His Brother's Keeper

5pm on a January day, cold even for southern Virginia. Outside the remnant of daylight was slipping away quietly and inside dusky and soundless. I was listening for the door and Luke walking in from his daily trip to the gym. Instead, the phone rang and broke the silence. I dashed to reach for the handset – a late afternoon phone call could only mean 2 things: his call to say he was coming home or he was stuck somewhere with a flat. It was neither. The voice was agitated and hesitant. “Nothing”, he repeated, when it meant anything except nothing. He clams shut when he is unsure or frightened. Finally, I traced down to the cause: he had gone to his father’s lab and could not find him. It was but a few miles from home, but he was in no shape of choosing the option to return home in his bike when he was stuck in that mood. My small cross-over has no capacity to accommodate his bike, thus I could not offer to come pick him and his bike up. Desperate times call for desperate measure. The only option left was to call his brother at the dorm. Can you pick Luke up with the van? I explained why and apologized for the bad timing. It was rush hour time and the traffic could be at the peak of its worse. There was not a second thought or reluctance. He quickly said yes and was on his way already.

45 minutes later, the door opened and in walked Luke, alone. His brother had dropped him home and left. I hurried outside, hoping to catch him – to praise and thank him and maybe even persuade him with a dinner. The driveway was empty with no trace of his van. There was a sliver of emptiness in my heart from the disappointment. An average son would have come in to say hi or something. Then again, an average son would not have gone out to bail his helpless brother without a whine or fight. He was nothing average.

He had finished his Christmas break and gone back to his dorm just this week. It was but a short 3-week stay, including the 5-day family vacation he bailed out at the last minute. My nothing-average son is looking quite average in his growing up and away. There no longer exists much family bonding time when he is home. He stayed in his room most of the time. When he came out, he would be upstairs watching TV or his DVD’s. Occasionally both of them might share the same facility or space, mostly during Luke’s passion, the game shows, for you could hear their zealous exchanges or uproars on and off, one serious participating and another one comical commenting. It was an odd combination of many things: normal and yet rare, fun and sad, sweet and sour. Regardless, for this not-so-ordinary family, it almost made us ordinary.

No, moments like that maybe everyday or everywhere for others, but for us it has been a long time coming. I remember the first few years of his life how hopeful we once felt, for us and for his autistic brother. His animation, difference and even brilliance were the only things that brought us afloat. He would be fine, we said to ourselves, no, more than fine. And when we are gone, he would be there for his lesser brother. He would be his protector, his keeper. Sadly, this high hope came tumbling down soon enough. For the longest time, the promised rescuer turned into a persecutor – oscillating between a ghost-like shadow and a volcanic, damaging nightmare that you can’t wait to wake up from. It consumed and depleted us all to the bone. When his own label finally came in, it did not bring us any relief. The truth, instead of setting us free, left us a harsh reality that these two children shall be one day left behind, equally alone and helpless.

Does time really heal all wounds? Or is it the distance that makes the heart grow fonder? I wonder. The 3-mile-away college somehow seems to have brought back that 3-year-old who was once Luke’s shadow and sunshine. The compassion has returned and replaced impatience or sometimes shame. The same exclamation, “LUKE!”, no longer sounds annoyed or unkind but rather fond and almost indulging. Nearly 15 years of broken dream later, I have been trained to take life as it is, one day at a time, with little expectation. I have no other alternative but to cling to the hope that claims not to disappoint. And I was certainly not at all disappointed then. On the contrary, I was almost hopeful! I looked out of the empty driveway and imagined how they unloaded Luke’s bike together and him saying “you ok, Luke?” before driving off. That emptiness in my heart from the earlier disappointment was suddenly filled. I realized then the promise might just have been delivered - except more than I ever dreamed of: both his brother’s keeper and his keeper.

Mommy's Little Girl

2 more hours and I can officially conclude the year 2010, professionally at least, and go home in joy. There will be at least 4 days of scheduled vacation time, which means 4 nights free of fear even if insomnia strikes, and at least 3 mornings to choose from as "mommy time" when I would pick up the phone and talk to my mother, separated by a vast ocean and land and ½ day of time. For 2 and half years, my “professional career” has greatly reduced the frequency of my bonding time with mother, and this break surely offers a rare luxury when I can just kick back with a cup of tea or coffee and talk with her for a couple of hours over absolutely nothing.

Nearly 3 decades have passed since I left my mother. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. Young and ignorant, I had no idea that would be the beginning of an end - me being her little girl and her shadow. She has 4 children and somehow this 2nd born claimed and lived the title from day one. It may have something to do with me being the runt that didn’t walk till well after 18 months old, the sick child that came close to die, or the ugly duckling that could never live to fill her sisters’ shoe. Her face was the first thing I saw in my waking up from sleepwalking, the same nightmare night after night, and those deserted insomnia nights. As a teenager, while my other 2 beautiful and outgoing sisters enjoyed their prime of friendship and courtship, I was home alone dating my books and my mother. I become so attached to her that for the longest time I thought I would never be able to marry and leave her.

Apart from the perfect match between the protector and the helpless, we actually share little in common, interest-wise or personality-wise. She is head-strong and independent while I am hesitant and insecure. And yet, there is this forever tug in my heart when it comes to my mother, with which none of her 3 other children care to share or fathom. While they may argue that it is because of the safety of distance, I insist on a supernatural bond despite of any human imperfections. And flawed and faulty she indeed is, as a mother or person, in fact like any parents losing her authority or credibility with time gone by. Over the years, she has become more and more critical and unhappy and thus consequently alone and lonely. I don’t ever remember her being soft or gentle. She has never even uttered “I love you” in our entire life. Still, for me, loving her is like loving the air I breathe in – it takes literally no consciousness or effort of my own. And how could I not? I still feel her cool hand on my burning forehead in those sick nights, the back I learned on when she took me to the doctors on the bike and the face that beamed from the audience at my school functions. She gave me everything a child ever needed: protection of a mother and father, nurture in sickness and guidance for future. And because of her I now have everything she never has: education, independence and even love. The truth is: as we grow older, our roles have reversed – I am now her protector, fending her honor against the world – even when that world is reduced to her own family. With distance and time, I continue to remain her only faithful listener and biggest fan as she once was for me.

Does love really cover multitude of sins? I wonder. If so, why does it not apply to her other children, friends or even family? Is distance really the only safeguard for long lasting relationship? Even true, the price tag is far too costly. I remember the last time when I left her, all too many times after my first leave, the same emotions, heartache, pang and grief, rushing through my core overtook me as if it had been the first time, except it was compounded with the realization that it could be the last time. Her once erect now slouched frame stubbornly sat by that kitchen table looked far and frail. We are now both growing old. Why does it hurt so much more to see your mother age than yourself? Was it just yesterday when the body I hugged felt much stronger and taller? She was pulling away from me – the tears and embrace were not customary for our culture, but she had endured them for my sake. If there were anything harder than saying good-bye to your mother, it would be seeing her in your blurry eyes, all alone and deserted, and you walking away like the rest of the shameless, heartless defectors. In too many ways, we have all moved along and there she is at the same spot, left behind and fading away.

My tea is made and my heart leaping with mixed emotion - a little bit of sadness and a little bit of excitement. I could almost hear her voice now – light and casual as if we were never been away from each other. An instant rush of comfort ran through me and made me almost happy. The magic of a mother’s touch! One that is gentle enough to calm the wildest beast and strong enough to cheer the timid coward. Either way, it always takes me home. Yes, here I come, ready and gladly to be her little girl again, to talk fashion, recipes or simply nothing at all.