“My brother?” I asked. I looked past him at the carnage in the intersection. The pickup had literally impaled the old Chrysler, crushing the passenger side. The driver of the pickup had crashed through the windshield and was lying under a sheet twenty-yards down the street. The driver’s side door of the old Chrysler was hanging open. The EMT said they’d used the jaws of life to pry open the door and get me out. A wrecker was hooking to the back of the pickup truck to free it from the side of the Chrysler. There were three other EMT’s and six firemen standing back, waiting so they could pry the dead body of my little brother out of the mangled wreck.
“My brother,” I said again.
“They’re gonna get him,” the EMT said, putting a hand on my shoulder, giving it a pat. “We need to get you to the hospital for some x-rays, make sure you have no internal injuries.”
“I can’t leave him,” I said, trying to stand up. My legs failed me. My head went swimmy. I blacked out.
* * *
The x-rays showed no internal damage. The left side of my body was scraped and bruised from hitting the door. I had minor cuts from flying glass. Somehow, I had come away with fewer injuries than I’d normally sustain from one of my old man’s beatings.
I was just fine.
I could get dressed and leave.
Your shirt was bloody, the nurse said. Here’s a scrub shirt you can wear home.
Your parents are waiting outside.
My brother...
How is my brother…
Goddammit, tell me about my brother…
Your parents are outside.
They’re waiting for you.
They’ll talk to you about your brother.
They didn’t have to tell me that Kenny was dead.
I had seen his crumpled, bloody body inside the car before I passed out.
I put on my jeans and boots and the scrub shirt.
It hurt a little to walk, but I was okay.
I walked down a long sterile hallway.
My parents were in the waiting room.
My mother was sitting in a chair with a handkerchief to her nose. When I walked in she didn’t even look up. I knew what she was thinking. Why him? Why did I live and why did Kenny die? Why couldn’t I been the one? I was thinking the same thing myself.
My father saw me coming.
He got up from the chair and stood watching me with his shoulders hunched and his thick arms at his side and his hands balled into tight fists. His face was red. His eyes were red. He had been crying. I had never seen my father cry. I didn’t know he even had the ability to cry.
As I got closer, I could see his face contorting into a mask of rage and hate. He looked like a mad bull about to charge. I knew what was about to happen. I didn’t care. I put my hands in my pockets to keep them out of his way and headed straight toward him. An easy target. One he knew well.
This time I couldn’t blame him for wanting to beat the hell out of me.
I had killed his beloved son.
I hoped he would take the opportunity to do the same to me.
* * *