Follow Through

Dawn has long passed, though the clock hasn’t struck seven. I was awake when the mourning doves began their song, but the chill kept me under the sheets. Careful not to wake Ana, I dress, grab the gift from the kitchen island, and step into the quiet dark of morning.

It’s Midsummer’s Day, and the sun is rising fast over the deserted highway, with the only drivers operating semi-trucks. Even for a Sunday morning, it’s dead. I do my best to outrun the sun, terrified I’ll crash if the light touches my eyes. I stick to the shade, where the coolness of avoidance gives me shelter and peace to remember.

“Robert,” Ana said to me, her tone sharp, “why are we missing two hundred dollars from the checking? And what’s with this recurring charge of four hundred bucks a month?”

I sat at my desk across the room, fiddling with a fountain pen. “I don’t remember,” I said. Ana closed the laptop from which she was doing our banking and strode over to my half of the room.

“What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“I mean, I don’t remember.”

“Bullshit,” she said, and she began pacing back and forth. “You gave Jordan money again, didn’t you?” I looked to my feet. It wasn’t too late to run.

“Goddamn it, you did, didn’t you? How much?” she asked. I stayed silent—incriminatingly so.

“You saw the statement,” I said. “It was a little much, but he promises to pay me—I mean, us—back. With interest.”

“With interest? What the hell does that even mean? If Jordan had money to pay us back with interest, he’d have enough money to not borrow from us.”

“C’mon, Ana,” I said, beginning my defense of straw and sticks, “it’s not that big a deal. It’s only a couple hundred dollars, and—”

“Only?” she interjected. “What world do you live in, Robert? I live in the world where this amount of money is groceries for two weeks, it’s an evening out for us—not just given away to your junkie brother.”

“Careful,” I said, my tone low and harsh—harsher than I meant it—“before you go too far. You don’t think I know that? I know he’s got his problems, but he’s my goddamn twin brother. I’m helping him through this.”

“You’re keeping him stuck,” Ana retorted. “You think you’re helping him when he calls at three in the morning asking for some Uber money? Or when he’s short on rent and you cover the rest?” I stayed silent then. I’d run out of straw and sticks.

Ana rubbed her eyes with long, slender olive fingers. “I love you, Robert,” she said, and I knew she meant it. “But this needs to stop. You’re a grown man with responsibility to me, but more importantly, to you.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “He’s my twin. I can’t bail on him. I need to help him, just for now, and I know he’ll come out of it soon, baby.”

Ana walked over to me, knelt to my level, taking my pale hands in hers. “You’ve been telling me this since I met you, amor,” she said. “I cannot sit by and let my life go to waste as you waste yours helping your brother kill himself.” She got up, kissed my forehead, and walked out of the room. I sat there and stared out the window, watching as the last remnants of day were devoured by the hunger of dusk

I pull into the park driveway and park in the shade. The park is probably around three hundred acres of forest, with great open fields, all well-maintained. From the cool shade of the parking lot, I survey the land—rolling hills dotted with mansions that look like shanty homes from here—and all the trees: oaks, old and young, beeches, pines, Japanese maples, and hemlocks—all grown and growing and breathing in the confines of a man-made park. Each one as alive and vibrant as the grass, with boughs littered with leaves of green hues shimmering like gemstones in sunlight.

I pull a cigarette from a pack hiding in the inside pocket of my jacket and light it, thinking hard about what I’m going to say. It’s been two years since I’ve talked to Jordan. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe there’s nothing to say at all, that whatever was said had to be said and that was that. Maybe some hurts go too deep. I take one last pull of my cigarette before ashing it on the heel of my boot, and I go to walk down the path. But I stop and enjoy one more cigarette, remembering these were the same cigarettes he once smoked.

The sun had not yet gone down, the final rays of light holding on the horizon like arms on the cliffside. I pulled up to Jordan’s apartment complex—about a block and a half from mine—and got out of the car. I hopped the gate after the code Jordan gave me didn’t work and made my way up the dilapidated stairwell that stank of mildew and human piss. I wished he didn’t live there, but he seemed happy—if one could ever be happy in a place like that.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again and heard feet shuffling and indistinct whispering.

“Hey, man,” I hollered. “It’s me.” The door opened. Rachel, one of Jordan’s girlfriends, greeted me with a yellow-toothed smile. She was a ratty-looking woman with greasy, disheveled hair and dark, sunken eyes. Rachel was, no doubt, very beautiful at one point in time—a long time ago. She carried a bottle of Bud in her hand with a cigarette hanging out her mouth.

“Robert,” she said in that raspy smoker voice that always reminded me of Rizzo from Grease. “What do you want?”

“Rachel,” I returned the courtesy, not trying too hard to hide my disgust. I only had love for one addict and she knew it. “I wanna speak to Jordan. He here?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I’m not in the mood. Go get him and give us some privacy.”

“Looks like it’s a little cold atop the high horse today,” she mocked. “You ain’t the boss of me. You don’t live here.”

“You’ve seen the name on the lease. Check it again if you forgot. Get my brother and piss off for a few.” Rachel threw me the finger and walked off. Jordan came out of the room after a short while.

“Hey, little brother,” he said, arms wide. Jordan always called me ‘little brother’ because to him, a five-minute twin-to-twin delivery interval mattered. He embraced me tight—too tight as to never forget it. I never did.

“Hey there, Jordan.” I stepped back and took a look at him. Pupils dilated. Sniffling nose with a restless jaw. Sweat beaded down his forehead despite the A/C turning the room into an igloo.

The funny part about having an identical twin is you get to see yourself in an alternate reality, a different universe, as someone you could have been had you played your hand differently. You can see yourself as an athlete, an artist, a doctor, a lawyer, or even a goddamn astronaut—all through the life your twin leads. But no matter what you see, you can never see past the differences only you and your twin can tell. You’ll never truly think you look alike; there’s always a clear distinction between the two. There in Jordan’s apartment, I did not like the alternate reality I saw, and I was selfishly happier than ever to know the indistinguishable differences between us.

Jordan motioned to the table and we sat down. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked. I scanned the room, seeing nothing but crushed cans, empty bottles, and a plethora of filled ashtrays.

“It’s about the money,” I said.

“I’m good, and how are you?” Jordan mocked, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke in my face.

“I’m sorry to skip the pleasantries.”

“It’s fine. So what about the money?”

“It’s too much.”

“Too much? You guys make like well over six figures between the two of you. What’s six hundred a month to help your baby brother out? C’mon, man.”

“I’m serious, Jordan. It’s time for you to grow up.”

Jordan scoffed as he ashed his cigarette.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“You, man.”

“I’m funny?”

“Yeah, you up on your goddamn high horse talking to me like I’m some poor asshole who can’t take care of himself. Coming in here, disrespecting my girl, talking about how you’re gonna hang me out to dry because you’re stingy all of a sudden.”

“I’m not on a high horse, Jordan.”

“Yeah, you are, man. Always have been. Ever since we were kids, you’ve been thinking you’re better than me. In school or sports; with chicks, and you always got something to say. You could never just fucking relax, man. It just got worse when that bitch, Ana—”

“Say another word about her, and I’ll break your goddamn nose.” Jordan lit another cigarette in defiance.

“Better to be on a high horse than stuck playing in the mud with losers like you,” I continued, my voice hot with rage. “Sorry I’ve always tried at shit, Jordan, unlike you who always thought trying was for geeks and assholes. But even then, I was bailing you out of trouble: Mom, Dad, school, your girlfriends. Shit, it seems like I was either giving you money to date them or telling them you really had moved to Sweden for the summer.”

Jordan chuckled at the memory. I wish I chuckled too.

“This isn’t funny!” I roared. “I’ve only ever bailed you out of trouble and you don’t even say ‘thanks’ anymore, like my help is fucking expected.”

“I’m not just any Joe Schmoe walking down the beat. I’m your goddamn twin brother, and I’m just asking for a little help right now while I get my bearings, Bobby.”

“Right now? It’s been right now for years now, Jordan, and all you’re doing is getting loaded. Every time I see you, you’re fucking high or drunk or both. You must’ve memorized my pay period, ’cause that’s the only time you call.”

“Fuck you. I call, I check in. It’s you who’s left me behind.”

“How did I leave you behind? By living life? By growing up?”

“Ever since that bitch got in the picture, you started distancing yourself from me ’cause she fucking hates me, but fuck that, man.” I didn’t reply. Not with words. I stood up, and in two heartbeats, there was a sharp crack, a yell, and a stream of blood flowing between Jordan’s fingers as he held his nose.

I find a nice table in the comforting shade of an oak not far off from where I’m meeting Jordan. I can see the spot there in the sunlight, not ten paces from me. I wait here instead, fingering the red ribbon, wondering what the hell I’m going to say to him. The sun has reached its zenith, and I feel sweat begin to pour down my back—from nerves or heat, I cannot tell. I see a squirrel chasing a blue jay up the oak, running wildly around the trunk almost comically so. I can’t help but think of him and Ana.

“I know she’s the mastermind behind all this,” Jordan said, wiping the blood from the tabletop. “She fucking hates me, and she wants me out on the street.”

“It’s not about her, don’t you get that?” I cried. “You’re just a useless piece of shit with a brain so fried it barely works anymore. You’re a fucking bum who’s got no goals, no ambitions, no life.” There was a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls on the table underneath an ashtray. It was tattered with yellow pages, the dust jacket nearly ripped to shreds.

I picked up the book. “You got no follow-through either. You’ve been trying to read this since the ninth fucking grade and can’t seem to get past the table of goddamn contents. You’re a worthless piece of shit, Jordan, and I’m done with you.” I sent the book hurtling across the room, sending it hard against the wall. The spine snapped and pages went flying across the living room.

Jordan’s tears flowed silently down his bloody face as I tore his life apart, calling him names I did not mean, bringing up things that did not matter, in a voice that was our father’s. I saw his tears, felt them as my own, and stopped shouting.

There was a tense silence as the remnants of my rage hung in the air like ghosts. Then, Jordan wiped his face, got up from the chair, and headed to the door.

“Well, little brother,” he said, his eyes burning with hurt and hate locked with mine. “I understand. I won’t ask you for money anymore. Won’t ask nothing from you, Bobby.” He opened the door and gestured it was my time to leave.

I got up, went to the door, and stopped. “You know what, Jordan,” I said, “rot in hell for all I care. Asshole.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Bobby.”

The next two years were a glimmering blur—I can hardly remember what happened. It started with a phone call later that night. It was from the ED of the hospital. I was there in less than twenty minutes.

Everyone was there—Mom, Dad, our older brother Nathaniel, and Rachel the rat, sitting in a corner crying and barely able to breathe. A doctor came up to us, told us what happened, and all the rest became white noise. The insults I threw at him earlier and the three words, “Jordan has passed” were all that echoed inside my head. Had I remained calm, I would’ve heard the doctor explain it was a car accident, that Jordan was drunk and wrapped himself around a tree going eighty down a residential.

I don’t remember much of what happened in that waiting room. The memory is clouded in a painful haze. In a melancholic madness, I remember attacking Rachel—I saw her cower in the corner like a beaten dog, but Nate and my father stopped me. They tried to restrain me as I tried to enter the ED to see him, to confirm that my twin brother was really dead, pushing past nurses, doctors, and family alike. I had to get there. I needed to see him. I couldn’t go on if I didn’t see him. I pushed them all aside, made a mad dash toward the door, but security got me first. I don’t remember much after that.

I stand there on the edge of the grass, ten paces from where I buried my brother. Half of my soul lies four feet beneath the hard-pressed earth. The tombstone is laying isolated from the rest, in its own ring of trees, centered in a pool of golden sunlight of the Midsummer’s Day sun. I carry the black-wrapped gift in my hands.

“I meant to visit sooner, but, you know,” I say to him. Only the rustling of branches up high by the warm summer wind replies. The graveyard is serenely silent.

“I brought something for you, big brother.” I untie the ribbon and carefully undo the black wrapping paper. It’s a worn paperback with a glued spine and yellowing pages. “I figure now might be a good time to read this. I love you, Jordan.”

I step out from the shadows of the tree into the sunlight, sit down by his headstone, open the book—careful not to let the pages come loose—and read, “He lay flat on the brown, pine-needled floor of the forest…”