So I just tell people my brother has disabilities—and leave it at that.
Then I brace myself for one of the inevitable responses that I get every time. They’re so familiar, I can recite them like the Pledge of Allegiance.
There’s always the “Oh, what a gift to your family!” or “I’m sure he’s taught you all so much.” As if my brother is some prop for our own self-development. Yeah, growing up with him is hard. But his function in life isn’t to teach us something. He’s a human being, and this is his life, happening right now.
Anyway, people usually only say stuff like that when my brother is sitting quietly, rolling his head around and singing one of his favorite Dream Zone songs to himself. No one spews any of those inspirational Hallmark-card lines when he’s running through the grocery aisles screaming because they don’t have the brand of chocolate milk he likes, or flipping off the cars at the end of our cul-de-sac because they canceled his favorite show. No, they just avert their eyes or, worse, shake their heads disapprovingly at Mom. That’s the second type of response.
But the third type of response, even worse than the look-on-the-bright-side mess that people try to dish out when they have no idea what they’re talking about, is the pity-filled “I’m so sorry.” Like we’ve suffered some tremendous loss. Like someone has died. I hate when people say that, because as difficult as life is with Miles sometimes, he’s not dead. He’s very much alive. And I don’t like people insinuating that his life is somehow not enough, that I should be mourning the joyful, hilarious, and yeah, kinda annoying brother I was given. He is exactly who we want.
I gave my usual explanation today, and I was expecting one of the usual responses.
But Hawaiian Shirt Sam surprised me. He just said, “Hello.”
Later, we’re sitting down for family dinner.
Family dinner is not something that happens every night, and that’s why it’s called family dinner instead of just, well, dinner.
The evenings are busy in our family. Dad works late a few nights a week at the shipping company where he’s general manager, so he sometimes grabs drive-thru on the way home. And Miles always has so many appointments—with an occupational therapist, ENT, behavior specialist, psychiatrist, and whoever else he needs to see this week—so he and Mom end up snacking in waiting rooms or popping in a frozen pizza when they get home. Back in Roseville, I was left to my own devices for most dinners, so I usually ended up at Caroline’s house, eating plates of rice and meat that Lola would constantly refill, insisting I was getting too skinny.
Things haven’t changed much with the move. Everyone’s still busy. I just eat a lot more cereal now.
“You should have seen his face,” Miles says, shoveling a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth. Dad cuts up the noodles to make it easier for him. “He was so mad. He was flinging the pizza around and yelling about how he had to pay for it! Tessie should have recorded it, so we could put it on YouTube.”
Miles told my parents as soon as they got home. He always does, out of guilt. But as usual, his contrition soon turned to pride, and even though it’s hours later, he’s still talking about his conquest.
“You didn’t even see his face!” I say.
“Yes, I did. I was there the whole time. He was maaaaaad! Almost as mad as that old lady!” His head starts to roll, and his arms shoot back behind him, like a bird trying to take flight. I love how he shows his feelings with his whole body, no need for interpreting or second-guessing.
“Oh, okay,” I say, giving him the side-eye, which sets off his laughter.
“Do you think I should check in with Audrey too? To make sure she’s not upset with us? We had such a nice chat about you and her son going to Chrysalis last week, and now this,” Mom says. Her thin eyebrows are pinched together, and she’s looking past us in the direction of Hawaiian Shirt Sam’s house across the street, as if she could send them an apology with her mind. “I already said I’m sorry to Mrs. Hutchinson about a thousand times, but lord knows that’s going to take a while to smooth over. First the tree situation, and now this.” Mom puts her hand up to her forehead and closes her eyes. “I just . . . I really wish you had been watching him better, Tessa.”
And there it is.
“It wasn’t that big of a deal, Mom. I handled it.” I focus on pushing the spaghetti around on my plate so she can’t see me roll my eyes.
“I know.” Just like that, her voice is soft now, a switch flipped, and she reaches across the table to grab my hand. “You do a lot for us. I’m sorry if I don’t say it enough.”
My mom and I are nothing alike. She’s all sharp angles, with pale, freckled skin and wavy blond hair that falls down perfectly on her shoulders as soon as she wakes up. I have hips and thighs that make me want to hide sometimes. And my tight curls look good eventually, but it’s basically a part-time job to get them there. She talks to everyone and seems to thrive on these conversations, and most social interactions drain me. I’m perfectly content sitting in silence.
But one thing we have in common is that we obsess over everything we say, anxiously analyzing how our words might have been interpreted or affected someone. I can only imagine how exhausting this must be for her. I avoid talking to others simply because of it. I can see that now in her cloudy blue eyes, as she squeezes my hand one more time and gives me an apologetic smile.
“Maybe we should get rid of the house phone,” she says. “One less thing for us all to worry about.”
Dad, who has been studying emails on his phone for most of dinner, looks up. “We can’t do that. What if there was an emergency?”
“I didn’t use the house phone,” Miles cackles. “I got Tessie’s cell phone when she was pooping! She was pooping so long! Maybe you should just get your poop under control, Tessie.”
I smack his arm, and he yelps in between giggles, trying to smack me back.
“Hey, hey,” Dad warns, but there’s a wide smile on his face. His phone’s screen is dark now.
I jump up from the table and Miles follows, but I lap him and give him a noogie before pulling him into a hug, his laughter shaking both of us. Our golden brown skin doesn’t match Mom’s fair tone or Dad’s deep brown, but we’re the same.
My brother’s disabilities are everything sometimes, but they’re also nothing. Our relationship isn’t remarkable or inspiring, like people expect. He’s just my brother, and I’m just his sister. And my favorite memories with him—dressing up in my parents’ clothes and pretending to be the new neighbors, walking down the street to get ice cream from Rite Aid—have nothing to do with what everyone else focuses on.
“So did you and Sam get to talk about Chrysalis?” Mom asks when we settle back down.
“Not really.”
“He seems like such a nice boy,” she continues. “And he’s going to be a junior too! You guys could be buddies! Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” Don’t get me wrong. Sam seems nice—really nice. The way he handled the pizza and treated Miles was different than what I’m used to and . . . intriguing. But I’m not sure he’s the type I want to link up with on the first day. It’s not like I’m judging him for his fashion choices, but the students at Chrysalis definitely will. Also, after seeing me as a flustered mess earlier, he’s probably not so excited to hang out with me either.