The Garden

“Remember how red Mom’s roses used to be? Like crazy red, right?”

Only clinking plates replied from the other room. Susan was packing up the kitchen. The flowers weren’t that great anymore. Weeds had started to choke out what was left of the garden.

“Yeah, crazy red…Hey, sis. Need some help in there?”

“I’m fine, Dylan. Go pack somewhere else.”

How did we wind up strangers? Me. It’s always been me. Dylan, the screw-up, at your service.

We were tight as kids. Freshman year there was this kid—Frankie, horrible guy, bullied me every day. I was smaller, quiet. Way of the world, I guess.

One day, during lunch hour, Frankie and his goons had me pinned down in the courtyard and were taking turns slapping my face. Susan was a Senior and—even though they were boys—had about a foot on all of them.

Frankie never even saw her coming. She slammed his face into the concrete wall nearby. There was a loud snap. I think it was his nose because it started spewing blood.

“Keep the hell away from my brother,” she snarled. The boys that were still standing scattered. Frankie couldn’t do much of anything aside from sit there and leak.

The rest of freshman year was smooth sailing. A few people mocked me for having my sister save me, but no one pushed it far. They were too afraid of Susan.

Then she left. Just like that, big sis was off to college. We didn’t hear anything from her for half a year. Mom said she was just busy adjusting. She’d call when she was settled in. Susan’s protection spell started to fade sophomore year. People got wind that she’d graduated.

That was also the year Dad took a turn for the worst. He’d always been sick, so we didn’t pay much mind when he started to get really sick. That landed him in the hospital.

Susan didn’t come back that Christmas. Something about her new friends holding a “Friends-mas.” A postcard with a group of girls in matching clothes with perfect smiles came in the mail a few weeks later. It was just me and Mom in the room when Dad went. I don’t like thinking about that.

Susan flew in on the first flight the next day. That ticket must have been expensive. Ms. College Girl managed to smuggle a handle of spiked eggnog on the plane. When Mom went to sleep, she pulled it out.

“A friend of mine got it for me,” she said. “Drink it. It cures sadness.” She was right, to a point. Later I found out it was just as good at causing sadness.

I didn’t tell her that was my first drink. I told her I went to parties every weekend; no one invited me to parties. Even if it wasn’t my first drink, it sure as hell wasn’t my last. I don’t think she knows it all started that night, just the two of us. There’s no point in telling her now.

Booze and the pursuit thereof consumed the rest of high school. Grades came out about how you’d imagine. College was shot. It was a miracle I graduated at all.

Graduation weekend Susan was in town. A recent graduate herself, she moved back in for a few weeks before bunking with her boyfriend, Derek. This was the first time she tried to intervene.

“What the hell are you doing, Dylan? You’re throwing your life away.”

“Wh—” I slurred. It was graduation night, after all, not that I needed an excuse.

“Don’t even try to lie. Mom told me everything.”

“I’m just a little sad, okay? It cures sadness.” I tried to give a smile, but I’m not sure she remembered that night only a couple years ago.

“Dylan, you need help. There are places you can go. For God’s sake, you’re only 18. I can’t believe…My brother…”

“Yes. Your brother. This is me. Sorry.”

“Dylan, you know that’s not—”

“Whatever.” I stormed off and slammed my door. It was a bad case of the terrible teens.

A few years later, when Mom was first hospitalized, Susan tried to intervene again. My drinking—I can say with sobriety’s clarity—had gotten much worse. I would have been homeless if it weren’t for Mom. I went from one crappy gig to another: bouncing, cleaning up clubs, small stuff like that. Anything that got the next drink.

That time Susan also said, “I can’t believe…My brother…” That was her favorite line.

The third time was when I finally had to ask her for money. Every true addict knows this is inevitable. Mom had cut me off and kicked me out. Having her own illnesses, she didn’t have time to worry about mine. At the time it hurt, but now I understand

“You only take, take, take.” Susan wouldn’t help me, either. I thank her for that now. Not then, though.

“Of course, you won’t help. Someone has to die before you’ll show up. Guess it’s my turn soon.” Drunk Dylan had a cruel sense of humor.

That was the last time we talked. Now another death triggered Susan’s pilgrimage back to the nowhere town we grew up in.

“My drinking’s better,” I said.

“I can smell it on you.”

“Well I had one today. Mom died. Even I get a couple mulligans.” Given the circumstances, I understood her skepticism, but it was true, I had been doing better. “Anyway, I’ve been writing. It’s okay—I think—and…”

“Going the Bukowski route, are you?”

“Jesus, Susan. Cut me just one inch of slack, will you?”

“Give an addict an inch, they’ll take a mile.” Her lips were pursed. She refused to meet my eyes.

This wasn’t the same girl that brought eggnog when Dad died. A perfect life changed her. Her hair was cut into harsh suburban angles. She talked a lot about stocks and 401ks. She’d just had her second kid. No one was invited to the birth, at least not Mom or me.

I stopped trying to get her to meet my eye and turned to face the window again. “Yeah, those roses used to be so nice. Of course, Mom didn’t have much time to garden at the end.”

“They’ll be dead in a month.” Another plate clinked. She was wrapping plates with an attitude now. The curtain of hair around her face danced back and forth. “I guess now that we have Mom and Dad’s money, you’ve got about the same time.”

“Susan. What the hell? Can’t you just be cool for, like, one second?”

“No,” she shouted. The plate in her hand fell to the floor and cracked. She began to sob. “Dylan, life isn’t some game. I’ve already lost Mom and Dad. I don’t want to lose…”

“Woah, woah, woah, sis.” I got up and wrapped her in my arms. We stayed like that for a moment. Her tears became mine. “I’ve had two beers today. I swear it. I swear on…on…something. I didn’t have any yesterday. I’m better. Hey, hey, hey, shhh…I’m better, okay? You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

After a minute her tears stopped. Makeup was running down her face. She sat back down and put her head on the edge of the table. I walked back to the window and looked out.

“How did we end up like this?” I asked. When there was no answer, I said, “I guess it was me.” History is hard to overcome.

“No, it was me, too. It was all of us. It was…I don’t know—life?” I looked back at her and, for the first time, notice how tired she looked.

“You want to know my plan for the money?” I asked.

She looked into my eyes.

“Write. That’s what I want to do. I want to quit my crappy job and just live here and write. On that money I can make it at least five years, maybe more.”

Susan smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her smile since my graduation night. It was a pretty smile.

“You like this writing thing that much, huh?”

“It’s just…it’s…I don’t know. Things just make more sense when I get them down on paper. I’m pretty good at it, too.”

She rolled her eyes, but kept her smile.

“I’m serious. I’ve already sold a couple stories. It’s not much money, but it’s not nothing. I’ll live here, finish a book, maybe two. Who knows what I can do if I’m not already running down exhausted?” I sat back down at the table with her. We were still making eye contact, actually talking.

“You’re telling me. Jason just cries all night. This is the first good sleep I’ve gotten in months. At least Mom’s money will take care of the kid’s college fund. One less thing to worry about.”

Jason. The word knocked the wind out of me. “Jason, that’s his name?” My voice cracked at the end. The tears came back. I didn’t know my own nephew’s name. Guess I never asked.

“Yeah. He’s my little guy,” she said, wiping the new tears from her eyes.

“What are we doing, sis?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

Wind swept through the garden. The flowers swayed in the breeze. A few dead leaves fell.