I can't relive the details, I’m sorry, but my little brother
Ben had a genetic disorder, which made him increasingly frail with every year,
and doctors agreed - he would probably not see his 15th birthday. At times it was disabling, and he couldn't
get out of bed. Whenever he was sick he
would always expect a full report from me when I returned from wherever. He’d usually get what he asked for.
We lived in the foothills of some beautiful mountains. One
Saturday my friends and I drove up the highest peak as far as we could, then
climbed the rest of the way, to within about 500 feet of the actual stark, rocky
top. We'd planned the trip for a while,
purchased minimal climbing equipment and did our best to try to understand how
to use it. It was a stupid thing for us
to do.
The air at the top of the peak filled our lungs with a
freshness and clarity we had never experienced before. It was a moment to remember for all of our
lives. And when we looked up there from
our mundane lives, we could remember, we could feel the air in our lungs again,
it was always there for us, almost always in full view, eager to provide a special
memory.
After making Ben swear to silence, I shared the story of
that Saturday with him. He had a million
questions - I could see his little brain working, just trying to get to that
point where he could actually feel it for himself.
It started as asking.
He never asked much of me, but he wanted me to give him this one thing,
to take him to Monarch Peak. He was
persistent. He had just come off of a
bad bout of illness and was back to his normal self. He knew it was a good time to strike, so he
begged me to give him this one thing, while he could still appreciate it.
We looked out over the valley below. I tried to help him locate our subdivision,
way down there. It had taken us hours to
get here. Ben did it all beside me, more
nimble than some of my friends. No, my
parents didn't know, but it was a gift I had to give him. We had grins so broad that I'm sure they could
have seen us from the valley!
The cool fall breeze carried a gust of winter, and 60
seconds of snow swirled around the two of us – just for us. It felt great. Then he was gone.
His foot hit a slippery rock and he fell. He fell badly, and rolled. I could see his pain in his eyes, which
briefly caught mine, but he was silent. He was silent! He rolled and he bounced and his body
disappeared over the edge of the cliff-like side of the bluff where we stood.
Why didn’t he scream?
I stood there, watching the sun being pulled closer to the
horizon. I didn’t care. There was no right thing to do. I had to tell my parents that I killed their
son. Some things can't be undone; some
things you have to live with forever. Just
being there reminds them every day that the son they loved so much was dead
because of me.
I wrapped my cell phone in my hat, dropped it off the peak,
and watched it fall down in his general direction. I knew that the GPS chip in it would help me
at least get close to where his body should be, once I got back to the car and
fired up my laptop. I decided to tell no
one, but to first find him. It was a
selfish thing. My own tears would come
first, because the tears that followed that evening, I knew, would sting very
much more. I wasn’t wrong. It would have been easier if I’d just killed
my parents. Instead I brought them much
greater pain.
As I searched for his crushed body, I convinced myself that
his silence meant something. The poor kid just couldn’t take any more of this
disease and found a way to make it stop. If I could just get home, there would be a
note, explaining it all. It would make
it all different.
There was no note.
Late at night when I hear my mother sniffle, sitting by
herself in the living room with the TV off, and everyone else is in bed, in our
new house far from any hills, I can feel that mountain. It tugs on me, to take that trip one more
time, to follow those footsteps one last time.
Ben’s footsteps.
#
The therapist broke his long silence.
“You’ve been seeing me for almost a year, Jake, and where
have we gotten?” he asked. “You keep
telling me the same story and only that story, from every angle. You always get to the same point. If you are trying to describe guilt that
leads to suicide, I doubt that many would contemplate suicide seriously for a
whole year.”
Jake shrugged.
“So you loved your brother but you’ve never talked about how
his illness was painful to you. Was it
hard to watch him suffer?” he asked.
“I would have done anything to take it away,” Jake said.
“So you’re finally going to say something new to me? Tell me,” he said with a deadly serious look
on his face.
“I’m not sure,” Jake said.
“Did … did I … did I push him?”
“I don’t know, did you?”
“Did I?” Jake asked, astonished. “I must have.
I know he was gone, I don’t remember enough details. Did I do this all
for him?”
“Jake,” he said, moving closer, “are you telling me you
killed your brother?”
“I think I am. It’s
all a blur, but it explains so much. I
must have. It all fits. Oh, God, what did I do?” Jake broke down and
the tears started to flow. His body
convulsed. He slid out of the chair onto
the floor and turned, kneeling, burying his face in the seat.
“Now what?” Jake sobbed.
“Now we finish out our hour,” the doctor said, coldly. “It’s been awhile now, Jake, that I’ve asked
you to talk to your parents about Ben, to find out how they feel. I’m still waiting. Either you never talked to them, or you just
won’t tell me what your parents have said to you. It’s time for you to tell me what’s going on
with you and them.”
“Now?” Jake asked, shocked at his change of topic. “Doctor, the truth is, my parents are
dead. It was always just Ben and I. I had to take care of him. I was only a teenager, I didn’t know what I
was doing.”
“Jake, I’ve talked to your parents,” he said. “They’re not dead.”
“Well, doctor,” Jake sighed, “truth is there was no
Ben. I guess I’m, what do they call it,
a habitual liar?”
“We’ll make this your last appointment, Jake. I think we’re both done for now,” he said, as
he got up and opened his door.
Jake hung my head and started to walk out. “But can you tell me what the truth is,
doctor. Can you tell me?”
“Yes I could,” he said.
#
After the psychiatrist's last
comment, with his hand on the door knob and Jake’s body half way out the door, they
both stopped and high-fived each other. They turned to the class and
accepted their enthusiastic applause.
The professor stood up and
looked at the class. "OK, folks," he said,
"comments?"
He pointed to the first hand.
"They did a really nice
job, very plausible, very realistic. Unfortunately it was a monologue.
Jake talked the whole time. The assignment was for an engaging
dialogue. Since this is an acting class, I think Jake can be pretty good, but
we really need to see more of, uh, the guy who played the shrink before we can
evaluate him. I'm sorry, what's your name?"
The fake psychiatrist said,
"Ben, my name's Ben."
The professor jotted down
some notes in his book. It was a creative line, improvised on the spot.
He'd done an interesting thing in just a few words. Apparently only the
professor in this new class knew that his real name was Joseph.
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