In Her Brother's Arms

by James Rogers

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

I woke to find my hand on her belly, inside her t-shirt. I snatched it away, almost waking her. She turned in her sleep, her face catching the glow from the streetlights, giving her a jaundiced look and making the little pimples between her eyebrows stand out. I waited a moment to see if her eyes would open. I could see her eyeballs move, but the lids stayed shut.

The touch of her skin was still on my fingers. I carefully climbed past her, feeling dirty, ashamed. It reminded me of how Dad used to make me feel.

When I got my two feet on the floor, I felt a push. I staggered, gasped. I knew it had to be Karen, her two little hands shoving me in the back. It could only be Karen. My brain had time to wonder if it was play or if she was angered and disgusted by my filthy touch. At the same time, as if I had a dual processor in my head, I knew it couldn't be her. She couldn't move that fast, push that hard. Her hands weren't that big.

I spun around, stared at her. She hadn't moved.

She opened her eyes. They snapped open like they were spring-loaded. “Where are you going?”

“To the toilet.”

“Come straight back.”

“Okay.”

I stood in the bathroom, gazing through my reflection. The light above the mirror was broken. Had been for years. “You can't see a thing in this mirror,” I'd complained to my brother one evening a few years back as I'd tried to shave. He'd nearly fallen into the bath laughing. It took me ages to realize what was so funny: what was there to see? Even now, I only need to shave once a week.

Did I see something in the room just then? A shadow to go with the shove? I tried to convince myself it had to be Karen, even though I was sure she hadn't budged.

I used the toilet, rinsed my fingers and went back to Karen's door. I stood looking at it, at the grime about the handle. She was growing up, already had tiny boobs. It was long past the time I should be sleeping with her. But she wanted me to. She was scared. What was scaring her? Who?

I put my forehead to the wood, trying to figure it out. That's when I heard her. Whispering. I couldn't make out her words, but the utterances were brief, urgent. It didn't sound anything like the happy chatter about Mary Morrissey and the hens.

I turned the handle. The door wouldn't open. It wasn't locked. Our bedroom doors have no locks. It was being held. “Karen,” I hissed, “let me in.”

“Stop it,” I heard her cry. “Let him in!”

“What the hell is going on?” Mom roared as she exploded from her room. The weight on Karen's door was suddenly gone, and I fell onto her carpet. “Two in the morning and it's like Grand Central. What are you doing in her room?” Karen was sitting up in bed, as scared as she'd been the night I came from under her bed. Mom pulled me to my feet and smacked my ear hard, her wedding ring catching in the folds. I felt the blood instantly.

I ran for my room, my hand covering the injury. “Are you dragging him in here?” Mom shouted. I heard another smack. I heard Karen cry. It was a different cry now. More frightened than before. “Teasing him! Is that it?”

* * *

For the next few weeks, I did my best to stay out of Mom's way. She was having a hard time at work and was afraid of being laid off. I should have been afraid of that, too, but I was more concerned about Karen. She sat on the couch most of the time, doing nothing but mumbling to herself. I tried to make sense of her ramblings, but it was hopeless. Strangely, it reminded me of happier times when she would come out of her room in her Dora pyjamas, sleepwalking, babbling at a mile a minute. We would laugh as we tried to gently wake her, calm her.

There seemed to be no way to wake her this time. There's only one clear sentence I now remember: “Why stay, when everyone leaves eventually?” She said it several times. It was like she was repeating something she'd heard somewhere.

Her appetite was gone, too. Mom lost it with her this morning because she wouldn't eat her breakfast. I was surprised Mom cared, but maybe it's because she finally noticed how thin Karen was getting and how her hair was a greasy mess and her face was a mass of pimples.

Anyway, Mom handled the situation in her usual diplomatic and caring manner. She slapped Karen about the kitchen, arms swinging like a windmill in a hurricane. I stood by, helpless, wishing Karen would cry. If she cried, Mom might stop. But Karen doesn't cry anymore.

I was on the Xbox, playing Overwatch when I heard a crash in the bathroom. “Damn it, Karen,” I said as I took off my headset. “What are you doing in there?” I shouted through the bathroom door.

She opened it. My anger quelled at the sight of her, my little sister. Her pale face made the bruises Mom had given her stand out even more.

I looked past her to the medicine cabinet. Its doors were open and the shelves were bare. Everything was in the sink or on the floor. I stepped inside and saw my can of deodorant floating in the toilet. “Bloody hell, Karen. What are you doing?”

“I didn't do it,” she said quietly. She didn't fight back like she would have a couple of weeks ago. I thought she was too scared, and not of me. I didn't realize then it was resignation, not fear. “He did it.”

“Who? What are you talking about?” I noticed she was holding her right arm very straight, her hand hidden behind her leg. “What have you got there?”

“Nothing.”

“Give it to me.” I snatched.

“Get off!” She backed away, towards the door. I made another grab for her, got hold of her left arm. She tripped on the door saddle and fell backwards. Her right arm flailed. I could see it was a bottle of pills she was holding. The ones the doctor gave to Mom. Sleeping pills, or antidepressants, or something like that.

My hand went tighter about her left wrist, and I let her down slowly. I put my knee lightly on her belly and fought with her for the bottle. I let go of her left arm, with the intention of going after the bottle with both hands. But she grabbed my free hand, at the wrist, and pulled it down to her boob, pressing it against it, squashing it. I was so shocked I jumped away.

“Karen! What the hell?”

“It's what you want,” she said as she got to her feet and backed away, towards her bedroom. “Isn't it?” I stuttered an objection. “It's why you sleep with me.”

“You're the one who came to me.”

“You're just like Daddy.” She ran to her room and slammed the door.

I was paralyzed. It's why you sleep with me. How could she think that, that I wanted her in that kind of way?

It took a moment for my brain to fully process her final statement. I screwed my eyes tight as I felt my heart tighten. He'd been at her, too.

No wonder the girl's head was twisted. We used to be a happy family, or at least it seemed so. Look at us now. Abused by one parent, then battered by the other. And in between, deserted by the big brother.

He'd taken the only route open to him, or so he must have felt. Painkillers indeed. I tried not to be angry at him for that.

Painkillers. My head snapped up. I'd forgotten the pills. I ran to Karen's door, threw myself at it, expecting it to fly open. It didn't budge. “Karen! Let me in,” I shouted, even though I knew it was pointless. She wasn't holding it closed. No way. She's not that strong. The door refused to give, no matter how hard I threw my shoulder against it. You would have sworn it was locked with a deadbolt. But I knew it wasn't.

I recalled a time when I was a little boy and I locked myself in the bathroom. Dad had shouted through the door, telling me to stand in the bath. Then I heard him running. Smash! The door flew off its hinges and bounced off the toilet. I was amazed. And so proud. He was my hero.

I tried to do the same for Karen. Tried to be her hero. All I got was an aching shoulder.

* * *

Sitting in the hospital, I rub my shoulder. I haven't told anyone about it. I think they're busy enough.

They've taken Mom away. She's gone nuts. I'm waiting for news of Karen. And I'm thinking about what she said: “It's much nicer where he is; everyone leaves eventually.” And I'm hoping that if she doesn't make it, it's because our brother came back for her. Why stay, indeed? Why bother with this miserable place?

I'm also wondering why he hasn't come for me.