Secret Brother Read online

  “Oh, that’s the psychiatrist,” she said. “Her name is Dr. Patrick. They were very excited because the boy was speaking a little.”

  I was disappointed. “Really? What did he say?” On the other hand, maybe he was finally revealing his family name, and they could contact the police and get him home.

  “He wasn’t answering much about himself, but he was expressing how happy he was to be here.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” I said. “Look what he’s been given.”

  “You don’t want to sound uncharitable, Clara Sue. He’s a helpless soul.”

  “Maybe we all are,” I muttered, and she gave me one of her schoolteacher disapproving glances that could probably stop a charging bull in its tracks. “I’ll get up for lunch.”

  “Mrs. Camden will be happy to hear it. She thought it was nothing more than an upset stomach.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, and paused. “‘Mrs.’? I don’t remember Grandpa saying she was married. How can she be married and live here, anyway? What about her husband?”

  “Her husband passed away a little more than three years ago. She said he was a severe diabetic, and that led to other complications.”

  “What about her children?”

  “They never had any. She’s really a very nice lady besides being a very good nurse,” Myra said. “Your grandfather hired her to do a job, and that’s what she’ll do.”

  In other words, I shouldn’t take my unhappiness out on her, I thought. That’s what Myra was saying. I grunted and drank a little more tea. Dorian Camden had been right, of course. I was making myself sick, and who benefited from that? Not me.

  “Please tell My Faith that I’ve been thinking about her scrambled mushy eggs,” I told her.

  She smiled. “Good.”

  “Is that Dr. Patrick still here?” I asked. I was thinking that I’d like to ask her some questions and maybe get at the truth.

  “No, she just left, but your grandfather is coming home.”

  “You told him I was sick?”

  For a moment, she looked confused or afraid to reply. She shook her head. “No. I didn’t speak with him. He called to let Jimmy know he was bringing a contractor to do some work. He’s arranging for a wheelchair for the little boy,” she told me. “Mrs. Camden thinks they should be able to get him up and into it in a day or so.”

  “What did you mean by ‘some work’?”

  “Your grandfather is thinking about making some changes in the house to accommodate him,” she replied.

  “What sort of changes?”

  “I don’t know yet, Clara Sue. Changes. I’ll tell My Faith you’re coming down, then,” she said, and left.

  Why would Grandpa be making changes in the house? How long was the boy going to be here? How long would he be in a wheelchair? Did I care? Was he turning this place into a hospital or something? Hospitals smelled like . . . hospitals. Was that what the hallways outside my room would soon be like? How could I bring any friends here?

  I went to take a shower and get dressed. Curiosity about the things Myra had told me was motivating me to get up and about. By the time I descended, Grandpa was home, and there was a man talking to him about the stairway.

  “We’ll have two wheelchairs, then. One for upstairs and one for downstairs,” I heard Grandpa say before he saw me. “Hey,” he said. “I just heard you were home from school because you were sick this morning.”

  “Just an upset stomach. I’m all right now,” I told him.

  He nodded. I knew what he was thinking. Grandpa Arnold was never good about anything that could possibly be related to feminine problems. He fled from the mere suggestion. He returned to talking with the man, the back of whose shirt read, “TLC Healthcare Equipment.” I lingered to hear more of what they were saying. Grandpa wanted the man to install a stair lift. The man was saying he’d been busy doing that work ever since the polio epidemic had created such a dramatic need for lifts, especially for young children who were teenagers or young adults by now. He wanted to know if the child had not had the Salk vaccine and had contracted polio.

  “From what little I know of the way the boy was treated, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that his parents never had him vaccinated, but no, that’s not his problem,” he said, and didn’t say anything else.

  Install a stair lift? I thought. On that stairway Grandma Arnold was so proud to show off because of its thick, embossed mahogany banisters and newel posts carved from a single block of wood? As soon as someone entered the house, it was the first thing they saw. It was like our centerpiece. Sometimes Grandma used to laugh and pretend she was some actress in a movie descending those steps. I remember how my mother laughed at her and called her Scarlett O’Hara. What would it look like with a lift?

  After lunch, I would discover that Grandpa had also contracted with some construction workers to build a ramp in the front right beside the short stairway. They were already constructing it, in fact. What other changes would he make? Would he buy an ambulance and have it parked outside the front door?

  I returned to my room. In a few hours, Lila was sure to be calling to see why I didn’t go to school. I thought I would do some reading for English class. This time, as I approached Willie’s bedroom, I paused and glanced in. The boy was sitting up in bed. He had what looked like a small pile of new comic books. Grandpa would always buy a bundle of them for Willie when he was home sick. The boy was wearing what I knew to be a newer pair of Willie’s polka-dot yellow pajamas. When he glanced up at me, I hurried away.

  As expected, Lila called the moment she came home from school to find out why I wasn’t there. I told her I had woken up sick, but it was just an upset stomach.

  “You know, I still get bad menstrual cramps occasionally,” she said. “Sometimes so bad that I don’t want to go to school, either, but my mother makes me.” I could sense that she wanted my problem to be anything other than my sadness or my attitude about the boy taking over Willie’s things.

  “It wasn’t that, but I’m okay,” I told her.

  She then informed me of our homework assignments, because she wasn’t coming over. Her mother wanted her to go with her to buy some new clothes for the approaching winter.

  “If you want, you could come along. Maybe you’ll see something you want or need.”

  One of the things I liked about Lila was how casual she was about inviting me to do things with her family. My other girlfriends were tentative about it. I think they believed my participating in events with their mothers or mothers and fathers would be painful for me. It was reminding me that I didn’t have parents, only grandparents. Even when Grandma Arnold was alive and well enough, we didn’t do half as much as my girlfriends and their mothers did together. The truth was, I did feel different and a little uncomfortable doing things with my girlfriends and their parents. How could I not remember times I had gone places with my own parents or with just my mother? Lila either was indifferent to my feelings about it or never really noticed.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll just stick to my homework and be sure I feel better for tomorrow.”

  “There’s talk of a party next weekend,” she said. “Audrey O’Brian’s parents said she could use their basement, and you know how big that is. We could hold a school dance in it. They have that jukebox and pool table. It’ll be lots of fun.”

  “Maybe I won’t be invited.”

  “Oh, no. I already spoke to her,” she followed too quickly, almost swallowing back her words.

  “Spoke to her? What’s that mean?”

  She was quiet, knowing she had taken a step too far to pull back. “Oh, she was just worried you weren’t ready yet,” she finally revealed.

  “So she thought I might spoil her party, depress everyone?”

  “Oh, no, no.”

  “What did you do to convince her I was ready?” I added. How can yo
u think like that, anyway? I wondered. Was getting over your little brother’s death something you declared “done” at some point so that you could be “ready”?

  Again, she was silent.

  Another thought occurred to me. “Lila? You didn’t say anything about the boy in Willie’s room and what we did with my brother’s toys?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. I just told her you needed to get out and be with your friends now. It would be good for you.”

  “Good for me?” Funny how fast you can become a charity case in this world, I thought, now thinking of both myself and the boy.

  “Yes. She agreed, and she was happy about your coming. Really. Everyone wants you . . .”

  Don’t say “to get better,” I thought. Maybe she heard me think it.

  “To be part of everything.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I added.

  “Aaron is hoping you’ll come,” she sang.

  “I said I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay. I’ll check on you later,” Lila said.

  “Right.”

  Check on me, I thought. See if I’m still here.

  And what if I had really been sick last night and this morning? I wondered. What if I had died? Would Grandpa Arnold go looking for a poor girl my age who needed tender loving care and put her in my room, give her my clothes, my things, and call her Clara Sue?

  After I hung up, I did get into my homework. I wanted to do whatever I could not to think about it all, even though it was nearly impossible. Right now, all my good memories of my parents, my grandma Arnold, our seemingly charmed lives, full of laughter and the wonderful surprises Daddy would bring home to my mother and Willie and me, seemed more like fiction. Was there really ever a time when I felt safe and protected, when the worst disappointment might be having to go to sleep too early or having it rain on the day we were going to the funfair? Could I say we lived a charmed life, never wanting for anything?

  We didn’t simply have expensive clothes and cars and homes. Our family was glued together with love. Kisses fell over us like warm raindrops. Not a day went by without warm hugs. We truly cherished one another and welcomed every chance to touch one another. Laughter was the music we heard daily. It got so that I never even contemplated real sadness and unhappiness.

  Perhaps there was a part of me now, a part that was self-protective, that deliberately made my memories of good times distant and vague. Anyone who had gone through what I had could spend the rest of her life in a sulk, hating the sunshine, hating the smiles on other people’s faces, and even hating the sound of her name, for no one said it as beautifully as my parents and Willie had. Not even my grandfather or Myra or My Faith. Remember and suffer, I told myself, or get up and do everything you can to forget and live.

  Maybe that was the real reason I hated the idea of the boy in Willie’s room. Every day, every time I saw him or passed by the room, I would see Willie dying on that sidewalk, his little body smashed. How could I look at another boy around his age wearing his clothes, playing with his toys, and sleeping in his bed and not mourn Willie? Why couldn’t anyone else see how true that was? Why wasn’t it as true for them?

  Anger returned and ironically gave me the strength to get up and move about. I heard Grandpa come home. Because my door was partly opened, I knew he had gone directly into Willie’s room. I could hear him and Dorian Camden talking. They were saying things with a happy tone for the boy’s benefit, complimenting him on doing the simplest things like finishing his breakfast and his lunch or brushing his teeth. The sound of their laughter was as grating as fingernails on a blackboard. Finally, it grew quiet. I waited to see if Grandpa would come into my room to be sure I was not still ill, but he didn’t. He either went to his own room or went back downstairs. My appetite had returned, so I was eager to go to dinner.

  When I reached Willie’s room and looked in, I saw Mrs. Camden preparing the bed table for the boy to have his dinner. She was describing the food and the chocolate cake he would have for dessert. He did look more alert and excited about it. I stood there for a few moments and listened to how sweetly she spoke. I wasn’t jealous. I was actually happy she was so good at her nursing, because it occurred to me that if she really was a great nurse, she might get him well faster, and I still harbored the hope that once he was well enough, he would be gone.

  Everyone seemed cheerier at dinner this evening. Mrs. Camden joined us at the table. I was surprised at that. I thought she would have to eat her meals with the boy, if not for any other reason than to be sure he ate his food and didn’t choke on anything. Myra rarely ate with us and only ate with me when my grandfather couldn’t be at dinner. There seemed to be this unspoken rule that those who were employed were not dinner guests, but if that was a rule, Grandpa was happy to break it for Dorian Camden. I could see clearly how pleased he was to have her there. For a while, it was almost as if I wasn’t present, but I didn’t mind, because Grandpa was getting her to tell more about herself, and despite everything, especially how I felt about her being here, I couldn’t help but be interested, too.

  “So how long were you at the veterans hospital?” he asked her.

  “Nearly ten years. As you can imagine, especially for those who had been injured in some military exercise and had suffered the loss of limbs, there was a great deal of psychological counseling. Of course, we had veterans who had been seriously injured doing other things since they had left the service, but the end result was the same: lots of bitterness and depression. Who’d blame any of them for wanting to forget it all?”

  “Probably takes more tender loving care than in other hospitals.”

  “A bit more, yes,” she said. She looked at me. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Clara Sue.”

  “Thank you.”

  She glanced at my grandfather and then turned back to me. “I’m expecting to get our boy up and about in his new wheelchair this weekend. The stair lift should be installed by then, won’t it, Mr. Arnold?”

  “Please. Call me William. Yes, it should be done in one day.”

  “Good. We can show him more of the house and the grounds. Clara Sue, you can come along and describe things.”

  “Describe things? It’s not a museum or something.”

  “Well, it’s still your home, not mine. You can talk about it more. It’s a beautiful property. The landscaping is breathtaking.”

  “Won some prizes, eh, Clara Sue?” Grandpa said proudly.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have to show you the trophies,” he told her.

  “You have a lovely pool, William,” Mrs. Camden said. “Next summer, he can use the pool for therapy, too.”

  “Next summer?” I looked sharply at Grandpa Arnold. “He’ll be here until next summer?”

  “I suspect he’ll be here a long time, Clara Sue,” he said. “There’s been no progress in learning about his past. I’ve made a formal request to be his foster parent for the time being.”

  “Foster parent? But . . .” I looked at Mrs. Camden. “Won’t he remember everything eventually?”

  “Dr. Patrick thinks he will be selective about what he does and doesn’t remember. It might not be enough to track back to what happened. Whatever it was, it was so emotionally traumatic that his mind is repressing it, and that might continue for some time yet. You understand?”

  “Yes, I understand,” I said sharply. “I understand that he can pretend to be unable to remember just so he can stay in my brother’s room forever, too.”

  Neither she nor my grandfather said anything. They simply stared at me as if I were the weird child. I took a breath. What Myra had said upstairs was true, I thought. Every time I said something bitter, I looked like the bad one. I stared back at my grandfather ­nevertheless.

  “I’m never, ever going to call him Willie,” I said. “He’s not Willie.”

  Grandpa didn�
�t change his expression. “That’s fine. I’d rather he simply went by William,” he said.

  “That doesn’t make any difference. His name is not William, either.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Grandpa said. “Could be William.”

  “Not William Arnold,” I countered. I could feel the muscles in my neck straining.

  “Try not to upset yourself so much,” Mrs. Camden said.

  I looked down and then up, smiling. “You’re right. I’m not going to upset myself about it. I’m just going to do what he’s doing.”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “Forget. Forget he’s even here,” I said, and put down my fork and got up.

  “Clara Sue!” Grandpa said sharply. “It’s impolite to leave in the middle of dinner.”

  “Oh. I’m as full as I can be, Grandpa. I don’t want to eat too much on a sore stomach. That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Camden?” I asked her.

  She nodded.

  I turned and walked away slowly, and when I reached the stairway, I pounded my way up loudly enough for a boy who was as deaf as he was dumb to hear. I paused when I reached Willie’s room. The boy was obviously waiting for me. He was simply sitting up and staring at the doorway.

  Maybe, I thought, just maybe, I could get him to tell the truth. I looked back, listened, and then stepped into Willie’s room. He eyed me with caution as I walked slowly toward him. This close, I could see how dainty he looked, so fragile. Could he have gotten this way just from the poison? His skin was so thin that I could see little blue veins in his temples and cheeks. He looked like he had the bones of a bird.

  I waited to see if he would speak, but he just stared at me, those blue eyes looking so anxious. He wasn’t as handsome as Willie had been. He looked more like a pretty boy, a doll, with his perfect nose and mouth and that golden hair. His hands were small, too, and his arms looked like they might snap if he raised them too fast or too hard.