Brotherly Love

The late afternoon sun beat down on the old 1966 Ford Mustang meticulously maintained by my father for the last twenty years. The outside temperature was close to 100 degrees but the windows were still rolled up and the air conditioner cooled the interior of the car. The odometer registered 90 MPH as I sped along the straightaway of Route 66 in the Mojave Desert. I had passed no cars moving in either direction for the last ten miles. The speed was exhilarating. I felt free and happy even though what lay ahead would be sad, a total downer. But it had to be done.

They had been close to each other when they were young. Brothers, Brian and Jesse, only two years apart, who were also best friends. Soccer and basketball were their sports; one of them was better at soccer, and one shone as a hooper. They both played their hearts out and excelled. They even double dated. Sometimes they got into the usual adolescent trouble, breaking curfew, occasionally cutting classes, skipping school, but they always protected each other from their parents’ wrath. It all was golden until one of them flunked out of college in his sophomore year because of increasingly erratic behavior. Soon after a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia was given. Endless appointments, frequent hospitalizations and numbing medications eroded the brothers’ close bond. Mental illness was misunderstood, an embarrassment and filled with shame for families and the one who suffered was often shunned. Years of turmoil followed and their family slowly fell apart. The mother developed crippling anxiety for which she was medicated; a sudden heart attack took her life. Soon after, the father was diagnosed with prostrate cancer, months later he was dead. It had all led to this. And later only fragments of caring and closeness still remained.

The drugs were finally taking hold. From the rearview mirror I could see he wasn’t fighting his restraints anymore, his mouth was slack and his head lolled to one side. Reluctantly I slowed down, removed my earplugs and called his name but he didn’t respond. I decided I’d better pull over and check on him. I drove far enough away in the desert to not be seen from the highway before stopping. When I opened the back door, he jerked his shackled legs slightly and slowly moved his head toward me, staring with partially lidded, glassy eyes and pinpoint pupils. Since he was awake though drowsy, I carefully poured a small amount of water from my water bottle in his half-opened mouth. Luckily he didn’t choke, just closed his dry, crusty lips around the liquid and swallowed.

He had been boisterous and swearing at the beginning of our trip, later screaming so bad I had to put in my earplugs and drown out the irritating noise. Shortly after we’d started out I’d force fed him a handful of Xanax, an old prescription of my mom’s, and a few leftover morphine pills of my dad’s from his home hospice days. It was a struggle to get him to swallow the pills and it pissed me off. Luckily no one else was around. His jaw was swollen on his left side where I regrettably had punched him, releasing my anger and years of pent up rage, causing him to fall and hit his head on the concrete floor of the rest stop bathroom, knocking him unconscious. It unnerved me just a little but was helpful, however, since it was easier to apply his restraints which I knew I had to do. I felt crappy about it all the same.

Looking down on him where he laid in the backseat I spoke to him softly telling him it was all right. He would have done the same, somehow I knew, so I continued. “I’m so sorry Jesse, to have to treat you this way. It kills me, but I know it has to be done and is for the best. Dad wanted me to take care of you and I promised I would when he lay on his deathbed. You’ve suffered this awful illness, your schizophrenia, for so long. I am sorry. When you stop taking your meds you get so paranoid and then suicidal. I don’t want a stranger to take you away to the state hospital which you despise. I’m taking you to a better place where hopefully they can do more for you than fill you with drugs that only numb you. It’s in San Bernadino, Jesse, and has had some remarkable results of helping people like you. I can’t lose you, brother, you’re all I have left now that dad’s joined mom.”

I smiled, looking down at my brother, and thought I’d done a pretty good job. Hopefully he heard the echo of his words spoken not too long ago. Reaching into the car, I pulled his body out by his arms allowing him to hit the ground with a thunk. You stay here big brother, warmed by the desert sand. It will chill you at night though, I thought. Unable to free yourself from those zip ties some coyotes will likely get you. I felt a shocking sense of satisfaction as I walked away.

Aloud I shouted at the still figure telling him he would never get to interfere in my life again. No more hospitals, disgusting pills that messed with my mind. Let the CIA leave me alone, stop coming after me so they can torture me for what I know. I felt stronger than I ever had in my life. No one would ever control me again, most of all the brother who tried to betray me. I opened the driver side door and hesitated a few seconds as I heard a choking out of my name. “Jesse! Please don’t, Jesse!

Hopping into the front seat and starting the ignition I rolled down my window. I didn’t look back but manically screamed, Good-bye, Brian, good riddance!” When I got back on the highway I drove as if the Devil was after me. Maybe he was.