The Center

You sit in your car until 10:17am.

You wait for all the omens to be right.  He loves October.  And he was 17 when you last saw him.  You are afraid to leave the warmth of the car.

You open the door and the cold wind hits you as you emerge.  Even though it isn’t very cold, you shiver, like you’ve just gotten out of the water.

You cross the parking lot, only a few strokes wide.  Look around at the greenery.  There’s a path through some farmland and woods across the street.  You should go there to decompress afterwards.  Pretend he is with you.  Talk to him.  He’ll hear you.

Go up the steps, like the ones we used to play on.  Like the Pattersons’ empty swimming pool and their kid who was always afraid of the water and of his parents fighting.  Somehow steeper when there’s no water to help you float.

The door is big and wooden and heavy, you think of grade school and how weak you were then.  You hold your breath.

You wait for the guards to sign you in; you wonder if they would drag out you if they saw you in danger.  They look impassive and weak.  They look like they are on anti-psychotic drugs too, nothing will faze them.   You debate about whether to keep your jacket on, they don’t believe in heat in the Center. You wait and wait and wait, treading water in the middle of the long hallway, not knowing which side of the lane you should begin to race down.  

There’s a sudden whistle and you start.  Diving in, strides and strokes, cold cold cold narrow lane.  You focus on taking a breath at every other step.  Turning your head, sweeping, taking in the view, making sure you stay straight.

You stop at the door that stands open for you.  Your goal.  You long to push off from it, flip upside down and retreat as quickly as possible.  But this isn’t a pool.  

This is your brother.

You know that if it is a very good day, you will see a table and two chairs.  And a guard.  You smile quickly, seeing instead the fiberglass window, running the length of the room.  You are quick to be kind, because you always are, especially now, knowing that they would not allow him to touch you today.  He is that violent and that disturbed.  He needs all the encouragement he can get from you.  And you make sure to carry yourself as casually as possible.  You turn your smile into a caress, your glance into a hug.  But you are drowning.  There is no oxygen as you cross the room.  Everything becomes an hallucination, but you slip into it like slipping into bed,  Under the covers, into the welcoming darkness.

He sits in a chair on the other side, eyes down.  He knows you have come in.  Talk to him.  He can hear everything.  Or don’t talk to him.  Just be there.  Touch the clear plastic, like you are touching his face.  Be there with him. He just wants to know there is another person in the world with him.  

He is alone in this huge building.  A jail, a hospital, a school, a psych ward, a crazyhouse and asylum all rolled into one building.  The Center.  Made of stone, made of steel, it has echoes but no sounds.

There are eyes and there are windows all around him.  Your side of the room has a window which looks out on a bare tree.  He spends a lot of time looking at that.  Wishing to turn himself into it.  Something tall, that stands up to the wind, roots and heaviness and bark.  Something outside that feels everything, the rain the ground, the birds as they land on the branches.  He sits in his office-type chair, the faded purple fuzz stained from other inorganic beings.  

You try to catch his attention.  He’s there, he can hear you.  He may not respond.  If he does, it might be with a smile.  Or, if you are really unlucky, he will make eye contact.  If he does, it will haunt you for weeks or years.  You never know if you are looking into the eyes of your beautiful boy brother or your own cold hearted murderer.  You know he could be both and you don’t know who he is now. You want him either way.  Because you are generous.  You’d let him kill you in a minute, if he would just hug you like before.  If he would be the brother you lost, if he could bring back those beautiful days of sun.  On the beach of the Pond, the seashore, the huge muscles he grew.  Every summer you were surprised at how his body was groing into Superman.  Or the guy in the body building ads.  You were the 99 pound weakiing, together, you were the perfect before and after.  The games you played when he would let you win.  Racing, tag, hide & seek, Shark.

==

3:39pm

You feel the upside down.  The back flips he taught you to do.  And then he stopped, because he felt the loss of the certainty of sky.  He told you and could see the puzzle on your face.   This tough boy in front of you, and finally, his first admission of weakness.

He wants to live in a cabin, when he gets out.  Something near water.  He can build it himself.  Somewhere he would never have to leave, unless he wanted.

You tap on the plexiglass, wanting him to turn to you.  Every breath is important, time slows like it does underwater.You can’t tell if it is you or him in the fishbowl.

==

Time stops, like time does underwater.  There’s a fountain near the window and at certain times of day, you can see the water reflect onto the ceiling indoors.  The ceiling in the pale eggshell painted room is really the surface and with just a swift kick, you could raise yourself from this riverbed and crash right through to a beautiful summer day.

He still won’t look at you.  He’s focused on something, but don’t assume that the focus is a bored stare.  No, he is keeping his sights set on the horizon, he doesn’t want to ever get lost again.  Remember that time when he bragged about swimming across and didn’t look up until he hit the far left shore?  He still has lots of mistakes still left in him, but don’t assume that those are the only things he contains.

You sit, in your well suited dress.  Prim and proper, perfect posture.  After the silence has sorted itself out.  He makes a shift in his own posture, slowly mirroring yours.