Noology (8 page)

“So, what do you think of Amy?”

“Who?” Confusion clouds his face as he
tries to place a face to the name.

“Rian’s girlfriend.”

“Oh. Um, I don’t really know her. I mean
I’ve met her once. She seems nice.”

“Oh, please. Nice is just a weak
placeholder to avoid saying how you actually feel about a person. C’mon.”

He smiles reluctantly, “Well, she is a
little stuck up.”

“If she was any more stuck up, the stick
would actually show up in her mouth!” We giggle at this ridiculous image,
stopping to wipe tears as they stream from our eyes. After a few long minutes,
I compose myself and regain my erect posture.

“I am glad that Rian is happy and all,
but she is a piece of work,” I offer. “He’s so kind and bubbly, and she’s
proper and conceited. And her eyes are the color of mud. She’s smart, though.
He could really go places and achieve security with her.”

“She could be worse. I mean he could be
settling for a sarcastic dreamer with an obsession with sairns.”

“Shut up, you prick,” I yelp, punching
Tate’s arm with brute force as I recognize the implicit reference to myself. He
smirks, visibly glad that his jibe was able to infuriate me even slightly.

“He’s thinking of proposing,” I reveal.

“Really?” Tate exclaims. “It’s funny; I
just can’t picture Rian as a family man. The whole wife and kids thing seems so…
drab.”

I am puzzled by this response. Marriage
is just an accepted way of life; always has been in human society.

“So you would rather be alone all your
life?” I probe, kicking a stray pebble across the path.

“No. I just don’t know that I am ready
for marriage. We are still in school, and for now my priority has to be my
education and achieving a distinguished title.”

I process this information, and continue
dragging my feet along the floor littered with crunchy autumn leaves.

“I guess I respect that. But I want the
dream someday. A partner to stand by me through thick and thin. Children to
inspire to greatness. It just sounds so… comforting.”

           
Tate
spends a moment in silent contemplation before replying, “I’ve seen the ‘dream’
evolve into a nightmare before my own eyes. I don’t want to risk that happening
to me. If my spouse became a monster, or even worse if I did… I don’t even want
to think.”

           
I
can see the pain tainting his face: his lower lip quivering, eyes damp with
suppressed tears, a nervous hand running over his scalp. He has been through so
much with his father, and I don’t even know the half of it. Tate is careful to
keep his private life under wraps and emit a lighthearted cheerfulness in
public, thus containing the truth within a heavy heart and obscuring it from
view.

I reach for his hand, but he swivels away
from me, flinching. He briskly swipes his eyes and pastes a numb smile on his
face that fails to reach his sorrowful emerald eyes.

“Anyways, to be named after the amygdala
in homage to your intelligence; it’s a little strange and a true marker of
arrogance, at least on her parent’s part,” Tate blurts. We are back to
discussing Amy, as if the last few minutes never occurred.

“She’ll be there this week, so we can
collect more evidence to support our opinions. Ultimately, I just want her to
take care of Rian. If he is happy, I will learn to be too.”

We continue in awkward silence, both of
us considering the conversation that transpired moments before. I wish Tate would
let me in, because I know the task of bottling his emotions and repressing his
memories burdens him dearly. I cannot forget the tortured expression flickering
across his face as he momentarily lost control. I want to help him, but I must
not corner him and force the confessions from his lips; he needs to initiate
the discussion. As my concerns deepen, I am powerless to relieve them since I
know I must wait patiently for him to readily talk to me in confidence.
 
 

As my body begins to wail, listing its
objections to the strenuous exercise, we finally come to the field of steel
windmills seated at the edge of the suburbs. The enormous fans pulse in time
with the bursts of howling wind, and the familiar repetitive hum relaxes my
frantic mind. We are within a mile of my home now, and the sun is still loftily
positioned, though it is descending rapidly into oblivion.

“I love the sound of the mills,” Tate
reminisces. “It’s so tranquil. And steady. Unaffected by the fluctuations of
life.”

I glance at his closed eyes as his face
loosens into a contented smile of pure ecstasy.

“Things would be easier if it we just had
to follow a prescribed plan: harness the wind. No cutthroat competition, no
exams, no crippling judgments. Just executing God’s will; the function he
molded us for.”

Sorrow rises in my chest as I listen to
his musings, tinged by the arduous experiences of his schooling. I identify
with his pain and his hope for a brighter future, but reason quells this naïve
faith.

I stroke his arm with the tips of my
fingers to convey my appreciation for his disclosure. We both know that there
is nothing I can say to bring this vision into fruition, and must savor the
ephemeral dream instead.

We enter the residential complex for tier
two doctors and their children, strolling down a pitch-black street of
crackling pavement with identical houses lining the sides. Originally, these
homes were constructed as carbon copies of one another, however, time has
ravaged some more than others. To our right, a rumpled husk of stucco and
timber lays splayed out in the amber glow of setting sun. I wonder what this tangle
of concrete and wood looked like in its prime. Perhaps a respectable merchant
slept here. Or maybe an army wife missing her husband. Or even a single parent
saving every penny to provide for his offspring.

As the street tapers to a round tip, I
identify the sallow yellow abode I was raised in. Unruly ivy branches climb the
outer walls, and multicolored rose bushes shroud part of the fractured stone
walkway. Finally standing on the limp welcome mat, I capture one last deep
breath before rapping firmly on the quaint maple door. I hear footsteps rapidly
approaching on the other side, and calmly anticipate the extravagant greetings
of my family members. The lock disengages, and the door swings violently
inward.
    

“Avey, my precious baby!” my mother coos
as she smothers me in a crushing embrace. “I’ve missed you so much! How is
everything? How is school? Are you eating right?”

“Easy mom,” I reprimand. “I have only
been here a minute! It’s been a long day. I can fill you in on everything
later.”

As I struggle against her iron grip to
release myself, she gives me three quick pecks on the forehead before turning
her attention to another victim.

“And Tate. How come you don’t visit more
often? You are like the perfect son I never had.” She snags him in a warm hug,
and I hear a yelp of protest from within the house.

“What’s all this about the perfect son
you never had? You are looking at him!”

“Rian!” I exclaim, tackling my oaf of a
brother. Our reunions never become more composed, but rather seem to have
become even more dramatic over time. You would think we hadn’t seen each other
in years from the exaggerated display of emotion.

He chuckles as he ruffles my hair and
plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “Hey, squirt. What’s up?”

“Not much,” I reply. “Just kicking your
butt in my midterms.” Of course this remark is entirely false since Rian scored
near perfect on every exam before he ascended.

“Yeah right,” he sneers in response. I
glance behind him and see Amy huddled awkwardly in the corner. She is obviously
unsure of how to react to such blatant displays of emotion and physical
proximity. I decide to extend an olive branch to my potential sister-in-law.

“Hey Amy. I love your sweater. It really
brings out the warmth in your eyes. Is it wool?”

“Actually, it is cashmere,” she primly
replies. Amy never uses contractions in her speech; it’s too colloquial in her
opinion. She delicately folds her hands front of her, and begins to rock back
and forth on her toes.

“I wish I had something that elegant,” I
respond with a touch of insincere longing in my voice. In reality, I couldn’t
care less about the clothes I wear as long as they protect me from the elements.
Function before form.

“Can I feel it?” I request.

“Sure… Here,” she offers her sleeve as if
I am a ravenous dog about to chew her arm off. I gingerly rub the cashmere
between my index finger and thumb, nodding in appreciation of its rich
silkiness.

“Wow, it’s so soft!” I cry.

“Yes. It is,” Amy concedes. Rian looks at
me with thinly veiled gratitude and mouths a silent “thank you”. He knows it is
hard for me to include Amy in our conversations since we have such different
priorities.

My mother animatedly gestures to the
group, declaring, “Let’s all come inside. Avey and Tate, you must be tuckered
out. Why don’t you go upstairs and get changed for dinner?”

I take off up the spiral staircase,
caressing the wooden banister with my left hand as I go. Tate follows, nipping
at my heels. We reach the open landing at the top of the stairs and turn right,
heading towards the end of the hall. As we reach the far wall, we pivot and
thrust open the final door on the left with a resounding creak. My eyes survey
the familiar room, sweeping over the sagging bureau and humble bunk beds
adorned with bare cotton sheets. I remember the bed as an avant-garde
architectural feat, towering over my prepubescent body. Now it appears as a
rickety frame bearing modest linens draped over lumpy mattresses. Tate and I
spent so many sleepless nights discussing our hopes and dreams on this shabby
scaffolding after he ran away from his troubled home, seeking refuge with a
friend. My parents never turned him away, and his mother never worried about
his whereabouts since she was plagued by more taxing problems and she knew he
was safe with us.

“Dibs on top bunk,” he insists, bounding
across the matted carpet and leaping onto the upper mattress.

“Hey, no fair. You always got it when we
were little. When’s my turn?” I stick out my bottom lip in a melancholy pout.

“Really I am just being a gentleman. I
mean, we wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself scrambling up and down the
ladder. Besides, you’ll get a better night’s sleep down below without having to
worry about unconsciously sliding off the bunk onto the floor.”

“No, I just have to worry about being
crushed if this decrepit piece of crap snaps in the middle of the night. There
is no way it can support all of this… bulk,” I profess, brashly prodding Tate’s
stomach with my index finger.

“Hey! Knock it off,” he grunts in
irritation. “Okay, tell you what. I will Duel you for it.”

“You are on!” Duel is a game played
predominantly by children and junior high schoolers as they develop their
working knowledge of the medical field. Players alternate saying technical
medical terms they think the other one doesn’t know how to define. The second
player must provide a precise explanation for the term; otherwise he is stumped
and loses the game. If at any time the second player believes the questioner
does not know how to define the term they produce, the second player can
challenge. The first player must prove he can describe the word or he forfeits.
  

“I’ll start: antiemetic,” Tate quizzes.

I yawn, feigning boredom. “A
pharmaceutical that can stop vomiting and queasiness. What about alopecia?”

“Very funny. Hair loss,” Tate succinctly
answers. “Hm… pruritic.”

“Itchy. You are going to have to try
harder than that! Vasculitis.”

“Inflammation
of the blood vessels. Let me think of a good one…”

“Tate, you have ten seconds. Ten, nine,
eight…”

“I am thinking!”

“Six, five, four, three, two..”

“Okay. Fulminant.”

“I know this… it’s on the tip of my
tongue.”

“You have ten seconds Avelyn,” he chides
in a ridiculously exaggerated impersonation.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist! It’s,
um, a … abnormally brutal form of a particular disease!” I raise my hands in
triumph, and release a peal of laughter. Settling down again, I craft my next
question. “Grave’s disease.”

“I challenge that,” Tate counters.

Great, I forgot I can’t just mention
words I’ve heard once or twice and have only a vague understanding of. Here
goes nothing.

“Well, it’s kind of like when your heart
starts racing, and you can’t breath properly. You sweat profusely, and stare
off into space with a vacant expression.” I smile weakly in an attempt to win
bonus points for effort.

“Oh, so close, but I think you just
described being in love,” he smugly responds. “You got the symptoms, but
Grave’s disease is hyperthyroidism.”