Shane spat. “I’m counting the seconds.”

He turned to leave, leaning heavily on his cane as he left me to clean up the rest of the kitchen with Garrett. Merle followed slowly, disappointed at the lack of bloodshed.

They let me off too easy this time. Usually it came to blows with Merle, who behaved like a dog itching to get off his leash. As if only Shane’s word kept him from killing me.

It sounded ridiculous, but it didn’t feel that way, not when Merle and I were down in it. Our fights didn’t feel like brotherly scuffles, but life and death.

“You want to know what I think?” Garrett asked, putting away the dishes I dried. “Shane is scared.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of you.”

I tensed up, wondering if he were going to bring up the factory shooting. Like Voldemort’s name, I didn’t say it out loud; didn’t dare even think about it too hard in my mind. But no matter how I tried to pretend it never happened, or how many years I put between those f*cking horrible days and myself, it was still right there, in my face or on the minds and mouths of everyone in this damn town.

“He’s worried Dad is going to give you the auto shop,” Garrett said. “Put it in your name.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I warned, glancing around. “Shane hears you talking like that and he’ll give you hell.” I felt sick just thinking about it. The only thing worse than Shane sic’ing Merle on me was the idea he’d do it to Garrett.

The little boy nodded. “My teacher says bullies are scared. When they’re scared, they get mean.”

“They’re mean anyway.” I wanted to reach out to Garrett. Hug him tight. I held back. Since Woodside, no one touched me and I didn’t touch them, as if emotional breakdowns were contagious.

After the kitchen was cleaned up, Garrett joined Harris and Norma watching TV in the den. The laugh track of some sitcom blared. Merle was in his room, probably playing Grand Theft Auto. Shane was in his room, doing whatever he did before bed. Lay around hating life, I guessed. He was a bright guy but didn’t study any more. I guessed he figured there was no point—the disease was going to get progressively worse. But it was horrible to think about him giving up already. I caught myself on the way to my room, wanting to stop and talk to Shane. To call a truce at least. Or let him know he didn’t have to hate me.

I paused outside his door then kept going. Maybe he did need to hate me. Maybe lashing out at me was better than keeping it in, letting it eat away at him as much as his disease did.

I went up to my room that overlooked the street. I had to step around stalagmites of books to lay down on my bed under the window. My room and sanctuary. Bed, desk, chair and dresser. Books stacked all over. Books were my escape until money and time made actual escape a reality.