I Had a Brother Once Read online

  tell me. we are a family

  conditioned to believe

  depression is something

  you live with, as ben did,

  as philip did, as marion did,

  as j & i & a do, &

  not something that kills you,

  but we were wrong. the

  not telling me is gnarled,

  leaves me both furious

  & grateful, & ashamed

  to be either. it closes one

  set of parentheses & opens

  another, tenders me an alibi

  & lets a myth of thwarted

  salvation take furtive root.

  by now my father was telling

  me that i should not be driving

  in this condition & i was

  promising not to as i merged

  onto the highway, on my way

  home, where i knew i would

  have to wake up v & break

  the news, the world.

  that final moment is what i

  dwell on most. he is sitting

  in his subaru, overlooking

  nothing, the ass end of

  a parking lot, those fucking

  chemicals lying in his lap,

  knowing he is one breath

  away, that he could end it

  all right now, though any

  of us could, really, it is

  always right now, there are

  always heights & cars, things

  to fling yourself off or in

  front of, there is always

  a drawer full of knives.

  i imagine he is crying, but

  that is only because i would be.

  perhaps he is laughing, or

  luxuriating in the sudden

  vivid crispness of the world,

  the miraculous dispersal of

  cumulonimbus formations

  in a southwesterly wind, &

  feeling free at last, or

  just as likely he is stone

  faced with determination, so

  close, just one final push.

  perhaps the act was a ritual,

  a series of gestures rehearsed

  & enacted with faithful,

  reverent precision, the

  implements delicate in his

  large hands like eyedroppers,

  carrot peelers. it is all

  unfathomable. i cannot

  place myself in him. i’m

  throwing clichés at the wall.

  they say a velvet calm descends

  when people have decided,

  gathered their supplies, chosen

  a place, an hour. their moods

  lighten & their loved ones think

  they’ve turned a corner, which

  they have. a different corner.

  but in my head that’s where

  he always is, sitting in his car

  with me screaming don’t do it

  from the back seat like some

  spirit cursed to be unheard.

  & my mother’s mother’s

  father’s parents, the famous

  rabbis’ kids, the minyan-makers

  of burlington vermont, they

  squat atop the glass floor

  of the distant beyond, shaking

  their great woolly heads &

  asking why of all things

  did it have to be gas.

  the last face i made

  a mirror of that night

  was just a glimpse,

  a woman in her stoplit car

  as i jaywalked my own

  busy street, heedless of

  traffic. i knifed past &

  she gave me the look you

  give the deranged, the

  drugged husks, when they

  lope too close, an involuntary

  response to a musk of misery

  so abject & raw that it screams

  danger, anything could happen.

  i fumbled open the front

  door of the crumbling

  carriage house & began

  climbing the stairs to the

  second floor. i have no idea

  what banshee sounds i was

  making as i walked but

  the noise was deliberate. i

  dreaded waking v, dreaded

  saying the words, & this

  would at least serve as

  a kind of warning, would

  flush her from the bedroom

  we shared with our daughter.

  she woke & flew out onto

  the landing in a panic, what,

  what’s wrong, & i said it,

  my brother killed himself,

  & it became somehow

  even more true.

  we collapsed together

  on a rug, first wailing &

  then crying in many different

  ways, i don’t know the names

  for all of them or if they all

  have names. in between,

  we flailed at comprehension,

  probed weakly at how

  everything was different now.

  at some point soon before

  my body shut down & i slept,

  a thought came that felt true,

  or maybe it seemed precious

  for being the only thought left,

  a single green shoot growing

  in a razed & barren field,

  so i said it: we have to have

  another baby. if anything

  could save my parents, it

  would be that. it turned out

  to be sort of true, as true as

  something like that can be,

  but not for years & not with

  her & not at all.

  emery drove me to the airport

  in the morning. v did not come

  to boston, did not want little

  vivien to see everyone she loved

  hysterical with grief, did not

  believe you should lean on

  your children in that way,

  told me it was not a three

  year old’s job to comfort

  anyone, or everyone. i

  did not agree, did not think

  i could get through this

  without her, my daughter

  i mean, but i had to go,

  i had to go right now.

  on the curb, emery asked

  if he could pray for me &

  i said yes & meant it. he

  grabbed both my shoulders,

  bowed his head. it began

  heavenly father. i’d never heard

  anyone make up a prayer

  before; in judaism that is called

  forgetting the words. the way

  he asked the lord to give me

  strength was so earnest &

  so fierce, so pure, it felt like

  the opposite of everything

  i’d ever known, his faith

  a suit cut from a single bolt

  of sheer white linen &

  my outfit a ragpicker’s

  patchwork sewn by

  cantankerous & ancient

  men. laz picked me up

  on the other side & i

  rolled down the window

  & keened into the highway

  wind, maybe hoping to empty
/>
  myself & greet my parents

  before filling up again.

  laz & i met when we were

  vivien’s age, a pair of toddlers

  named adam with baby brothers

  named david, & from nursery

  school through twelfth grade

  we were adam l & adam m,

  david l & david m. his family

  kept the sabbath & turned

  off the ringer at eight thirty

  every night & said i love you

  to each other all the fucking

  time, & in these ways they were

  not just our döppelgangers

  but our superiors. laz had been

  at my grandfather’s funeral nine

  months earlier, had watched

  beside me as the simple pine

  box with the star of david

  singed into the sides descended

  by degrees into a dark pit

  fresh cut from the loam &

  the entire purpose of this

  oldest & most universal

  ritual revealed its purpose,

  which was not providing

  succor through the return

  of the beloved to the earth

  from whence, but jolting any

  fool lingering outside the basest

  & most desperate grief back

  to his senses, exploding

  the benedictions, setting

  the eulogies aflame, burning

  off the contemplation of

  the ineffable by showing him,

  showing me, that this was it,

  this was death, the box

  with the corpse inside

  disappears & the ground

  closes above it, &

  no matter how long you

  stand there nothing else is

  going to happen. laz &

  my brother & i tore off

  our suits right afterward,

  put on our other suits &

  went bodysurfing as the storm

  swept in, the rain dartlike &

  the waves gray & wind-slanted,

  disordered, crashing over

  our heads & sweeping our

  legs out from beneath us

  with relentless truculence,

  the way they had when we

  were kids & a current of

  real danger underlay each

  mission into the shallows,

  each of us trying to be the last

  to walk out of the water &

  david, as always, with the most

  stamina, the warmest blood.

  i had spoken at the service

  & david had listened. i had

  assumed i spoke for him, that

  it was my role to write & speak

  on behalf of our generation

  when the aged died, but now

  it was impossible to know

  what he’d been thinking.

  had he waited for ben to go,

  the way michael waits until

  after their mother’s funeral

  to kill fredo? it seemed to

  make sense, felt obscurely

  impossible that david could

  die while ben still lived,

  but then so was all of this.

  surely i was not caterwauling

  in the shotgun seat of my

  oldest friend’s dad’s car

  while my broad-shouldered

  younger brother, who’d

  scored a perfect sixteen

  hundred on his s.a.t. &

  graduated his ph.d.

  program with honors, who

  had a wife & a new job &

  could stand indefinitely on

  his hands & wore shorts to

  all but the most somber

  occasions & spent high

  school listening to his

  weather radio, stormchasing

  nor’easters up & down

  the coast of new england,

  paddling out to meet the curl

  in a piss-warmed wetsuit,

  shoveling down rice & beans

  in his car after with the radiator

  blasting & any intrepid fellow

  traveler he might have convinced

  to join him half-dead of muscle

  fatigue & hypothermia, lay

  waiting to be identified, eyes

  passed over his body one

  last time, a task that would

  fall to our father, who reported

  afterward, in a voice soft &

  without bass, only that

  he looked like dave.

  my brother would have

  turned forty tomorrow.

  i think about his kids

  sometimes, who they

  would have been, whether

  having them might have

  kept him alive. i think

  about ayahuasca, the miracle

  entheogenic brain rewiring

  depression cure the shamans mix

  & serve, how instead

  of flying to peru to try it

  he did nothing of the sort,

  just kept on working, sat

  at his desk the day before

  he sat in that parking lot,

  made no changes, marched

  straight toward the camp when

  about-facing or stopping cold

  or jagging left would have cost

  my brother what? nothing costs

  anything if you don’t intend

  to live long enough to pay

  your debts. why not go back

  to guatemala & surf? but

  this is not how a depressed

  person thinks. i am imposing

  dei ex machina, dumping

  out my sack of narrative on

  the floor, examining this from

  the perspective of someone

  who wants to be alive.

  imagine a house full of people

  & nobody leaves. for days,

  at any given time at least

  half are in hysterics &

  sometimes all of them at

  once. the sobs & wails

  & nose blowings are

  interspersed with wan

  or ravenous grazing

  of the table covered

  in food, whatever has

  been brought or sent for,

  & conversations that all circle

  the drain. my mother slept

  on the couch in the den

  & when she bedded down

  the mourners left. she asked

  me if i was depressed, had

  ever been depressed.

  i said no & she burst into

  fresh tears, asked but

  what if you’re lying? &

  why not? what if everyone

  is harboring a secret wish

  to die? who will betray us

  next? it was like the way i

  could not look up at new

  york city skyscrapers after

  the attacks without expecting

  to see planes fly into them.

  we were sitting shiva but

  did not know how. instead

  of covering the mirrors we

  became them.

  the only time no one cried

  was at t
he funeral, we set up

  chairs in the living room

  & david’s wife’s priest spoke.

  no one else. that fucking

  weirdo was no emery.

  at a time when every artifact

  & sentence was drenched

  with meaning, when everything

  & everyone seemed like

  a secret & the effort of

  parsing it all made my eyes

  burn with fatigue, his words

  alone meant nothing, fell

  from his mouth like brittle

  leaves, & turned to powder

  when they hit the floor.

  i wore a suit & no shoes,

  & wondered if my brother’s

  wife, widow, believed he was

  in hell, where her church holds

  that the soul spends eternity if

  you rob god of his right to

  kill you. the rest of us

  sat there hoping this was

  doing her some good, waiting

  for it to end, my father so

  scornful of religion he can

  hardly bear to enter his own

  people’s house of worship

  for a wedding or bar mitzvah,

  & somehow a catholic

  priest is telling him about

  his son in his own living

  room. but he was docile.

  what was this to object to?

  i slept in the basement

  that night, tried to force

  myself to watch a movie,

  turned on a lighthearted

  time travel comedy that

  just so happens to open

  with a wacky suicide.

  my cousin matthew & i

  drove to david’s apartment

  the next morning to retrieve &

  dispose of things. we wandered

  the rooms, read refrigerator

  notes, stared at the wedding

  photos on the mantel, the

  vacation snapshots in their

  glass & wooden boxes

  by the bed until david’s

  expression curdled right

  in front of us, his eyes

  no longer looking at the

  camera but some point

  beyond, the passage

  of time visible in the

  deepening hollows of

  his cheeks. everything

  we’d missed was right

  in front of us. david was

  thinking about dying inside

  every frame, & his wife’s

  assiduous documentation

  of their history was a plea,

  a reminder, an attempt to

  make the life they lived

  together real. get him to

  see it. we logged on to

  his computer, found the email