“Sarah,” knocks my father, “Sarah.” I had just turned the water off, damp blue towel hanging in front of me.
“Yeah?” I reply, alarmed. He was supposed to be asleep by now.
“Your brother’s at Adam’s house.”
“What?” I can’t understand him.
“Your brother’s at Adam’s house,” he repeats, and I am somewhat relieved but refrain from saying anything along the lines of ‘I told you so’.
“I’m going to get him,” announces my father.
Five minutes later I’m washing dishes, pajama’d up, Dad’s letting me known Dean’s stoned out of his mind and slept on the streets last night. Dad apparently told Adam, my brothers ‘best bro’, that Dean had a warrant out [in reality it was a runaway report in the SDPD system, and is that even the same thing?]. And Adam called my cell, but I was in the shower, rested from eating my favorite meal and watching Iron Man with my father.
“Your brother’s mentally ill,” says my father by the front door. He’s about to leave and pick the runaway up, something he’s had the pleasure of doing several times. I can’t help it, I snap.
“Poor Dean,” I reply in a voice that isn’t supposed to be heard, but is, because I feel nothing for my brother.
Dad’s face makes me wish I hadn’t said anything. He’s tired, his eyes are red—had he been crying?—and he goes on how I’m his sister.
“I am his sister,” I say, not looking at my father’s face. “I’m not his mother. He’s a mentally ill drug abuser with PTSD."
I don’t hesitate in what I say next.
“He’s just going to do it again. He always does.”
Dad leaves, I place the dishes in the sink to soak. I should probably do them before he gets back, but no, I hopped onto my laptop, checked Facebook, then starting writing on my stupid fucking blog that no one reads just so I don’t sit and think. Think. I don’t want to anymore.
And now my eyes are watering. I need to go do the dishes now. Keep busy, keep busy.
What I learned: I will always love my brother, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him or be in his life.
Music: Angels on the Moon by Thriving Ivory
Dean will be home soon. He will be high. He will have a long talk with my father on the ride back, and won’t want to talk to me. He will go to bed and might say goodbye to me tomorrow, before I leave. Maybe my Dad will make him go to the airport with us. But, I know he will definitely have nothing to say to me, he won’t be able to look me in the eyes. Good thing too, because for once, I have nothing to say to him.
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