Life From Scratch by Sasha Martin

about my brother, I wanted to be there. I wanted to know what they were saying. But I never protested the late arrivals; it was getting harder and harder to talk to anyone. Patricia and Pierre argued all the time. But if anyone was still crying, they were now doing so behind closed doors.
    After school, Patricia would pick me up and drive me to the hospital. Michael’s home was now behind those stale, sanitized walls. Tubes and wires threaded into his limbs like slack puppet strings. Every day, he looked the same: Eyes shut. Thin gown. Thinner sheets. Thinning body.
    After a quick therapy session (which usually involved playing a few hands of “Go Fish” while the therapist made one-sided small talk), I’d ride the steel box up to Michael’s room, where I’d pick through my cafeteria dinner in silent vigil, waiting for the slightest flicker of movement in his face or a twitch of his hand. I’d offer him my Jell-O, and when he didn’t take it, I’d tell him about my day.
    After a while, I’d run out of things to say. Then I’d lay my head on his shoulder, take his oddly cool hand in mine, and play him a cassette tape of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.” His girlfriend, also 14, had recorded herself playing it for him. The song gave me goose bumps (and still does) because it so perfectly captures the two sides of my brother.
He’s quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there’s someplace that he’d rather be
He says, “Bill, I believe this is killing me.”
As the smile ran away from his face
“Well I’m sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place.”
    Michael never so much as fluttered an eyelid. Sometimes I wanted to pinch him or dig my nail under his skin, just to see if that would get a reaction, but I never did. I was irrationally afraid he’d pop up and get me back.

    By the end of the first week, visitors trickled in from Boston: my cousins, aunt, and great aunt. Tim was stuck at work, and Grace had just had a baby. But Connor came two different times. Even with all the visitors, the only time Michael stirred was when Mom flew in to visit.
    Two years is such a long time to a young heart. I could hardly believe I was in the same space as her again. When she’d left us with the Dumonts, Mom had said it was “forever.” Oh, but I was happy when she walked into that bleached hospital room. She was skinnier than ever, her worn clothes gaping at the waist and neck. Her eyes looked a bit beaten down, but her hair was just as big as before.
    After exchanging a knowing look with me, Mom walked up to Michael’s side and said, “Hello, cutie pie,” as she had when he was little.
    I could hardly believe my eyes. For the first time since he’d been admitted, Michael moved . His entire body started trembling, and his breathing became shallow and quickened, as if he were having an asthma attack. It was her voice that did it. His eyes even opened for a bit. But he was somewhere else, looking past the ceiling, to something much farther away. He never woke up, not even when she cradled his hand in hers.
    Still, Mom stayed by his side. Every day she read him the same creased letter, around 15 pages long. In it she asked him what caused his “accident,” each possible explanation taking up one or two lines. She asked him if he was trying to get attention or if someone bullied him at school. Perhaps he was sad? Or was he seeking out some misguided thrill, as some of his friends had done?
    I sat in the corner while she read, guilty at feeling content that we were a threesome again. Michael lay there with his eyes open. One day he began chewing his tongue until it bled and the nurse had to put a block in his mouth to keep him from hurting himself.
    After that nothing much changed.
    Between letter readings, Mom asked how I was doing. I told her about school, about missing her, about nothing and everything. I asked if she wanted to go to dinner, but she thought it best to keep our meetings