Bluesology

by Loukia Borrell

When my brother was getting cancer treatment, he’d drive to his townhouse after the appointments, get sick and spend the rest of the night on his sofa, curled up and shivering. It was always the same. Get injected, drive home, get sick, curl up and shiver. On these nights, I would go to Andy’s place, just to be nearby and get him whatever he needed. He always asked for blankets, so I would pile several over him, but nothing was enough to stop his shaking.

There were long periods of silence during these hours. I usually watched television, the volume turned down, and sometimes got up for a drink or to adjust Andy’s blankets. Occasionally, our father stopped by to check on us. I’d leave when I felt tired.

This routine, an unwanted addition to our schedules, was also strangely comforting. Together, we built a wall as we waited for worse news, the day doctors could do no more, the day we realized my brother’s best days were behind him, followed by the day he would prematurely reach the end of his life.

Along the way, so much shocked us. We didn’t know cancer would reach his spine and brain. We had no idea about the stroke he was going to have. Or that he would eventually need a wheelchair and a patch over his left eye because it stayed open and wobbled. Or that he wouldn’t be able to button his jeans, pull a zipper up and down, or firmly hold his toothbrush. In addition to his growing physical limitations, Andy’s illness and looming death began to change us mentally and spiritually. Facing defeat, we quietly watched as the window closed and locked us in.

Andy and I grew up in a fretful household. Our father used to tell us to grow eyes in the backs of our heads, so we could see trouble before it reached us. We weren’t allowed to fall asleep in the car because, we were told, our muscles wouldn’t be able to handle the sudden shift from warmth to cold, which could lead to paralysis. We would also become similarly ill if we ventured outside with wet hair, no matter the season. Going outside barefoot was a hard no. I couldn’t get my ears pierced because I would develop keloids. We didn’t have pets because breathing in their smells was unhealthy. I wasn’t allowed to be left-handed, as I was born, because a child who favored the left was the Devil’s cohort and would bring misfortune to the family. It seemed we were always on alert and prepared to avoid hard luck, enough that when Andy announced his cancer diagnosis, it didn’t seem possible. Not for one of us. We were too careful to get cancer.

For a brief period, we felt oddly hopeful after surgeons took out his kidney and the big tumor attached to it. But we slid back into worry as his treatment plans failed, and the cancer made good, strong progress, eventually killing him. I gathered our parents for those final, dreadful moments, to witness the death of their older child, who was only forty-six. Hoping Andy could still hear them, they screamed out final goodbyes before collapsing near his bedside. It was the last time all four of us were together.

On one of the nights I stayed with him, after another round of immunotherapy shots, Andy was feeling well enough to sit up and do away with blankets. He said that day’s injections didn’t bother him as much as others. This bit of fortitude made me remember an evening we spent together a couple of years before, eating pizza and watching Titanic. He was still healthy, and I listened as Andy made illuminative comments about the ocean liner, why it couldn’t avoid the iceberg, how fast it was going to sink and how he would save us if we were Jack and Rose. I felt he could get us off that huge boat, or he would make sure I was safely on a lifeboat or floating on a big piece of wood, like Rose, before thinking about himself.

Since his illness, our movie nights weren’t as conversational, but on this night, Andy gave me advice:

“Don’t get on coke.”

“Don’t fuck guys who don’t love you.”

“Don’t worry about the kid in the basement.”

The kid in the basement.

This was the first time in 30 years anyone in our family mentioned that kid.

I asked: “Am I the reason Mom and Dad moved us to Virginia? Is it because of what happened in the basement?”

“No. They were sick of Ohio winters, and Dad wanted to do his own thing for work. Forget it.” He grew quiet, and I looked over to see his sudden burst of energy quickly faded. He was asleep.

Until that night, I was never sure Andy remembered what happened in the basement. It was a long time ago, around 1969. Maybe 1970. We were living in a middle-class neighborhood in West Toledo. Our house had an upstairs, and my brother and I had our own bedrooms. Downstairs, there was a kitchen, dining area and a small living room. Below was a full basement, a place that was cool and darker than the rest of the house. It was where our mother washed clothes and where she took us when a tornado was coming. On weekends, we listened to Monkees records and played Trouble and Monopoly on a card table.

There was a sofa, too.

One Saturday afternoon, I was in the basement with my brother and his friend. They were 13. I was 6. Sev was under a blanket on the sofa and called me over. He lifted the blanket and made room for me underneath. He showed me down there, a part of his body lifted and surrounded by hair. I didn’t know what to call it. He tugged at my shorts. My brother, noticing us, jumped on top of the blanket and threw Sev to the ground. I ran away, not understanding anything other than my brother stopped something. I didn’t know what that was. I just knew Sev’s body was different than mine, and my brother was upset.

The next day, as my mother dressed for church, I asked her why boys grow hair in places I don’t. She stopped moving. An hour later, Sev and his mom were in our living room with my mom, brother, and me. My dad was at work, but I was worried he would come home. My eyes kept darting from the people to the black clock on the living room wall. He might get here before they leave. I didn’t want him to know why they were in our house. I felt my father might not talk to me anymore, let me watch him shave or be patient when I traced little patterns on his ears when he tried to nap, all because I had an idea of what he looked like undressed.

I didn’t answer the first time. I folded my hands in my lap and waited for the question to go away, but it came back from the same voice.

“What happened yesterday?”

They were waiting, so I stared at the black clock and with my thin voice, I told them:

“Sev told me to come to the couch, and when I did, he lifted a blanket and made room for me next to him. We were both under the blanket. He put his hand on it and told me to touch it. It was up. He started to pull down my pants, but Andy jumped on Sev. I ran upstairs and didn’t go back.”

Sev’s mother was crying. My mother was furious. My brother and Sev were silent. My father was still not home. My mother and Sev’s mother agreed that an apology would be enough, and he couldn’t come over anymore. That summer, I was discouraged from wearing a bathing suit because my mother felt a swimsuit might encourage Sev, or another boy, to try me again. I played inside and told my Barbie what happened. I dressed her in her bikini, and she told me I could go to the pool with her and wear my bathing suit whenever we went.

We moved to Virginia not long after, maybe a year or two later. Before we did, I saw Sev a couple of times, riding his bike down my street, but we avoided each other. No one in the family ever spoke of it again, and I was never sure if my father knew anything. He never asked me anything, and things didn’t change between us. Still, I didn’t feel my mother would keep it to herself. She kept her emotions near the surface, and she often allowed them to rise to the top. I felt my father knew something, but he wasn’t the type of person who felt everything had to be a conversation.

In the deep, jagged caverns of my mind, where people and events are assembled, that Saturday has a place, along with my brother, who stopped something that would have been life changing. It was he who was my protector, for as long as he could. He gave me life advice and looked over me as I grew up. Drove me back and forth to college. Took me out for Mexican food after every broken thing. Even though he wasn’t married at the time, Andy nobly guided me through my divorce. It was he who loaned me money and cars.

I still think of him every week, even though he has been gone for more than twenty years. I want to tell him that since his departure, I don’t know what hope feels like. That I dream I am homeless, of hearses in my driveway, of planes flying too close together, of naked men pushing back comforters and inviting me to lie next to them in dark rooms.

Sometimes, I drive to his old place. I sit in my car, across the street and wonder who lives there. I know which rooms are behind each window. It would be really something if I caught a glimpse of Andy walking through his townhouse. He’d open the front door to say, “Hold on. We’ll get tacos.” He’ll walk over to my car, get in, check to make sure I have enough gas and tell me to drive. Like before, like nothing bad ever happened. Not to us.
 

Loukia Borrell is a former print journalist who transitioned to writing poetry and essays in her fifties. She is a first-generation American, born in Toledo, Ohio, to Greek-Cypriot immigrants. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in English from Elon University and lives near the Virginia coast. Her work has appeared in mojo at Wichita State University, One by Jacar Press, Rat’s Ass Review, The Big Windows Review and elsewhere. Her website is loukialoukaborrell.com.