Page 16 of Unloved

The tension in my shoulders tightens as he gets closer.

I’m not afraid of my brother, nor am I completely disappointed to see him, but I know the anger I’m holding on to is the one single reason keeping me from absorbing the severity of my situation and dissolving into a puddle of emotions I know I absolutely can’t handle.

Dr. Keriakos thought the best way to inform me of my diagnosis was to hand me a manilla folder with everything written down. I appreciated the access to the information, and the ability to put a name to what was wrong with me, but I didn’t realize how impersonal the exchange would make me feel.

He asked if I wanted Frankie to be kept in the loop, and the relief on his face when I conceded, had him out the door, talking to Frankie about me in no time.

Frankie awkwardly raises a hand in a shitty attempt of a wave, and if everything wasn’t so tense between us, I would laugh at him. He quickly drops his hand, coming closer and sitting in the seat beside my bed.

On the tray table is a small whiteboard, the legal-sized pad of paper, and my cell, all my new methods of communication just waiting to be utilized. He surprises me when he picks up the whiteboard marker and writes on the mini board.

Is this okay?

“Do I have a choice?” I respond, certain that if I could hear my voice it would be full of snark.

He shakes his head and continues writing.

We have to talk.

No shit, Sherlock. Is he seriously writing down everything on a whiteboard right now?

“Text me,” I say, reaching for my cell. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

He plucks his own phone out of his pocket and begins to type whatever it is he wants to say. I watch him type and retype, and type and retype.

“If you’re going to make such a fuss about talking to me, then just spit it out.”

He chews on the corner of his lip, determination written all over his face. I wish I had a semblance of patience, but my insides feel like they’re shaking with anxiety as I wait for him. His fingers move faster over the screen, and I hold my cell phone, almost crushing it between my fingers.

It’s still vibrating when I eagerly look down at the screen, completely blindsided by his question.

Before you got to the group home, did you get knocked around by your foster parents?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I feel nauseous almost immediately, my insides swirling like a whirlpool as I try to will the words on the screen away.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

When I reopen my eyes, the words are still there and Frankie is still staring at me, waiting for an answer I’m unwilling to give.

Holding my gaze, his eyes are pools of pain, begging to understand. He sits on the edge of the bed now, placing a hand over mine, trying desperately to encourage me to have this conversation with him.

I pull my hand out from under his and turn my head to the side, avoiding him and avoiding the truth. As if he can’t stand the thought of me struggling for a single second longer, he climbs up onto the bed, invading my personal space, waiting for me to turn my head back to face him.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

Unshed tears fill my eyes, knowing I can’t hide away from this much longer. I finally find the courage to look at him, and devastation mars his features. He stares at me, and I know the sight of me crying gives the answers I can’t.

“I know I should’ve told you. But I…”

The words trail off into nothing, and Frankie wraps his arms around me, holding me as the memories I tried so hard to suppress resurface again.

The tears stream down my face freely now, turning into overdue sobs.

Secrets are no longer an option.

It doesn’t matter that we’re two grown men. It doesn’t matter that we haven’t spoken to each other in years. It doesn’t matter that he, of everyone in my life, hurt me the most. Because right now he’s my brother and the one person I need.

When we were reunited in the group home, I’d tried so hard to be the brother with no baggage, like everything before that moment to ever happen to me, never existed. Worried that if I was too much, Frankie would put me in the “too hard” basket. He was my saving grace. He was my one-way ticket out of hell.

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