nene's nook

Four years of pat downs and I still get nervous when the guard raises her hand in my direction. There’s something about the anticipation of a firm palm pressing up against each edge of my body in search of contraband that makes me hesitate when planning these visits.  Even though repeatedly innocent, her eyes tell me otherwise, urging to catch me in a non-existent cookie jar. The guard this morning, Flowers, doesn’t spare me a glance as she raises her wrist as if to strike me. To her, I’m a harmless 24-year-old who has been cursed with an optimism dangerous enough to drive me to insanity. There’s no other explanation for why I never miss a chance to visit. The only time I’ve come across as intimidating was when I forced Quincy to tag along two summers ago. Standing beside my petite frame, he looked like a burly version of Muhammad Ali. The guards’ hands that day were on a mission. But I still come. And I’ll keep coming until told not to.

Every time I’m led through the maze of rules, told the do’s and don’ts of visitation, and eventually seated before a glass thin enough to emulate the hope of freedom, my mind becomes blank. What was a bright day with promising whips of wind becomes a sense of nothingness. I feel the world still to a dull, continuous hum of anxiety. It reminds me of the initial shock of a pent-up slap to the cheek or the sharp pain following a breathtaking punch to the gut. For a moment, the lines between reality and oblivion blur. Leaving a hum that feels too familiar to ignore.

Then, I see him. My baby brother. His teeth shine with a blinding white that offsets the darkness to his skin. His eyes squint into smiles that manage to bring sound back into the universe. It’s the same feeling every time. And I’m reminded why I’ll undergo a million pat downs if it meant seeing the youth in his face again.

Sammy sits across from me. He releases the swell of his chest to let out a deep breath of relief. I do the same, allowing myself a smile. He reaches for the phone. I mirror him, my fingers going cold against the steel. My grip tightens at the flash of sadness that clouds his eyes.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” My voice comes out choked; it feels like I haven’t heard it in a while. I scan his face, hands, neck, checking for proof of foul play.

Sammy bares his teeth and shakes his head. “Yeah, T, something’s wrong. I’m locked up.”

My eyes roll, almost instinctively. His ability to remain light for all these years still amazes me, but I’m waiting for the day the sadness completely takes over. I’ve been waiting ever since I noticed it the first time.

For the first few months, he was himself. Visitation days felt like glimpses of useless conversation neither of us felt was necessary because, of course, he would be out soon. Time would fly and we wouldn’t have to keep doing this. There was still hope behind his words, behind his jokes, behind his eyes. His conviction was a collective fever dream that the family would laugh about in a few years once the bridges were rebuilt and the wounds healed. But Sammy must have noticed the fear creep into my face. It didn’t take long for me to note how much I didn’t like pat-downs. Or how my mom and dad only spoke about two of their three children when coerced into small talk with people who didn’t matter. My fear triggered his realization, and I remember the second it dawned on him. When his usual light dwindled into a momentary dimness.  

“Did you get the money I sent?” He nods before looking down to scratch his shaved head. “Stop being so scared to ask for more.”

Sammy sighs. “You shouldn’t have to be doing all this.”

Frustration seeps into my tone. “Stop it. I’m here for you. Alright?” Our routine has become a source of reassurance for me, and I like to think the same goes for him. Circumstances will never change the way a little brother needs his older sister.

“Quincy says hi.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

I lean forward, deciding if I should laugh or cry. “It’s hard for him to see you. That’s all. You know he’s always been the weak link.” Sammy scoffs.

He clears his throat. “Mom and Dad?” He looks up as if expecting an answer different from the one he knows I’ll give. “Never mind.”

At birth, our parents tied nooses around each of our necks, ready to pull at the slightest mistake. They tightened as we grew up, Sammy’s always a bit snugger than mine and Quincy’s. Perhaps I could incite the nature versus nurture debate, but Sammy has always been different. He’s always been unhinged. The anger he holds is a disease that crept into our lives until it was too late to find an antidote. Sammy is the loose screw.

I was fourteen and he was thirteen when we finally understood the gravity of it. Johnny Warren was built like a twig that could be swept away at the most pathetic of winds, but he was a junior and I was a freshman. I couldn’t do much when he spat on me and shouted a racial slur my mom told me never to repeat. Johnny and I had been friends until rumors started circulating about a possible crush he had on me, which his ‘traditionally Texan’parents would disown him for. That evening, thirteen-year-old Sammy beat Johnny into the hospital.

He cried while confessing, his knuckles still bloody and scraped with vengeance. It was the first time I had witnessed my parents speechless. Although the only light radiating into the living room was the flickering kitchen bulb, I will never forget the sheer horror that slowly took shape of their faces. In that instant, he became a monster to them. I pulled Sammy into a hug so that he wouldn’t be haunted by those looks for the rest of his life. But watching him now, I know I was too late. It’s engrained in his mind as deeply as it is in mine.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I whisper. “You know how they are. They just need time.” My voice gets shaky when I lie, and he looks up, probably to confirm what he suspects.

“Sure,” he admits, quietly. Sammy stares at his finger as it taps against the corner of the glass. A memory of there once being human flesh buried beneath his fingernails flashes through my mind. But they’re cut to a safe length now.

“How are you in there?”

He finally looks up at me and lets out a breath mixed into forced laughter. “I love you, big sis, but you gotta stop.”

“Stop what? Caring about your wellbeing?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Sammy says, and I can’t help but laugh. “How are you? I want to hear about what’s going down in your life. You still dating that dude?”

There’s a portion of every visit when Sammy listens to me ramble about outside life. He closes his eyes, presses the phone against his ear tightly, and never interrupts. Sometimes I get carried away because I like to see his reaction to things. When I nearly got fired for accidentally bringing weed brownies to a work party, my first thought was when I could tell Sammy and how long he would sympathize before breaking into a fit of laughter. He always has the best reactions.

But this time is different because his question is prompting another lie. And he can’t feel like I’m lying to him.

“I’m not in the mood to talk about me,” I groan. “What about you? You and Melody still sending each other letters like elementary schoolers?”

“Why do you do that?” He leans forward so that he’s inches away from the glass.

“Do wh—?”

“You deflect,” he clarifies. “Y-y-you do this thing. This thing where you just…I don’t know…I don’t know why. You just deflect because why? What is it? You don’t want to tell me something? Is it Mom and Dad? They’re telling you to stop coming here, aren’t they?”

I sit there in silence, waiting for him to calm down. Replying, whether intelligently or to fuel the argument, never works with Sammy. It scrambles his mind and the confusion frustrates him further. I’ve learned that a sense of stillness is the only thing he won’t fight.

“I’m sorry.” He bows his head. “I shouldn’t talk to you like that. I’m just…”

“I know, Sammy.” He rubs his head, a tick he’s had since childhood. He did the same thing when my parents and the Warrens sat around their blindingly white coffee table to discuss consequences. Medical bills, lawyers, charges. All of it was mentioned and Sammy was frozen cold beside me, gripping onto my hand with a strength I couldn’t imagine being on the receiving end of. It was when Johnny’s broken nose, concussion, and dislocated shoulder were brought up that Sammy burst into uncontrollable tears. We were all taken by surprise, somehow believing that his capacity to beat someone to a bloody pulp equated to him lacking any real emotion. We watched him rub at his head, begging for forgiveness. I like to believe the Warren’s toned down their punishment because of it. Because my brother has a heart.

“Yeah, I’m still dating that dude,” I say. I’ve found that telling my brother twisted versions of the truth is what keeps our relationship stable.

Sammy smiles, the lines at the corners of his eyes forming delicate patterns of sincerity. “Good. You deserve someone.”

“Sure,” I laugh, pathetically.

“You do.” He pauses. “I hope he’s not treating you like Michael.”

“Sammy…”

In a swift, urgent movement, his nose touches the glass. “T, I know it’s hard to think about it, but it was self-defense. I promise you. I didn’t mean for it to happen like it did. I remember he came at me, and I didn’t even want to fight! I didn’t!”

“Hey!” One of the officers posted at the door cranes his neck in our direction. The bark in his voice vibrates off the glass. “Sit down!”

“You know I wouldn’t lie to you. I can tell that you think I’m lying. I was just trying to look out for you. You know that. I didn’t mean to spiral. I need you to forgive me.”

“I said sit down, son!” The guard straightens from his slouched position. His bald, white head reflects the fluorescent tubes pressed into the ceiling. 

“You’re the only one I care about. I need the forgiveness. Why do you keep looking at him? He won’t do shit.” Sammy looks at the guard. “I’m talking to my sister, man, relax!”

The officer’s demeanor changes in a second. What was an annoying kid ignoring direction suddenly turns into a situation he may need to call backup for. My heart quickens as Sammy turns back to me, the desperation clawing out of the blacks of his eyes.

“I can’t live in here knowing how you think of me. Please, T. Tell me you believe me. This is the last time I’ll bring it up. I promise, T.”

“I believe you, Sammy. I-I believe you.” My voice shakes as the officer slows his stride, assessing the defused situation. Sammy holds up a hand of apology and sits, quietly. He’s still not convinced, but I can’t stop thinking about how I was more afraid for the guard than I was for him.   

__________

“How did the proposal go yesterday?” Michael and I have been driving for twenty minutes in silence. The rushed, clacking sounds of his phone’s keyboard act as our radio despite how unrhythmic and annoying it is. He’s responding to emails and has trouble focusing, which was his excuse for turning down my music to replace it with his typing. At times, he would let out a long sigh and face his window. Before I could ask what the problem was, he would return to his clacking.

Even though my mind won’t stop complaining, I don’t mind his tunnel vision. I enjoy the serenity of an endless road surrounded by towering trees that are reluctantly falling out of bloom. Powerful sun rays pierce through their leaves, blinding me from the road for seconds that I begin to cherish. Perhaps I imagine it, but each time a ray perfectly penetrates against the windshield, heat radiates against my skin. I glance at Michael before closing my eyes for a risky second, hoping the heat would bore into me.

“Put your visor down, babe,” Michael mutters, absently. My eyes open quickly as if I’ve been caught. He puts his own down, hardly letting the action interrupt his typing. “It went fine. I don’t know why I choose to surround myself with such helpless people, though. They expect me to be the smartest in the room at all times.”

My chuckle comes out dry. “Aren’t you supposed to be, Mr. CEO?”

He finally looks up at me, staring into my side profile for an unnecessary amount of time. I take my eyes off the road to read him. Michael’s neither amused nor impressed.

“Idiots surround themselves with idiots and intelligent people surround themselves with geniuses.” He sighs and tosses his phone into the cupholder.

When Michael and I met in college, he was a 21-year-old entrepreneur who held on to inexplicable dreams not even I could wrap my mind around. Every night was a new idea that would launch him into the 1%. Ideas that the Gates and Bezos’ of the world would be envious of. During our first date, he told me that ‘we imagine the unimaginable for a reason’. I knew everything would work out for him, and I just wanted to witness it. Then, my brother went to prison. And Michael is now a 26-year-old CEO who claims his 50-hour work weeks are for our future and not because of the addicting high he gets when in command of everything and everyone.

“Speaking of, I’m probably going to be working overtime this upcoming week. Project deadline coming up,” he says. “I really feel like we’ll finally be taken seriously in the tech world if we pull this off. You have no idea how big this could be for us.” Michael does this thing where he pretends to be speaking to me when he’s actually only addressing himself.

“Yeah, I have no idea. I still have no clue what you’re talking about half the time,” I laugh.  

“You can learn about it, babe. I don’t know. Maybe pay attention.”

My neck snaps in his direction. His face is blank with indifference.

The scoff comes out before I can help it. “Serious, Michael? I was joking.”

“Sure.”

“I was.” He doesn’t reply. “And what do you know about what I do?” It’s a stupid question, but I want to argue. I want to feel the anger build up into a screaming match, which usually ends in a tension-heavy silence.

“Okay, Talia, I know that your work consists of kissing your boss’s ass, kissing the asses of the politicians you work with, and then complaining about how much you kiss ass.” 

There’s too much I want to say, so I remain quiet.

“Am I correct?” My hands tighten against the wheel, my nails sinking into the leather. “I hope your mom made Jollof rice again.”

The remaining ten minutes of the drive is still. Michael becomes reabsorbed by his phone, replacing our meaningless argument in his mind with the perpetual information of his work. Rows of houses begin to take place of the trees. The beautiful patterns of nature become basically nonexistent as we near my childhood home.

For some reason, I can’t remember being raised behind its walls. The two-story, red-bricked monstrosity seems like a déjà vu moment meant for whatever is to be reincarnated from my ashes. Whenever I look at it, repressed memories stay exactly as they are.

“Can we please not bring the argument into the house?” Michael mutters as we pull into the driveway. He forces his hand into mine right when my mom steps out onto the doorstep to welcome us with a wave.    

__________

Two minutes into Sunday lunch, Sammy is brought up. The question of Quincy’s lack of attendance every week somehow transitions to Sammy’s incompetence. Michael is spooning Jollof down his throat as my mom watches him as if he is one of her own and my dad cracks open his third Guinness of the afternoon.

“That boy…I can only imagine what he’s going through. I know my son would be sitting right there,” my dad points an accusing finger at the chair across from him, “if he weren’t so stupid.”

Michael washes down his food before placing a gentle hand atop my mom’s. The first time I brought him to Sunday lunch, she insisted that he take the seat next to her so that she can ‘watch him up close’. The long running joke now seems like a preference.

“You can’t blame yourselves for Sammy’s mistakes. He was a ticking time bomb,” Michael reassures. My parents nod in agreeance, and he looks across the table to me, expecting the same compliance.

I stare at him even after he looks away to attend to the useless conversation circulating between the four of us. He appears to belong better than I do. Flashing the smile that convinced them that he would be the man I marry. My ears slowly fill with a hum as he mentions something about Sammy being helpless. It’s always that. Helpless. As if what’s done is done and there’s no hope for redemption. Coming from Michael’s mouth, I know it’s synonymous with useless. My parents, once concerned about their son, nod in sad acceptance. My mom’s eyebrows knit together as she listens to Michael’s baseless words of wisdom. He tells them that he doesn’t believe that Sammy actually blacks out when the spells of anger overcome him. That Sammy is a grown man who makes the excuses of a child, which my parents are the last people to be blamed for. That he’s glad Sammy is getting a slap in the face because, God, he really needed it.

“Maybe we should pray for Samuel,” my mom suggests, latching onto Michael’s hand.

“Michael, lead us in prayer,” my dad encourages.

“Of course.”

The humming stops.

“Do you know why Sammy did what he did?” The voice belongs to me this time. The three of them look to me, surprised. Although we talk a whole lot about Sammy’s character within the walls of this two-story, red bricked cell, we never talk about what he actually did. “He says he thought it was you, Michael.” My boyfriend slowly peels his hand from my mom’s.

I continue, the anger growing in me like I suspect it did within my brother that night in September. “I visit him. Unlike the rest of you. I talk to him. And all I know is that you two need to stop pretending like this is when it became too much for you. That him getting locked up was the final straw. Like you didn’t make up your minds about him a long time ago.”

“I don’t think you should be talking to your parents like this.” My fist clench against the cool surface of the dining table.

“That kid Johnny from high school. Do you remember? Do you remember the pure disgust you felt for your son?” My mom clutches the fabric of her church dress that lies over her heart. My dad takes another swig of the emptied beer. “I know he has…issues. He can’t control his anger. But you cannot tell me that he’s this monster you all paint him out to be. Mom, he broke down into tears at the thought of hurting Johnny like he did. We don’t have to just give up on him! When he gets out, we can get him into counseling l-like, I don’t know, like anger management classes or—.”

“Talia, he beat a man into a coma,” Michael interjects. “And now you’re telling me he thought it was me? The kid needs more than counseling, babe—.”

“He wanted to hurt you because of what you’ve done to me!” The words escape before I can analyze the chaos of my thoughts.

“Excuse me?” is all Michael says.

I look to my parents to find them wearing masks of pure terror. “H-he’s been cheating on me. For years.” My mom looks between both of us, distraught. “Sammy is the only one I told. I shouldn’t have. I know I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t—there was nobody else.”

“And so, what, Talia? What then? He nearly kills an innocent man based on a suspicion? I have never cheated on you.” Michael’s voice softens. “Honey, I promise you. I think…maybe he’s getting in your head. Maybe you should stop going—.”

The humming begins all at once.

“I’m not—I’m not brainwashed. You stay at ‘work’ for hours, Michael. I’m not dense. I know you’ve been cheating, and he knew too. A-and he blacks out. He thought it was you and h-he blacked out, but it was self-defense anyways. And it happened and it turned out to…not be you. And I know it’s bad, okay! I know. B-but he didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t mean it because I can see it in his eyes. Mom, you know him! He cried after the Johnny thing. He couldn’t stand the thought of what he did.”

“Talia,” Michael starts. He reaches for my hand, and I yank it away, making the table’s legs shake.

“Talia!” My dad looks at me with a ferocity I only recognize from childhood.

“Mom?” My voice is a squeak amongst the humming. “Just visit him. Okay? That’s all and you’ll see how lonely he is. He needs us.”

Silent tears are rolling from her eyes when she says, “He didn’t cry, dear. With Johnny. He just…sat there.”

I look at her, appalled by the blatant lie. “What are you…what’s wrong with you?”

“Talia, what is the meaning of this?” I can hear my dad’s voice but seeing past the blur of my tears is difficult. Michael’s concern worries me the most. He is speechless, something I hardly ever see. It brings me back to our first date, the sheer panic written across his face because he couldn’t control me yet.

My mom takes a deep breath and wipes at her nose. “Samuel has always been good at manipulating you, Talia. I just can’t believe he’s doing it from a prison cell this time.”

 “You know what? I get it now. I get why Quincy doesn’t come around anymore. Why the only way Sammy could escape your suffocation was to do what he did.”

Michael finally speaks, “Talia, you’re not making sense. Can we just talk through this?”

  I stand and point a finger full of blame at my mom. “He’s your fucking son.”

__________

“And then I just got up and left,” I explain, ending the story with a sigh.

Sammy’s eyes widen, a glint of admiration gleaming in them. “Wow, T. What did they look like?”

“Like they finally realized that they lost all of us,” I snort.

Sammy looks down and rubs at his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to drag you down like that.”

“You did not drag me anywhere. If anything, you made me do what I’ve been wanting to do for years.” I smile and he concedes. The hope he wears is the brightest it’s ever been. “And, hey, I believe you. You need to know that.”

I can see his heart swell in his chest. “That’s why I love you, big sis. You know me.”

“Of course.”

He releases a shaky breath behind a growing smile. “So now you get why I did it.”