The Drive Home

It’s dark out, except not really. There are so many street lights and glowing signs, it’s less like they’re popping out of a sheet of darkness, and more like the darkness is sneaking into the corners that are left unoccupied by their shine. Artificial yellows, reds, and greens blur together into a soup of colors and words. Most of them are familiar to me, in a way that makes me think I’m always going to remember the scene. After a year of being away from it, though, I’ll probably forget it, and only recall a few odd details, like the illuminated face of the KFC guy, or that one intersection that was always super busy no matter what time it was.

I’m halfway between being super energetic from the semi-wild activities and snacks of youth group, and becoming comatose from those same variables. The inbetween state is a sort of dazed, happy feeling of almost wanting to talk to my brother, who is driving us out of the church parking lot while trying to set up some music to listen to, and just being happy to sit in silence with him. Silence that is immediately broken as he finally gets the bluetooth to work and we are blasted with rap music that I do not like so much as tolerate. 

We get onto the road and zip past those shining lights and faces and ads. “Tonight was more fun than I thought it would be,” I say, deciding I do kind of want to talk. I’m referring to the ice skating, a Friday-night youth group special. Mostly. I was terrible at it, landing on my tailbone a couple of painful times. Not exactly my favorite activity. I enjoyed the games afterwards more: the karaoke, the food, the laughter. Hanging out with our people. 

My brother and I are separated by a significant 5 years. Me, just barely 13, him, 18. But this group we share in common. And these drives home, a whole 30 minutes that become more around 25 because he drives way over the speed limit once we get out of town, are another thing we began to share a year or two ago. I could never admit to him how much I enjoy and look forward to them. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “How many times did you fall?”

“Only twice.”

“Not bad,” he allows me, giving me a smile without actually turning to me. He’ll look at his phone while he’s driving, but never my face. That’s fine. I like that we can talk without making eye contact, unlike with most people. I never know where to look when I talk to someone face-to-face. Their eyes? Their mouths? Somewhere below there? And when you talk to more than one person at once? Ugh. I just end up looking at my shoes. 

“How about you?” I say.

“Three times.”

“Not bad,” I say, not mimicking him, just repeating.

We turn and pass the B & G, which is closed for winter. Its sign is basically the only one that is dark. Even the billboards are lit from some unseen source. I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands and pull my arms closer to myself. This old van is just that – old. The heater is basically broken, and seat warmers were probably a myth of the future when this old girl was made. So I snuggle into myself and look out the window, still smiling a bit. 

Downtown passes into my view: easily my favorite part of the city. The buildings here are lit up, too, but not nearly so garishly as the ones we passed earlier, and the street lights are less frequent. Instead there is just the constant, sweet yellow glow emanating from opening doors and wide windows. The car comes to a halt at a red light and my brother goes back to his phone, changing the music. The light turns green just as the new song comes on, and I smile even wider. This is more the stuff I like.

I’m finally warming up and I let my muscles relax a little bit as we get onto the bridge. The park and the river are also aglow, but my vision drifts to the skyline. White and black, mostly, blending together. It’s strangely beautiful to me.

Gazing out the window, my vision unfocuses and I find myself looking at my reflection instead of the cityscape. My face looks so pale against the night, but I see that my lips are still shaped into that reasonless smile. And I see a bit of my brother’s face, too. It’s as pale as mine, covered by a scruffy beard. I find myself wishing someone could draw this moment, so that I could remember it. Even though there’s not really anything special about it. I’m just being my usual odd self – always more nostalgic than a 13-year-old should be.

I turn and look straight ahead. My brother’s singing, so I start humming, too, because I know this song. In a way, I feel distant and spaced out, but also attentive to all the details of the people and things whizzing past us. It’s almost like a movie scene, with the bright lights and music in the background.

Usually I would think of myself as the main character, but tonight I’m thinking this is a lot more about my brother than me. After all, it’s him who’s really getting older here. Him who’s going to college and moving on in his life, him who’s having to make all the major life decisions. He’s probably not, but I imagine he’s thinking the same stuff my brain keeps going back to on these night drives.

Probably they aren’t as significant to him as they are to me. After all, I’m the one who romanticizes, who sees every little moment as something special. I know he doesn’t see everything the way I do.

But part of me really wishes he did.

It was weird how different we are. And yet, a lot the same. Sometimes I feel like I could talk to him about stuff I could never go to our parents about. And he’s talked to me, on these same long drives, about the stress of graduating, times he’s messed up in class, reasons why he’s annoyed with whoever. 

I know this is just normal stuff, but I can’t help but hope that in the past couple of years he’s started seeing me as more of a real person than just his little sister, and that’s why we’ve started talking. Because, in a weird way, he’s started to seem more like my big brother than before. Someone to watch out for me. 

He’s singing along to a song by Bob Dylan now, and I don’t join in. I just watch him for a second, because, like I said, he’s not going to look at me. And I don’t know what I’m going to do. Now too, I guess – like say something (what, though?) or look away because this is weird. But later, mostly, when he’s left. Gone to Virginia or Montana or somewhere too far away. I know everything’s going to be different, but how different? And when he leaves, am I going to hug him? Or cry? I can’t actually remember ever hugging my brother. Is that weird? 

I finally avert my gaze as we get onto the final stretch home. The fields all flash by, and then I hear gravel crunching underneath the tires and I know we’re pulling into the driveway. Like always, we both sit and listen to the song for a few more seconds before he turns off the engine and we both get out into the cold. Soon it will be our last time doing this, but I know it won’t be any different. We won’t say anything about it, because, like I said, he isn’t really into meaningful moments like I am. But I’ll know. And he’ll know. And that will be enough, I figure.

He walks ahead of me to the front door. I stop and look up at the sky. You can see the stars out here better. There’s real darkness. So he doesn’t see me fall behind. 

Then, really quietly, I say, “I love you, bro.”

And I know he knows it, and now I’ve said it, too, so I can pretend the former is because of the latter, and I’ll let that be enough for right now, too.

I smile again and follow him inside.