In the Shadows [working title]

It was 2 AM on a Thursday morning when the phone rang, and I knew already that something was wrong. I could feel it; there was something wrong with Brenden. Lightning streaked across the sky and my mother's anguished cries ricocheted through the house, tearing me apart inside. All I could hear were the uncontrollable sobs and the phrase 'in the hospital' drifting through the vent to the kitchen. With "in the hospital, in the hospital, in the hospital" running through my brain, I crept down the stairs, fearing the worst. I finally burst into the kitchen and was faced with my mother sitting with her head in her arms on the counter, shaking violently, and my father standing completely still, his hair turning grey before my eyes, staring at the phone in his hand, an expression of terrified disbelief written across his face. All at once, the whole room was lit up by lightning, and the eerie illumination threw shadows over my parents while the rest of the room was a brilliant white.1

I stood in the kitchen for a minute, just looking at my parents. I'd never seen them look this helpless, this afraid. Dad stumbled over to Mom, as if he had forgotten how to walk, and put his hand on her shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, honey, he's gonna be okay."2

Every time my brother or I did something wrong, my mother would sigh and think back to February 16th – the day she found out she was pregnant. She always said that she was so excited she could barely stand it, that she always wanted a child – that was, of course, before she found out she was having twins. Those 9 months were the longest months of her life, she would say, laughing even when she was mad at us. By the time we were finally born, she said, she’d never been so happy in her entire life, and when she held us in her arms the first time she cried, because we were perfect. For once in my life, somebody thought I was perfect. 3

She named me Laramie, after her great grandmother. She told me stories about her all the time, maybe thinking that if I heard about how amazing she was, I’d be okay with my name. She kept telling me it meant love; that it had a special meaning and I should appreciate it. I didn’t, though; I was always embarrassed by it. My name would never be popular, I’d never fit in. Nothing ever seemed to work out for me. Not for my brother, though. She named him Brenden. Brenden, the perfect one. Brenden, who never screwed up.4

I remember when we were little; Brenden and I had our own language. He was the only person who ever understood me. We were two versions of the same person. Even though we were fraternal twins, we looked identical. Same brown hair, brown eyes. Boring, boring, but Brenden could pull it off. I was tall, always too tall and not petite and skinny like the other girls. I wasn't fat, wasn't ever fat, but I felt like it. I had fair skin that would tan if I went out enough, but my hair was sort of a light, mousey brown while Brenden’s was darker than the espresso my mother made every morning. He was always bigger than me, always quite the jock. He played every sport imaginable; people always came up to me, wondering if I was as athletic as he was, telling me how he made everything look so easy. I, however, was always right on the outskirts of looking good, always the "close, but no cigar" girl. I could never fully get there (wherever there was), but not Brenden. Brenden could pull anything off, whether it was guessing on a test or saying the right thing in conversations.5

When we were about three, our family was at the beach and Brenden and I were sitting on the sand, building a sand castle. My side was collapsing slowly, little grains of sand dripping off the sides like ice-cream left too long in the sun. His side, though, was absolutely perfect. The lines were perfectly straight, the turrets hadn’t fallen over in a Leaning Tower of Pisa sort of way, like mine had, and I was so jealous. I tried and tried to make it perfect, to make it even compare to what he had done, but I just couldn’t do it. I sat there in the sand, confused as to why my castle looked like a melted ice-cream cone, when all of the sudden an enormous wave comes up, and I’m pulled out to sea. The water pulled and choked and strangled me and all I could do was breathe in salty seawater and try to hold fast to the sand that was so quickly falling out of my grasp. I screamed and swallowed water, and the next thing I know, I’m lying on the beach in my mother’s arms, bruised and broken from the undertow, but alive. My dad was holding Brenden, and he looked sick, too - deathly white, pain unmistakably written in his dark, almost black, eyes. I thought he was dying, and I remember squirming out of my mother’s grasp to look at my brother. I was so scared, because I thought he was going to die. I thought he was going to die, and I didn’t know if I would die too, because inside I knew we were the same person.6

Later on, I found out that it was common for twins to actually feel the pain the other was feeling. Dad said that was what happened to Brenden; that he was just reacting to what had happened to me. It was awful, knowing that I had put him through that. I knew it was stupid to feel that way, but I felt like I had hurt him somehow, that it was my fault he looked like he was going to die.7

When we were in pre-school and elementary school, Brenden and I were almost inseparable. We did everything together; from playing kung-fu at recess to playing duets at piano recitals. He knew me better than anyone else, and I could just look at him and know how his day went. Even when we got older, I could look at him and know so much more than I would ever let on. Once, in 1st grade, the coolest boy on the playground was making fun of me. I was sitting on the asphalt, crying, rocks raining down on me, little bruises beginning to form, and listening to him laugh, everyone laugh. Everyone laughed, because he was cool. Everyone laughed, because I wasn't. Brenden didn't laugh, though. He went right up to the jerk, Isaac, and punched him in the face. I sat on the ground, wiping tears from my eyes and looking at my skinned knees and the rocks piled up around me, while Brenden stood up for me. He never let me get hurt, always protected me when I couldn't protect myself.8

Once we got to middle school, though, things changed. Suddenly, he realized that it was uncool to hang out with your siblings, and when we were at school, we pretended not to know each other. He went up the social ladder and I stayed at the bottom with my best friend, Jessi, trying so hard to get to where he was. I never wanted to be without my brother, and when we drifted apart it felt like a part of me was slowly ripping out of my side. I would go home after school and he would have a friend over, ignoring me as they laughed and played video games, or called girls. Brenden always had a girlfriend, always had everything he ever wanted. He could do anything, be anything. He was good at drama, chorus, art, and got straight A’s. Sometimes I felt overshadowed, but mostly I just wondered how he got the good half of us and I got the screw-up. I always knew Brenden was Mom's favorite - he was never any trouble, he had so many friends, he was involved in so many things. I sat on the sidelines and watched everything pass by me, she said. I never did anything. Instead, I just stood on the outskirts with Jessi and made fun of everyone else, jealous because I didn't fit in, trying to cut them down so I wouldn't wish I was one of them anymore.9

While Brenden was off doing whatever it was they did, I was always devising ways in my head to become popular, to get with the “in-crowd.” I'd pretend that I didn't care, thought they were so uncool and fake, but in reality I would sit in my room, stare at the blue walls, posters of the Backstreet Boys, and dig my hands in my carpet, wondering, just wondering how things had ended up this way. I would lie down on my double bed, snowflake covers tossed to the floor in a frenzy during the night, listen to the Backstreet Boys, and wish to have my brother back.10

“Where is Brenden?” I whispered, the pain in my chest rising and my head spinning. My parents looked at each other, their eyes red and puffy, obviously trying to decide whether to tell me what had happened to make my mother cry so much, so violently. “Where is Brenden?!” I screamed, so angry and afraid that nothing could hold my voice back, and it broke and wavered as I asked again, quieter this time, “Where is he?”11

“Brenden is in the hospital, honey,” my dad said quietly, his face never changing, a virtual stone carving, worn out over time. “He was coming back from a game with Jason and their car got hit by a drunk driver.” He stood still, as if afraid that any movement whatsoever would upset the balance of life, upset his role as the backbone of the family. He needed to stay strong for the rest of the family. It was the sort of tradition he was raised with. He was the backbone of the family, and then after him, it would be Brenden. Always the man of the family, always a man, because women just couldn't support themselves, protect themselves sufficiently.12

I shook my head quickly, and my mouth dropped open as I realized the gravity of the situation. My brother and I might never become friends again; we might never have the chance. I might never talk to him again, never see him alive again. “Is he going to be okay?”13

“We don’t know yet. The doctors say he’s in a coma. Your mother and I are going over to the hospital right now, but all we can really do is wait.”14

“I don’t want to wait!” I cried, losing control. “I want my brother back!” My voice cracked again, and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the tears falling from my eyes.15

“Lara, calm down. He’ll be okay, I promise.” He tried to comfort me, but it wasn’t working. I couldn't be comforted when I might never talk to my brother again. How could he even think that? I was furious inside, raging at him, at life, at everything. Furious at whoever decided to play this cruel joke on me, this horrific ending for me and Brenden. I wanted to scream, but instead I just pushed the urge down and looked down, blinking hard, fists clenched in an attempt to control myself. 16

“I want my brother. I want him to be okay. It’s my fault, it’s my fault. I want my brother back,” I whimpered, collapsing against my dad in sheer disbelief. Brenden wasn’t okay, I could feel it. I stared out the window at the storm and thought about how much he loved storms. He liked to go outside and watch the lightning from the porch, liked to run in the rain. He said it made him feel alive. The rain used to make him feel alive, but now it was raining and he wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay at all.17

My father's voice interrupted my thoughts, memories. "Lara, we want you to stay here, go to school tomorrow, make everything be as normal as possible. We probably won't be home when you get up, but you can get yourself out the door. We'll--"18

"Dad! I can't believe you want me to go to school when Brenden might--" My voice faltered as I finished my sentence. "…not be okay. Everyone is going to know what happened. They'll be all over me; I won't be able to handle it. I can't go there, don't make me go there. Let me go with you, please. Please don't make me face them. Don't make me go...” I pleaded, drowning in the silence as they looked at each other.19

"Okay. You don't have to go to school tomorrow. But..." He looked at me sternly, and I knew that whatever was coming next was final; I had no chance to change his mind. "...you will not come with us. You will stay here, sleep in if you want, find something to eat, do your homework." My eyes grew wide at this, and I started to protest but he held his hand up, indicating that he wasn't finished. "I know you think it would be better if you got to go, to see him. Trust me, it is not something you want to see. Just trust me, he'll be okay." His voice wavered on his last sentence and I knew that no matter what he said, he didn't trust himself. He didn't think Brenden would be okay. There was something they weren't telling me; maybe they thought the details were too gruesome for a girl. One by one, they hugged me, and then put on their coats and walked silently out the dark, wooden door. I winced as it shut, and wanted to call after them. Wait, I pleaded inwardly, what if you get hit, too?20

I stood in the kitchen, looking around at the chrome appliances, remembering how Mom had argued with Dad so much to get them. How even when they bought them, how long it took to get them installed. I thought about how much it took for all this stupid metal kitchenware to finally get here, how happy they made her. I stared at a fixed point on the sink, where the faucet was still dripping. She had been doing late-night dishes when the phone rang. She was waiting for Brenden to get home, for him to tell her all about the game, how they won and how everyone was so excited. How now they'd be going to finals, and how everything was perfect in his life. She waited, but it was later than she expected. She had finished the dishes, but she kept washing, washing, to keep from worrying. She kept washing, hoping to high heaven that everything was okay, that her baby was about to walk in the door.21

Slowly, I walked out of the kitchen, into the family room. Family. I flinched at the word, thinking about how close mine was to being broken. When I walked in, the faint stench of Orange Clean hit me like a brick. I always hated the smell of oranges, but Mom never cared. She was obsessed with cleaning, so our house always smelled like too-strong citrus and looked like a model home; one of the ones they show you in pictures when they want you to buy it. Except for my room. Brenden was a neat freak, so his room was always spotless, but I just couldn't clean. Mom always complained that my room was a pig-sty, but I just told her that if she didn't go in it, she would never have to worry about it. She never liked that answer, always yelled at me. I didn't care as much about the yelling as I did about Brenden snickering in the background. What happened between us to make everything so unbelievably different from before? Sitting down on the boring, old, brown leather couch, worn-in in all the right places, I gazed at the television, afraid to turn it on. Afraid because it was probably on the news, Mom loved the news. It was like an addiction; she didn't feel complete if she didn't know everything that happened that day. If it was on the news, there might be news about a crash, a certain crash that I didn't want to see. So instead, I stared at the blank screen, my mind creating awful scenarios, blood and gore everywhere. Probably worse than the real thing.22

Finally, I couldn't take just sitting there any longer, so I stood up, petting my dog, Charlie, who had been sleeping peacefully on the couch all night. He could sleep through anything, but it was still a comfort to have him around. I looked at the TV one last time, in my heart willing it to come on, but I wasn't brave enough to turn it on myself. One foot in front of the other, I told myself, and I walked up the stairs, my feet sinking in the plush, forest green carpet, the carpet Mom got to match our decor exactly. She was a decorating master, a major in interior design, but she quit once she was "blessed" with me and Brenden. She still loved to decorate, though, and our parties were always the best on the block. She went all out when she got a chance, her love for beauty and perfection showing through her facade of stay-at-home mom. Passing through the game-room, I glanced at the PlayStation 2 that he had saved up for so long to buy and the pain in my chest grew. Now a steady, sharp, broken feeling, I hoped that this wasn't what he was feeling. If he was feeling anything. If anything did happen to him, though, I would know, I felt sure of it. Still, I couldn't help doubting our twin-connection, thinking dimly about how distant we were from each other, even though we live in the same house. 23

On the way to my room, I passed by his and stepped inside, wondering how long it had been since I had been in it. Years, probably, I thought sadly, remembering way back when we had begged our parents to let us sleep in the same room. We used to have little sleepovers in each others rooms when it was stormy out or just when we felt lonely. Sports posters covered the mint-green walls, his favorite color, and I couldn't help but notice the new one of Shaq. I was shocked to know that he still cared about Shaq. When we were younger, Brenden idolized Shaq. He always wanted to be that big, to be able to protect his family. He was big on protecting his family; always thought that since he was the boy, he should be the one to make sure nobody got hurt. He wanted to be a fireman for years. The thought of rescuing so many people from such dangerous situations was addictive to him; he relished the thought. When he was little, he always had the fire trucks, the police cars - anything that involved helping people in need. He wanted to be a fireman until he discovered how good he was at baseball, anyway. Standing in the middle of his room, I realized just how unfamiliar it was to me. It had changed so much, he had changed so much, and I hadn't even noticed. His bed was on the other side of his room now, and he had all his game-winning baseballs lined up on a shelf. His prized possession, a baseball signed by the Yankees, stood in the center spot. I looked around again and everything was so much the same, but so different. "No, he can't be this different. He can't be different, I can't have lost him so much, I can't lose him," I whispered, tortured in this painful reminder of how much our separation was my fault. I ran out of the room, almost tripping over my own feet in my hurry to get out of there, out of the reminder of how much I've lost, how much I'm losing in Brenden.