our family’s list of banned slang; but when I say it, there’s an audible breath of relief from both of my parents.
Then Bronte says, “You and Mom have shared a bed for seventeen years; I don’t think it’ll kill you to share it a little while longer.”
He takes a few moments to chew, and then Dad says, “True.” I can sense no emotion in his response either way.
Bronte, who was so determined to shut everyone else up just a minute ago, is still not done. “I mean, we have a situation, and we should all make the best of it; isn’t that right, Mom?”
“We’ll work things out to the best of our ability,” my mother says. She really should run for Congress.
“Now, you know this isn’t permanent,” Dad reminds us all.
“Yes, sir,” says Brew.
“But we are more than happy to have you here for as long as it takes,” Mom adds.
“Yes, ma’am,” says Brew. No one in memory has ever called my parents sir or ma’am.
“I’m sure they’ll find a more appropriate family who’d be willing to take both of you in.”
“And,” adds Dad, “who aren’t quite as strange as us.”
“Don’t worry,” Brew says, looking over at Bronte with a grin. “I like strange.”
She gives him a playful love-hit, which sends Dad to prickly, uncomfortable places. “The guest room has its own bathroom,” Dad says. “It’s convenient— you’ll never need to go upstairs.”
Bronte drops her fork on her plate for effect. “My God, Dad, why don’t you install motion sensors on the stairs to make sure he doesn’t come up at night?”
“Don’t think we haven’t thought of that, dear,” says Mom in her I-can-be-as-impertinent-as-you voice, and for a moment—just the slightest moment— things feel almost normal.
45) PALPABLE
An hour after dinner, I can hear Mom and Dad in their bedroom discussing Cody-and-Brew-related details.
Their bedroom.
I like the fact that I can say that again. This is the most Mom and Dad have said to each other in weeks. It must be a relief to have someone else’s crisis to take the place of their own. I suppose surrogate stress is a kinder, gentler form of trauma. As I listen to their muffled voices, I feel confident that things will be okay. Brew and Cody have been here for just a couple of hours and already their presence is making a difference. I can only hope that those good feelings stay.
Cody has already taken root in the family room and plays video games. Mom removed all games that remotely suggest violence and death—but Cody’s doing a good job of making harmless cartoon characters suffer in fresh and inventive ways.
“This game sucks,” he says, “but I like it.”
Bronte’s in the spare room, which I guess isn’t spare anymore, talking to Brew in hushed tones. They stop the moment I enter.
“I was just briefing Brew on the state of the union,” Bronte informs me.
“As in the nation?”
“As in our parents.”
“I’m sure he can see it for himself.”
There’s an unrest in Brew’s face that borders on sheer terror, so palpable I can almost feel it like heat from a furnace. It stands in stark contrast to my own growing sense of well-being. I wonder if Bronte sees it too or if she’s just so happy he’s here, she can’t see how it’s affecting him. The question is why? What is he so worried about?
“I’d better go,” Bronte says, “before Dad finds me in here and decides to lock me away in a tower.” She gives Brew a quick kiss and leaves. I don’t think she ever notices just how deep his fear goes.
“Do you think she’s still mad at me for not calling her right away?”
I think about how to best answer him. “She wasn’t mad,” I say. “Just worried.”
“I didn’t mean to worry her.”
I put up my hand to stop him before he launches into an apology. “I’m sure Bronte understands, but she’s a chronic fixer. She freaks out if she’s not allowed to repair a situation.”
“She couldn’t fix this.”
“Actually, she did,” I remind him. “I mean, you’re here, aren’t you?”
Then Brew looks down, nervously picking at his fingernails, and asks the million-dollar question. “Do your parents know about…about the stuff I do?”
I shake my head. “No—and unless they start smacking each other with two-by-fours, I don’t think they’ll find out.”
“But if they get a bad cut, and it suddenly goes away…”
“Let’s hope they don’t,” I tell him.
He unpacks his bag slowly and methodically. “People in school are talking about what happened, aren’t they?”
I know he’s worried about going back to school. I’m about to tell him that there’s no problem; but I don’t want to lie to him, so I just shrug like I have nothing to say.
“They think I killed him, don’t they?”
I can’t escape the question, so I tell him the truth as tactfully as I can. “There are some imbeciles who have come up with their own version of how your uncle died,” I say; “but most people aren’t that stupid. Still, they might be a little standoffish.”
“I’m used to that.” He crosses the room to put some clothes in the dresser, and I notice he’s limping. In fact, he’d been favoring his right foot ever since he arrived. It’s different from the limp he had when he took Bronte’s sprained ankle. I wonder what that’s all about, but I don’t want to ask.
He looks into the open drawer for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. “Tennyson…,” he says, “…I didn’t kill my uncle.” And I can see how desperate he is for me to believe it.
“I never thought you did.”
Yet he doesn’t seem relieved. Maybe that’s because I’m not the one he’s trying to convince. As the conversation is headed toward dangerous rapids, I make a quick course correction.
“So…how were the Gortons?”
“I didn’t like them,” Brew says.
“Yeah, they did seem a bit cold….”
Brew closes the dresser drawer. “No—I mean I couldn’t like them. Because if I did, I’d have osteoporosis, arthritis, varicose veins, and who knows what else.”
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying, then the truth dawns on me. If he had liked them, he’d have ended up taking on all of their infirmities—even the ones he didn’t know about.
“I had to do stuff to make them hate me right away,” Brew says. “Steal things, break things on purpose. It was easier to dislike them if they didn’t like me first.”
“Sort of a preemptive strike,” I say. Only now do I begin to really understand how difficult it must be to carry the weight of his strange ability. He has to live his life in an emotional bubble—never caring—or he’d never survive. It’s a huge deal that he’s let Bronte and me into that bubble. I think back to the very first time he shook my hand— how he hesitated as we stood there in his kitchen. I had no idea what a huge decision he was making at that moment.
“Well, don’t start breaking stuff around here,” I tell him, “or you and I are gonna have to revisit that black eye.”
“I won’t,” he says.
“I mean…you do like our family, right?” He hesitates—just as he did that time he shook my hand. I feel like the fate of the world is resting on his answer, and I don’t know why.
“Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, I do.”
