Page 30 of Middle of the Night

Over the years, there have been days, even weeks, in which, like Russ, I didn’t think about Billy. But then I’d have The Dream, remember what happened, and feel guilty all over again. I see it as the least I can do. Isn’t it my duty to remember? Don’t I owe Billy that much? Doesn’t Russ?

“I get why you’re not as impacted by what happened as I am,” I say. “But I assumed you at least thought about him from time to time.”

“Do you ever think about Johnny?”

Russ peers at me over the rim of his glass, clearly drunk but his question coming out stone-cold sober. It makes me realize this isn’t about Billy at all. It’s about Johnny Chen and what happened to him and how today’s news is dredging up all the bad memories Russ has about his brother.

“Sometimes,” I say, hedging, for the truth is I don’t think of Johnny Chen much at all. On the rare occasions I do, it’s in an abstract way, with me thinking less about Johnny than how his death affected Russ.

“Name one thing you remember about him,” Russ says.

I don’t even try because I know I can’t, proving his point and making me feel like an awful person. Rightly so. Me expecting Russ to mourn Billy as much as his brother is just pure hypocrisy.

“Shit, Russ, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Russ says, swatting at the air like there’s a fly in the room. “I don’t expect you to miss Johnny as much as I do. Just don’t expect me to do the same with Billy. I’m sad about what happened to him. I really am. But that sadness has its limits. Something you need to remember, my friend.”

Although he’s drunk and slightly slurring his words, Russ’smessage is clear. He’ll mourn Billy to a point. As much as any neighbor would. But he won’t let it consume his life. Just like I shouldn’t.

“I’ll try,” I say.

“Good.” He downs the rest of his drink and stands, swaying in the middle of the kitchen. “Because let’s face it, buddy. We’ve both had our share of loss and we’ve both mourned too much.”

Friday, July 15, 1994

10:08 a.m.

After his brother died, Russ thought the house would feel bigger. There was, after all, one fewer person inside, ceding more space to the others. Instead, the whole place seemed to shrink. The ceilings felt lower, the walls closer together. Russ found himself ducking when he passed through doorways, even though there was no need.

It took him awhile to realize what had happened. Johnny’s presence was so huge in their lives that the house had expanded to accommodate it. Now that he is gone, it has reverted back to its intended form—a house of small people.

And Russ is the smallest of them all.

The only part of the house that still feels normal-sized is Johnny’s old bedroom, which Russ assumes is because his brother’s presence can still be felt there. Nothing about the room has changed in the year since his death. The same posters hang on the walls and the same academic trophies crowd the dresser. First place in the science fair six years running. Math bowl champ. Spelling bee champ. Quiz bowl champ.

Russ eyes them all as he quietly closes the door behind him and tiptoes across the room to the window overlooking the backyard. He’snot supposed to be in here. His mother’s orders. Ever since Johnny died, she’s treated his bedroom like a shrine, and if Russ is caught up here, the punishment will surely be swift. It always is. Double the chores tomorrow. Maybe no TV for the night. Certainly no playing his SEGA.

But right now, Russ’s mother is working in the flower bed that’s become her pride and joy. He sees her from the window, elbow-deep in dirt, a floppy sun hat on her head. Now that she’s returned from gossiping with the other wives of Hemlock Circle, she’ll be gardening for the rest of the morning, giving him plenty of time to sit in his brother’s room and inhabit the space the same way he imagines Johnny did when he was alive.

Russ first snuck into his brother’s room a few days after Johnny’s funeral, when his father had returned to work and his mother was still too grief-stricken to pay him much mind. Left to his own devices, Russ slipped inside, closed the door, and lay down on the bed, pressing his weight into the mattress and bringing the pillow to his face, searching for a hint of Johnny’s scent. When Russ detected it—a small whiff of sweat and Calvin Klein cologne—it felt like his heart had been cracked wide open.

A year later, the heartbreak is less acute. A small ache instead of full-blown pain. Russ feels twinges of sadness as he roots through his brother’s belongings. Clothes and books and CDs that had been tossed into dresser drawers, discarded in the closet, kicked under the bed. He’s searching not for reminders of Johnny but for things that might show him how to take his place.

If he can do that—fill the Johnny-shaped hole in their lives—then maybe the house will start to feel its normal size again and the people inside it will return to their old selves.

Russ shoots another envious glance at the scholastic trophies Johnny accrued over the years, knowing he’ll never come close to winning something similar. He’s an average student, whereas his brotherwas a genius. But Russ knows he can emulate Johnny in other ways. His tallness. His confidence. His presence in the neighborhood. Everyone on Hemlock Circle knew and liked Johnny, coming out to say hello when they saw him roaming the cul-de-sac with Ragesh Patel, his best friend and next-door neighbor. Now that’s something Russ can achieve. Not with Ragesh, who’s older and, honestly, got meaner after Johnny died. But it might be possible with Ethan Marsh, their neighbor on the other side, although Russ has had little luck in the past. Although they’ve grown up next door to each other, Ethan seems indifferent at best, annoyed at worst.

“Why doesn’t Ethan like me?” he once said to his mother. A mistake, it turns out, because her response was brutal in its honesty.

“He does like you,” she said, adding after a pause, “But he’d like you more if you didn’t get so angry all the time.”

Russ hated that his mother made a good point, and reacted accordingly by proving her right. “I don’t get angry!” he shouted before storming upstairs to his room and slamming the door behind him.

Thinking about it now fills him with shame and, yes, anger. Although Johnny was the smart one in the family, Russ isn’t stupid. He knows what the other kids say about him behind his back. How quick he is to anger. How easy it is to get him upset. Wuss, they call him. Nowthat’sstupid. “Russ” and “wuss” don’t even rhyme.

What those kids don’t understand is that Russ can’t help it. There are always so many thoughts rolling through his brain that he gets overwhelmed and melts down. He imagines them as marbles, cracking into each other and careening off the inside of his skull. A near-constant stream of motion and color and distractions.

He knows it’s a problem because his parents told him so. “Too many thoughts,” his mother said, tapping her head. “Bad to have so many.”

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