One Year Later

TW: substance abuse and death of a child

One Year Later

It had been one year since I’d seen my brother, and his eyes were as guilt-ridden as they’d been then. He was wrinkled, worry lines etched all over his face. We stood on either side of the window, neither of us making the move to sit. Staring at each other, drinking each other in. This past year had been the longest I’d ever gone without seeing my brother, and emotions were warring inside of me.

Finally, the guard pushed him forward and down, and my brother was forced to sit. I mirrored his position, but didn’t yet reach for the phone. I didn’t know if I actually needed to; his green eyes spoke volumes. Guilt, regret, love, gratitude. Although gratitude was puzzling at first, I then wondered if anyone had visited him this past year. Truth be told, he’d alienated everyone way before being thrown in jail.

Ever so slowly, as if not to spook me, he reached up to the phone on his left. His manacles glinted in the overhead light as he brought the phone to his ear, eyes beseeching me to do the same. I hesitated, heart thrashing in my ribcage. I was going to hear his voice for the first time in a year. In person. He frequented my nightmares regularly, but they never quite pulled off his voice. The gravel of it.

I saw him mouth the words, “Anna, please,” and still I hesitated. I didn’t have to do this. My therapist would understand. She’d give me more leeway, even though the nightmares would keep on coming. And that’s what convinced me. The nightmares. One year of them now; I needed to move on. Taking a deep breath, I picked up the phone and brought it to my ear and it felt like my brother released the breath I’d been holding.

“Thank you,” he said quietly and I couldn’t look him in the eye for a second. I didn’t want his gratitude; I was doing this for me. “You’re the first person to come visit me.” I’d suspected as much and as much as I wanted to snarl that he got what he deserved, I had to blink tears away; my little brother sounded lonely.

I swallowed past my tears. “Eli,” was all I was able to say.

“Anna, I-”

I held up my hand to silence him. I couldn’t take his words, his apologies. He lifted his own hand and pressed it against the window separating us. My fingers twitched, wanting to press my own against his, when suddenly an image came to mind. My son, Henry, outside with his father. Toddling to the patio door, pressing his tiny hand to the window, blue eyes filled with mirth. Another image, my brother at two, following his big sister in the yard, trying to catch her. I had stopped to let him catch up. I always stopped. That’s what big sisters do. He always slipped his hand in mine, green eyes full of trust.

My lips trembled as my eyes watered. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. But I wasn’t expecting all these emotions. I fisted my hand and dropped it on my lap. I took a deep breath. Eli understood that a shift had happened. He slowly pulled his hand away, eyes wide and searching mine. I don’t know what he saw, but his shoulders drooped and despite me, I swallowed past the ball of emotion in my throat.

“I came here to tell you I forgive you,” I said quietly. His eyes widened and his mouth opened but I shook my head, silencing him. “My therapist said it would do me good, to release my anger by forgiving you.” His expression was ashen, his eyes, impossibly green. “But I can’t. I can’t forgive you.”

His lips trembled. “Anna, you don’t owe me anything. Especially not your forgiveness; I don’t deserve it.” And there it was; the crux of the problem. Whether he had deserved his jail sentence or not. He’d been sleeping at my house, was seven days sober. Said there were too many memories of alcohol consumption at his place and needed a hard reset. My husband had taken sick and I'd had to drive him to the hospital. Asked Eli to bring Henry to daycare, had strapped him in the car. Eli had gone back in the house for his wallet, went to get a water bottle from the fridge and noticed a beer in the back. Then another. And another.

We’d come home 10 hours later. Jason had suffered from some food poisoning and was still feeling weak. He’d gotten out of the car, leaned against the other car for support and had noticed Henry inside. Sleeping. Unresponsive.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to take deep shuddering breaths. The memories weren’t hard to bring to the surface; they plagued my nightmares every night. We’d tried waking him, tried finding a pulse. Jason called 911 while I held Henry’s overheated body.

I opened my teary eyes and locked gazes with my brother. My brother who had been found passed out in the living room, surrounded by 10 empty alcohol bottles, 3 beers. He’d blasted through his sobriety victory, forgetting my two-year-old in the car. It had been 40 degrees in the shade; the hottest day of summer.

“I regret ever knowing you. Ever trusting you.” Eli broke eye contact, choking on a sob. “I regret ever holding your hand when you needed me. I regret ever being there for you.” I swallowed the sob in my own throat as images of my toddling little brother mixed with the toddling son I’d lost.

“Anna, please-”

Still holding the phone, I rose from my chair. Eli’s eyes jumped to mine, startled. “I’ll never be able to forgive you and I will never come back. If that means I have to live with my nightmares for the rest of my life, so be it.”

I slammed the phone shut and turned around, my heels clacking on the cement floor. They spurred me faster and faster until I was running out of the prison, metal door shutting behind me. I brought my phone to my ear, listening to the dial tone until a woman’s voice picked up.

“I need to talk to you,” I said to my therapist as I finally let the sobs free from my chest, and dropped to my knees.