Family

The living room of people is too loud, too bursting with excitement, for anyone to hear me walk into the kitchen, hands clutching everyone's large brown take-out bags for Eli’s big birthday dinner. My whole family is busy reminiscing and jostling eachother as I stealthily tear through the myriad of paper bags with the take-out dishes before I find Eli’s— a juicy hamburger. I peel back the tinfoil wrapping with precision and I slide a tiny microscopic tab of aresenic just beneath the melted glob of cheese. 

“Where the fuck is Glen with the food. It’s like 8 o clock already Goddamnit.”

I hear my dad complain from the sofa. 

Eventhough it’s Eli’s birthday, this is a particularly familiar scenario. Everyone else is in the living room while me, Glen is out getting the food. And of course, everyone orders from different places. Mom wants pasta from Giuliano’s. Dad wants a rack of ribs from O Reilly’s bbq. Eli gets his burger from deep fryers. And me, being the lone vegetarian has to go to a little Chinese place called Lucky Lin  for my tofu stir fry . 

“It’s probably because of that fucking tofu he always has to get. Goddamnit if he’d just be like his fucking brother. Be a normal boy for crissake.”

He doesn’t know I’m in the kitchen. But hell, what does it matter? He’d be saying the same shit anyway. 

Meanwhile he doesn’t realize, on top of that, I also had to go across town to La Cote Vert to satisfy Grandma and Grandpas hankering for French food as well as pick up the special organic chicken breast salad at Greenies greens for my little sister, Ashley. 

 Another thing that may seem unusual, eventhough it isn’t: all they’re talking about is how great Eli is. Again, this has nothing to do with it being his birthday. Watching old reels of Eli’s greatest touchdowns and admiring his amazing grades and hearing him play guitar, those were all everyday occurrences. 

“Finally!” My dad says as I walk in with the dozen different paper brown take-out bags. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry everyone”. I’m not sorry. I actually smoked half a pack of cigarettes before coming inside just to let the food get cold. 

They ignore my apologies as my dad rips through the bags , sorting through the buffet  of meal containers and handing everyone their respective dish. 

“Beer” he says, his face buried in the bag. 

That’s my cue. 

By the time I come back with his beer everyone has a spot on the sofa with a TV tray and their eyes are all fixed upon the TV. 

No one has even thanked me. 

There are no cushions left on the sofa and not even any TV trays so I sit on the rug and place my container in my lap. The vegetables  are cold, the tofu is rubbery and it has way too much sauce on it. 

Eli is the first to finish and he lets out an enourmas burp. My dad roars with laughter and applause, as does my grandfather. My grandmother smiles with a look on her face that says “oh, you boys.“ and my sister is too busy texting to really notice.  I notice my mom's face clenching into a smile. For a second I nearly see a vein pop through her forehead. She scratches the back of her left hand for a few seconds and then goes into the kitchen. 

“Oh Eli, Jessica wants to come over later. Should I tell her yeah? I know she only wants to come to see you...” Says my sister, Ashley

“Jessica, is that the blonde one? Harvey’s daughter?” The voice is not Eli’s, but my dads. 

“Yeah” says Ashley. 

“Oh you damn well better tell her to come. Atta boy Eli!” 

I’m in the kitchen disposing all the trash while my mom is preparing the candles on the cake. 

“Isn’t this great?” She says behind a face where only her mouth is smilling. 

“I love the family getting together.” I say. 

“That’s what it’s all about.” She says. 

“Family” 

My father is laughing loudly in the other room.

My mother winces. 

“Say, one of ya ladies in the kitchen grab me a beer, huh?”

Despite being 15 and terribly insecure about my masculinity, I’ve grown oddly accustomed towards my father calling me a ‘lady’

My mom looks at me and I look at her. There is a recognition in both of our eyes. 

“Family.” 

I say with a smile, mirroring the one she had just  a moment ago. 

We walk in together like two well domesticated housewives— me holding the beer for my father , my mother holding the cake. 

My father snatches the beer from me as I hand it to him and roars happy birthday through heavy drunken breaths. 

My mother walks to where Eli sits on the couch and  sets the cake upon the TV tray. Eli’s face is pale—a stark contrast to my fathers who is sitting right beside him, Beet red. 

The arsenic is kicking in. Eli’s Eyes grow wide. He takes a deep inhale, but it isn’t to blow out the candles. He is gasping for breath. He is choking for life. His face turns to a desperate blue just before it falls straight down into the cake. 

My father utters a terrible ear splitting shriek I didn’t know he was capable of making. My face mirrors the shock on everyone else’s. I run to grab a phone and dial 911. As I do I notice my mother looking at my father. Her face is contorted just as everyone else’s with fear and awe. But I notice something peculiar in her eyes—a serene quality— one id never noticed before. 

Amidst the chorus of apologies I am faced with from all the people about what happened to Eli — some close, some whom I do not recognize, and doubt if they even give a shit— I realize I am sorry than they are for very different reasons. 

They are sorry for the horrible tragedy which fell upon Eli on his birthday night; sorry for the arsenic he had somehow ingested. I am sorry because Eli is still alive. I am sorry because, although severely poisoned, Eli is still living and breathing and expected to eventually recover and maybe even play football again. 

All that being said, it was great to see the pain in my fathers face. It was great to see the look of rage boiling inside him when the doctor said Eli would “maybe” play football again. 

Ah, maybe. Music to my ears. 

“Maybe? Maybe!?”

He was almost pleading with him to just say otherwise. To just wave a wand and tell hi. Of course eli would play again. 

“Yes, it’s a hard time.” I say to all the well wishers. 

“It’s traumatic. Life can change in an instant.”

We hug

We cry together 

We reminisce. 

I hear my mother doing the same. 

I hug her. 

She hugs me. 

But the hug is warm. 

The hug is free

It is free from attatchment and longing.

It is a hug of rejoice. 

And then Eli’s condition begins to get better

My father is happy again.  

Everyone is happy. 

But I notice something. I notice a vein in my mother’s forehead. I notice a certain scratching of the back of her right hand. 

And suddenly, I know what needs to be done. 

Late on a Sunday night  I find myself beside the hospital. I have a box of bleach in my hand. I’ve never been more glad to be from a town in the middle of nowhere. A town where there are no cameras anywhere and no security personnel because everyone just places pure unwavering trust in everyone else.

Creeping through the hospital, hearing nothing but heart monitors and my own heavy breathing, I feel tranquil, knowing it is all about to be done.

As I enter the room, Eli is sound asleep. I approach the bed and I look at his face and savour the sight, knowing it is the last one Ill ever have of him alive.

The plan is simple, and painless. I grab the IV and open the bag and to pour in the bleach.

Just then I feel a hand upon my shoulder and I nearly scream, but My throat wells up and I choke on my tongue instead.

The hand is my mothers, I turn to face her. I do my best to look apologetic, but she smiles and shakes her head at me, putting a finger to her lips.

"Shh."

She says softly, taking the box of bleach from my hands.

"Let me do it."

Her eyes are as serene as Ive ever seen them before.