Page 143 of Five Brothers
I narrow my eyes. How is any of that her business?
“Was she self-isolating?” she goes on.
I walk slowly toward her.
“Loss of appetite?” she asks.
I approach, standing next to her as she watches Macon outside.The old Dodge he’s working on is parked half in the street, the driver’s door open as he tries to turn over the ignition.
“Insomnia?” Krisjen asks. “Mood swings?”
I freeze, staring at my brother. Krisjen cocks her head, gazing at him. My hands ice over.
“Macon shouldn’t drink anymore,” she tells me. “You want to drink, you go to the bar.”
Macon steps out of the car, but then he stops and just stands there. Staring at the ground. His chest rising and falling like every breath weighs too much.
I clench my teeth.
We watch as he twists his head, cracking his neck, and gets back to work.
He’s fine.Why is she saying all of this?
Krisjen turns, looking me in the eyes. “He needs help around here, he needs healthier food, and hemustget some sleep,” she states. “And he needs to wake up with more to think about than just problems. Everyone needs things to look forward to. Even just a day of fun.”
Self-isolating, she said.
He’s … he’s always had moods. That’s nothing new.
Did he eat much at Thanksgiving? Anything? I don’t watch people eat. What do I care? I …
Macon can take care of himself. He always has.
“At some point we’re going to address that chip on your shoulder,” she tells me, “but right now, if you’re not in that car in ten minutes, you’re a piece of shit.”
Whatever I was going to say to her is lost, and she leaves, closing Liv’s door behind her. Walking to the window, I peer out again, watching him move around the car. He doesn’t look up. Ever. Not at the car that passes on the road. Not at the kids playing across the street. Not at Trace carrying shit out the front door and loading up the truck.
I shake my head. She’s overreacting. She’s just trying to make up shit. Insert herself by creating a problem that doesn’t exist. Macon is fine. He should get laid a lot more, maybe even get a girlfriend, sure. Maybe he should have kids by now, I don’t know. He’s ten years older than me. I guess I assumed I’d have my own place by that age. Why doesn’t he have anyone?
Why doesn’t he fucking leave us? I would’ve. Why is he still taking care of us?Why—
I punch the wall, the fire in my gut blazing, and I don’t know where it’s coming from. I back away from the window, running my hand through my hair.
Why didn’t he just leave?! Why didn’t he just fucking leave and live his life? He didn’t need to stay. I wouldn’t have stayed!
My eyes burn.
He isn’t yelling at me anymore.
He doesn’t yell at me at all. He doesn’t eat with us. He’s in the garage all the time. Alone. All the time.
This isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask anything of him. He didn’t have to stay.
He’s okay. He’s always okay.
I go to the window again, watching him head back into the garage, dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt. Just like my first memory of him.
Needles prick my throat. Macon is my first memory ever. Not my mother or my dad.