Cracked Sunshine

The flag was planted. And then BOOM the world lit up like fire and lights and the contents of happiness spilled everywhere and it was a mess. Smiles were contagious and everyone was infected with this disease of joy and pride- because it was 1969 and the Americans had reached the moon. But not me. Not me. I let the gravity that was such a force here increase the speed of the

shovel as it plummeted into the soft brown earth dirt and scooped another heap of it onto the small casket. It was gleaming like a silver bullet in the July sun, and it’s reflection blinded me. Blind was better though, because at least I didn’t have to see what I was doing. Oh, because if I could see what was happening- me-Merrell Leckey- heaping piles of mud on top of my little brother, drowning him in an ocean of dirt, never to witness a sunrise or sunset or eclipse or full moon ever again, I might crumble like the fruit cake Mrs. Juda brought over the day after the- the day he died. Barely anyone showed up to Tommy Leckey’s funeral. Just a small crowd of folks who were kind enough to peel their eyes from the televised moon landing and come out to Berry Row cemetery. Only one of his friends was here, and two of mine, because my crowd didn’t consist of Nasa geeks and four eyed book worms. Our grandparents, who never would have guessed they would outlive their grandson. A few cousins who stared wide eyed into the hole where the baby of the family now lay. A couple neighbors. My parents, who clutched each others hands with white knuckles. And me. Me, with the unruly hair and the bruised ankles and the look on my face that spoke a thousand words. Me, who now stood, shovel in hand, staring as the funeral men lowered him into the ground... Me, who had lost his only brother.

The next few days were hell. My parents were broken beyond repair, but they were still trying to pull some pieces back together. I was like a marionette, doing what I was told and nothing much else but staring unblinkingly into an audience that moved without a care to what I was thinking or doing or feeling. In summer school my friends knew, but at the same time they didn’t. And besides that, the only thing people did care about anymore was the moon. That big rock in the sky. The rocket that was flying home from somewhere in the galaxy- it’s passengers the most famous men in the world. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. Everybody cared about them, because they made it, but nobody cared about my brother, who hadn’t.

If I had to say, my seven year old brother had traveled to an even more foreign place than the moon- he had traveled into the possession of a disease. You can always look up and see the moon, but a disease you only know is there when it is too late and is already hurdling itself into your life. That is how I

 see it. My brother was diagnosed only when the migraines were at their worst. Only when his vision was clouding up and his mind was already swimming in a bloodbath. That’s when the disease hits you. And nobody knows what to do. Nobody has been trained for a crash, no one has been trained to absorb the impact. We weren’t even taught how to land. And when you do have to do all these things, everything is spontaneous and sometimes even the doctors didn’t know how to handle it. When that happened it was very frightening, but nothing can compare to the day when we found out, or how we did. Nothing can compare to how that felt, as if bullets were being shot directly into your head every time news was heard. As if meteors were being pelted through the atmosphere protecting your safe, isolated planet from the evils and tragedies of the real world, and just burned it up into oblivion, exposing it to everything you were once shielded from.

We found out on a day that perfection was spilling from everything. Sun flooded the halls of my junior high and warmth melted away the icyness of anyone’s moods. The air was drying into a heat, the last bit of rain had been squeezed out of the sky, and sandals cracked as they hit the sun-soaked concrete, proof of spring. I had biked Tommy to his elementary earlier, sealing his tiny fingers around a bottle of Advil.

“Take one every two hours, unless it is real bad, then take two, and don’t forget to drink a lot of water with it, otherwise it won’t do anything and that would just be a waste of good medicine,” I told him, locking his little red bike up to the rack.

“Wait, Merrell, I think I forgot my rocket!” he cried as I strapped my helmet to his handlebars. Wouldn’t risk anybody from my school seeing me with that on my head.

“It’s fine, Tommy, it is just some stupid toy, you are seven for christ’s sake!” Tommy wouldn’t budge. “Jeezus, bud, you really need to get rid of that stupid thing, you geek.” I pushed his thin frame up the stairs into Soquel Elementary. The advil rolled out of his palm onto the concrete steps. In one motion I swooped down to grab it and collided with Bennett LeBleur. I missed the meds. I didn’t miss Bennett.

“Watch it, punk.” He pushed me so hard I stumbled and sat coiled on my buttocks. Then he grabbed Tommy’s advil, opened it in one swoosh of long pale fingers, and downed at least 5 pills. Druggie. Then he pulled a croissant out of his backpack, smooth as ever, and thrust it at his little sister, Manon, with a few menacing words in French. She gave him the evil eye as he threw the plastic container so hard on the ground it echoed around the courtyard. Only a few pills left. He then strode off to his bike, remembering to kick me in

 the ribs as I struggled to my feet. Tommy grabbed my hand in his and helped pull me up.

“What am I gonna do now, Merrell, I wasted all the medicine and now I’m gonna have the headaches all day. What is Mom gonna say if she finds out that Bennet LeBleur stole all my medicine?” He whined like a cat.

“I don’t know, just deal with it!” I pulled my hand from his grasp and pushed him into the sea of kids pouring into their classrooms. I sulked back to my bike as Tommy disappeared into the stampede. He’d make it without a couple pills. What did a little headache ever do to anyone? I could feel the blush rising like the tide in my cheeks. I had had enough with Bennett LeBleur. As if his Doc Martens and Bowie shirts weren’t enough, his other little sister was in my grade and had been the girl I asked to my sixth grade dance. Now he was a Junior, she was at private school, and I was just his favorite eighth grade victim.

As I pedaled into New Brighton, the sun was sparkling over Monterey Bay and I couldn’t help but bask in the moment. What a wonderful world I did live in, apart from weirdos like Bennett and stuff. Fog rolled over the cliffs in the distance as cool salty air wafted into my lungs. I could see all of Capitola from here- the little Venetian hotel, the beach, the canal, the wharf, the sea otters and the early bird surfers. Then the bell broke the spell and everyone dispersed from the benches and gate and headed into the courtyard to get to their homerooms. After that the morning went like a blurb. Bell, class, bell, class.

At 11 I was in science. That was Tommy’s favorite subject, of course, because he was the biggest astronomy dork I had ever met. We were two very opposite people; I was a typical kid, and my brother was one of those science geeks who knew everything from molecular properties to Galileo's birthday, but we were buds nonetheless. Today every geek was on the edge of their seats, practically jumping with excitement, because today we were going to ring up some Nasa engineer who was going to tell us about this fabled Apollo 11 journey they were planning. This was Tommy’s stoke- he was practically green with envy when I told my parents at dinner. I was, in contrast, slouched in my seat, drumming my splintery Ticonderoga #2 pencil on my desk, vacantly watching my friend Eli tease a pack of gum out of Marcina Yosales. Reluctantly, he gave up his efforts after she whipped around in her seat and slapped him, only a trick Marcina could get away with. Then, Mr. Bundali got up from his seat, clicked a few buttons, and the projector started whirring. We all stopped what we were doing.

 “So class number three of the day, you must realise that Mr. Salis probably does not function only for the sole purpose of answering the mostly thoughtless questions of eighth grade public schoolers. I want you to be on your best behavior, and ask only appropriate questions. You must not take this opportunity for granted.” Mr. Bundali straightened and walked back to his desk as a picture of the moon in it’s stages enveloped the blackboard in smooth shades of white and grey. “It is time to make our third call of the day, class.” He punched a few numbers into the class telephone. A static was heard. Then a voice. Then the phone was ringing from the other end. Mr. Bundali was confused. It was an office call. Some lucky person was getting out of this pit of boredom and going home or anywhere but here. I could see a few kids crossing their fingers obnoxiously, making sure their friends could see them and think, “oh how cool, so and so wants to get out of class and isn’t afraid if Mr. Bundali knows it”. Mr Bundali politely asked Mr. Salis to hold for a moment and transferred the call to the office. Silence. Then-

“Mr. Bundali, we have a difficult situation here.” Mrs. Avi’s gravelly voice shook out of the phone. Our teacher’s spine straightened almost one vertebrae at a time, and he placed one weathered ebony hand over the earpiece of the receiver. A few muffled parts of speech came from behind the hand, and we all sat straight and quiet, trying to hear any bit of what this ‘difficult situation’ might be. Mr. Bundali sucked in a tiny bit of air, like a beached sardine, his mouth a tiny little gaping bubble. Then he did something that shocked me to the core. He turned and looked me straight in the eye, with a sympathy so severe for a second I couldn’t even register what emotion that was. Did I do something? Was he shocked at me for something? Was he mad at me for something? It definitely had to do with something, and it definitely had to do with me. He put the phone down.

“Merrell Leckey, get your things and head to the office r​ ight now. ​Do not delay, do you hear me? I am sorry, everything will be okay.” Mr.Bundali clapped his hand down on my shoulder as shoved papers into my folder. Kids around me looked with curious stares, all of them drilling into me, arousing my own questions. Why was Mr. B suddenly so concerned, and telling me it “​would all be ok”?​ What on earth was this? Did I fail a test? My converse slapped the concrete with claps that seemed to echo forever. Shadows were cutting grey lines out of the yellow grass in the courtyard. Little pieces of darkness coming out of our sunny world. As I walked to the office I could see my dad’s car out in the lot. He was supposed to be at work right now, in Scotts Valley. Why was he picking me up? My heart hammered as I saw him walk swiftly out of the main office, his face painted grey with worry.

 “Oh thank god, there you are!” He ran toward me and grabbed my arm tightly, hauling me towards the car​. ​“Your brother had a seizure at school, he’s been taken to a hospital, Merrell, he might have a brain tumor. The last thing he said had to do something with advil-”

It seemed as if bees came out of nowhere and dove into my head, whizzing and buzzing and stinging.

“Wha-” He cut me off.

“Get in the car now, we can talk on the way to the hospital.”

Doors opened. Doors shut. As my dad talked on, like molasses dread snaked a trail into my heart, inching its way through, word by word. Sunshine looked like it was lying in my face, a blinder to everyone else. I knew what a brain tumor was. I wasn't dumb. I knew how it could kill grown men, and now one of them had planted itself in my little brother?

My father had to stop me from sprinting into the hospital when we got there. He pushed my human instincts into a corner, which only made my adrenaline boost. The sterility of the hospital was airy, like what it might feel like to be in a helium balloon. It was made to look like this, as if the linoleum tiles and incandescent lights could blind you from the heaviness that was draped over every surface, slathered on every wall. As we got to the ward, white walls, floors, curtains and lights washed out everything. We opened a door, room 417. We entered. We saw. My little brother, a motionless amiba, hooked up to everything plastic and metal could possibly form.

My head sank. It sank like an abalone would if you tossed it off your surfboard;

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Down to the bottom of the kelp forest, where the kelps grow up, up, up, until they block out the sun. Down with all the urchins, swarming on you, eating away at your shell, at your soul, picking you clean until you are just a scratched grey mass. Deep, deep, deep. Never coming back up. Just like my little brother. Never to see real sunshine ever again, for now it was all cracked.