Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes (5 page)

Dead

My dead brother insists that we stop using his alive name. His mommy asks, “What should we call you, then?”

He smiles, his mouth open wide, the gap in his teeth looking too adorable. Last week, he lost his first baby tooth. I want to rush over and hug him so I can absorb all that cuteness. And I want to smell him, because he still has a trace of baby smell, even at five years old. “I’m dead. Call me
Dead
.”

But he isn’t. Not yet. It takes seven years to be declared dead, and he’s only been missing for a few days. We humour him, though.

~

The mommies and daddies let me sit in when the police explain what happened on my brother’s first day in kindergarten. I can tell the detectives expect me to be sent out of the room.

First they ask who everyone is. Daddy Kent says, “We share the house. We’re like one big family.” That’s not a lie. They make it look like Mommy Jenny is with Daddy Kent, and Mommy Tara with Daddy Neal. They call it fudging the truth. Sometimes it’s simpler that way.

Less than an hour after class started, the police tell us, the teacher discovered a heap of clothes. There was a bit of blood on the shirt. She did a quick headcount and realized she was one child short. She took attendance, and of course my brother was the missing one.

The other kids told the police that my brother had lost a tooth, and that explained the blood.

Ms Collingswood hadn’t noticed, but there were so many kids to pay attention to.

Neither the teacher nor any of the children remembered anyone being in the classroom besides themselves. Neither the teacher nor any of the children noticed how or when my brother disappeared.

One of the detectives says, “Did you get a ransom note?”

The other one asks, “Is there anyone you know who would have any reason to take him?”

“Are you pressing charges for negligence against the school and the teacher?”

No to all of the above.

They ask to see his room. They look around, but there’s nothing to find.

“If you hear anything, call us.”

“We’ll do everything we can to return your son to you.”

Finally, they leave.

Dead has already told us a different story.

~

Curled up on Mommy Jenny’s pillow, Dead is taking an afternoon nap. He looks so tiny nestled in the mommies and daddies’ big bed, as if he were still a little baby. The rest of us are standing in the doorway, admiring him. He’s so peaceful. So beautiful. So fragile.

Mommy Jenny whispers, “Nothing must ever hurt him again.”

Even as a baby, when he was still alive, my brother was so sensitive to everything. If someone lashed out in anger – at anyone – he would either cry uncontrollably or withdraw completely, his eyes wide with shock and fear. We had to learn never to have temper tantrums and never to scream at each other. We learned to really communicate. We did it for him, but it was a good thing. My brother taught us to be better people.

He taught me to be a better person.

Once, when I was little, I was furious at the mommies and daddies because they didn’t get me this stupid toy, and I got so mad. I was so stupid. I made everyone angry, and it all turned into a big fight with lots of yelling. And then we heard a loud, horrible scream – only a short burst, but it was the most terrifying noise I’d ever heard. The sound of a baby being tortured. That’s the image that flashed into my mind. We stopped fighting and rushed to the crib. My baby brother’s face was rigid with fear. He breathed in short bursts, like a broken piston. Mommy Jenny barely touched him, and he screamed again.

The mommies and daddies murmured tensely to each other.

I was so scared. I hated myself for what I’d done to my brother. I filled my heart with my love for him, and I singsonged his name.

The mommies and daddies stopped talking. They listened to me and watched the baby.

After a few minutes, he made a little baby noise. A normal noise. I continued my song, and his face relaxed. He drooled. His eyes closed. He drooled some more, and his breathing calmed as he slept.

The mommies and daddies each kissed me on the head as they left the room. I sang to my brother the whole time he napped. When he woke up, he smiled at me. I climbed into the crib, squeezed in next to him, and hugged him. There were tears in my eyes as I whispered, “I’ll never hurt you again. Ever.”

It’s time to renew my vow. I say, “I promise never to hurt my brother.”

The mommies and the daddies stare at me forever, then they nod to each other, and then turn to look at Dead sleeping on their bed.

Mommy Tara says, “I promise never to hurt Dead.”

Daddy Neal says, “I promise never to hurt Dead.”

Daddy Kent says, “I promise never to hurt Dead.”

Mommy Jenny sheds a tear. “I promise never to hurt my son.”

Gently, I climb on the bed. I’m too old for afternoon naps. I cuddle Dead. I close my eyes.

~

Everyone is dressed in black. The two daddies. The two mommies. Me. Except Dead. Dead isn’t wearing any clothes at all.

Dead pees in a plant pot. A big cactus. His little wee-wee is funny- looking. Dead reminds me of those water fountains with statues of pissing cherubs. His pee is colourless, almost odourless, just like water.

We all laugh.

The doorbell rings. Dead is done peeing, so he disappears.

We all remove the smiles from our faces. We try to look sad. It’s been three months since my brother vanished. My mommy opens the door. Seeing everyone’s grim expressions, I start giggling. Daddy Kent glares at me, and I bury my face in my hands.

Uncle Jerry walks in. His big SUV can seat everyone, so he’s driving us. The five of us (Dead isn’t coming) could have fit into our own car, but Uncle Jerry insisted: “You shouldn’t have to drive to the ceremony.” The mommies and daddies said, “Okay,” because it’s best not to make a fuss.

Uncle Jerry kneels down next to me. “Oh, Lilly!” He takes me in his arms and hugs me. “You loved him so much, eh? It’s okay to cry.”

I peek at the mommies and daddies, and they all look relieved. Daddy Neal winks at me.

Daddy Neal sits up front; Uncle Jerry’s his brother. The two mommies climb in the middle seat, with Daddy Kent squeezed between them, holding hands with both of them. I sit alone in the back seat. Actually, I lie down. I take up the whole seat. I close my eyes and pretend that we’re flying, that the car is a private luxury jet. The steady rumble of the SUV becomes the hum of the plane. I’m flying. Flying! Flying to a heaven made to order for my brother. Dead’s perfect world. I want to be there with him, in that place where no-one is ever mean.

Someone grabs my hand. Immediately, I know it’s Dead. Those tiny hands, spongy like marshmallows. Still naked, Dead climbs on top of me and rests his head on my chest. I wrap him in my arms. His soft hair tickles my chin.

Dead’s mommy turns to see what’s going on in the back seat. Dead isn’t supposed to be here. But she chuckles. What all of us want is to make Dead happy. Daddy Kent turns, too. And then my mommy. They nod to each other. Mommy mouths to me, “I love you.”

Uncle Jerry says, “Is Lilly alright? What’s going on back there?”

Daddy Kent says, “Nothing. Nothing at all.” Meanwhile, Dead’s mommy stretches her arm and rests her fingertips on Dead’s hair.

Later, Daddy Kent says in a voice that’s a bit too loud, “We’re almost there.”

I nudge Dead, and he slides off me. He slips under the seat, out of sight.

By now, Dead is presumed dead, even though legally he’s still only a missing person. Today, the entire extended family is commemorating him. For closure, they say. It wasn’t our idea. But it was simpler to go along and get it over with. At the ceremony, the aunts and uncles and grandparents all want me to say a few words.

I’m nine years old, but today they all try so hard to treat me like an adult. Why now? The aunts and uncles and grandparents never treat me like a real person. Why isn’t a child a real person? The mommies and the daddies don’t think like that. They’ve always treated me and my brother like real people. Today, though, I wish they’d all treat me like a kid, not like a real person. A real person is listened to, and I have nothing to say to these people. They’ve never listened before; why should I suddenly want to speak to them today?

I don’t want to be here with all these people who pretend to know him but don’t. I want to be home and play with Dead.

Dead should be in Uncle Jerry’s car. Dead should have stayed home. He doesn’t even like these people.

Instead, he’s under the table, naked, hidden by the thick white cloth. No-one noticed him sneaking into the reception hall. His head is nestled on my feet. I don’t want to move and disturb him.

Grandma Diane, whose cheeks are purple with makeup, is the most insistent. “Say something, Lilly. It’s okay if you cry. Say something in his honour.”

I give my mommy a pleading glare, and she steps in.

“Lilly was closer to him than anyone. Please let her deal with his passing in her own way.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand. I’m glad Mommy Tara is my mother.

~

Before his death, my brother never wanted to go to family events, or parties, or anything like that. But the mommies and daddies didn’t want to leave him alone back then, and they made him come along with us. The grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins would see him arrive, but then he’d disappear. They wouldn’t even notice. For most adults, kids are almost invisible anyway – unless they make trouble.

Sometimes, though, my brother would slip out of his clothes. We were always on the lookout for that, so we’d find them first and hide them. We didn’t always succeed. So Aunt Carla or Uncle Rob or Grandpa Paul or Grandma Iris would stumble upon the heap of discarded clothes and get worried. The mommies and daddies would try to reassure them. “It’s a game he plays.” We’d have to search everywhere until we found him, because the aunts and uncles and grandparents would go crazy with worry. “He’s run away!” “He’s been kidnapped!” They didn’t know my brother. Once he’d made it all the way back home; Daddy Kent thought to check and then smuggled him back to the party, and we pretended that he’d been there all along.

Now that he’s Dead, they leave him at home. Sometimes he comes anyway. I think that’s what grownups call
perverse
. Last week, I asked Mrs. Lincoln at school what
perverse
meant, and her face went all red. She muttered and stuttered, and then the bell rang, so I never found out. I should ask my mommy.

No-one but us ever sees him at those parties. We never know he’s coming along until he surprises us in the car on the way. He enjoys it more now because no-one expects to see him, no- one looks for him, no-one talks to him. He can hide and watch. He can play secret games with me without anyone ever noticing.

~

When he was alive, my brother didn’t play with the other kids in the neighbourhood. Most people, kids and adults both, have a mean streak, and my brother had no defenses against that. The slightest unkind word would shatter him. Once, that jerk Wally Robertson, who’s my age and has been in my class every grade, made fun of my brother’s ears; because of that he refused to come out of the house for a whole month. My brother was only two and half when it happened. He started wearing a hat – a thick woollen tuque with one of those long tassels – and he wouldn’t remove it. Ever. He slept with it on. He took his baths with it.

On his third birthday, he took a deep breath and yanked it off with one pull. He looked in the mirror. “My ears are better now,” he said.

I hugged him and kissed his ears. “You have the best ears.”

The mommies and daddies cheered, and everyone ate cake. Vanilla cake with lime-poppy frosting. It’s been his favourite ever since.

~

I was four years old when Mommy Jenny gave birth to Dead. Only he wasn’t called
Dead
then.

It was Daddy Kent’s turn to be named father. Mommy Tara had flipped a coin when she learned she was pregnant, and Daddy Neal got to be my official father. At home, for real, both the daddies are equally my daddies, and Dead’s daddies.

The mommies and daddies say that the two mommies are equally mommies to both of us, but that isn’t true. Even though they don’t mean to, the birth mommies are more attached to the child they carried. Like that time I cut the back of my head on the edge of a dresser because I’d been jumping up and down on the mommies and daddies’ bed and there was lots of blood everywhere. Mommy Tara held my hand all the way to the hospital. She held it so tight, as if she wanted her skin to meld with mine, the bones of our hands to mesh together, her life to become my life. No-one had ever held my hand like that.

My brother never hurt himself. At least, not physically. When he was three years old, he jumped off the roof and landed on that bush with the pink flowers. The mommies and daddies were furious. They were so scared that they forgot not to get angry like that, especially not at him. They shrieked and screamed and yelled and blamed each other for not keeping a better eye on him. But he didn’t even have a scratch.

The mommies and daddies wanted to bring him to the hospital, in case he’d broken some bones or had some other internal injuries, but he wouldn’t go. He didn’t want doctors and nurses prodding him. He didn’t want to be in that big place full of people he didn’t know and who didn’t care about him. Already, all these tense emotions were too much for him.

“Stop it,” I said, as gently as I could, tugging at their clothes. “You’re hurting him.”

But it was too late. He ran into the house and disappeared. That was the first time. We didn’t see him for a whole week. He’d snatch food without anyone seeing him do it. In the yard, there’d be these spots where the earth had been upturned and then neatly patted down. Daddy Neal dug them up, and, sure enough, there would be my brother’s stinky little turds.

One morning everyone came down to breakfast, and there was my brother, waiting to be served. Mommy Jenny, his mommy, celebrated his return by making blueberry pancakes. We never found out where he’d been hiding. We never asked. We didn’t want him to disappear again.