Thank You Is a Weight

Somewhere under Tim's floppy brown hair, behind his liquid pale blue eyes, buried deep inside his cavernous gut, two words remained submerged under a lifetime of wrong turns and inevitable misfortunes.

He could see them in his mind, feel them hanging on the tip of his tongue; he could use them as a whisper when he nuzzled his face into Carlie, the brown dachshund that seemed to be the only living mammal that understood him; he could feel them like a silent warmth crawling up his spine.

But saying them aloud to Maureen?

Fuck no.

Saying 'thank you' wasn't an option.

Maybe if they were back in that tiny apartment on Hereford Avenue, where their mother would cook runny eggs while smoking Marlboro Lights and their Dad would saunter in wearing his blue rumpled uniform smelling like gasoline, Jim Beam and Molly Lynch's perfume, he could find a way.

Molly lived three floors above the O'Connell family, which would explain why neighbors wondered why Mickey was heading down in the elevator several times a week.

But never on Sunday.

On the seventh day, Tim would clip on his little red and blue striped tie, Maureen would lace up her frilly pink dress, their Dad would comb his hair straight back, and Eileen, well, on Sundays, she smelled like cigarettes and Jim Beam, and everyone at St. Ignatius got a whiff as she received Communion. As mom and daughter received Communion. The O'Connell men left as spectators at the pew.

Tim couldn't remember a time when Maureen wasn't leading the way, her brown pigtails bouncing ahead of him as she marched through life with unshakeable confidence.

Two years younger, yet she'd always been the one to grab his hand when crossing the street, or to speak up when the lunch lady short-changed him, or to stand between him and their father's bourbon-fueled rages.

Tim wanted to be the Big Brother, the prodigal son guiding his family out from the shadows.

But he couldn't. Not really. Not the way she could.

By the time Maureen was ten, she was balancing their mother's checkbook. At twelve, she was negotiating with bill collectors. At fourteen, she had broken many hearts, including Joe Flaherty's, Tim's best friend. And then there was the internship she turned into a VP role at the bank.

It grated on him, this relentless competence. Each of Maureen's successes felt like a personal affront, small attacks, reminders that Tim was born under an unlucky star.

He was supposed to be the protector, the one with all the answers. Instead, he was perpetually stumbling in his little sister's wake, struggling to keep up with her effortless stride through life.

And now, at thirty-seven, with Maureen yet again coming to his rescue—this time with a spare room in her sleek downtown apartment after his latest job loss—Tim felt that familiar resentment bubbling up. It mixed toxically with the grudging gratitude he couldn't bring himself to voice, creating a cocktail of emotions that threatened to choke him every time he looked at her.

How do you thank someone for saving your life when you resent them for having to do it in the first place?

Their recent routine found Tim in the kitchen, stitching together some protein and starch; the least he could do was get dinner together before Maureen arrived home from work.

As he cut the potatoes and browned the ground beef, he couldn't help but chuckle--he was only a head of cabbage away from recreating a staple from their childhood.

Paper plates set on the table. Lids on the pots to keep the food warm. Pitcher of water filled to the brim.  

Tim put on the TV and waited for his sister to arrive.

An episode and a half of Six Feet Under later, and still no Maureen.

Hungry and annoyed, Tim made a lukewarm plate and retreated back to the couch. It was unlike her not to be in touch over the past few weeks, even on the nights she was clearly overworked and underwhelmed with her job. Did she tell him about some forced corporate dinner that he forgot about? Maybe a hair appointment or something? He had noticed the wings of her wispy hair turning gray.

Tim passed out and dreamed his usual dream. The one where a man with big muscular arms was attacking his dad. It was always an unprovoked attack, and it always ended the same way: Tim's tiny fists feeling like flea bites on the back of the man who wished ill will on his dad. Or sometimes, the stab of a knife or shot from a gun is laughed off by the unknown assailant. Maureen was there, always. But she would be going about her business, oblivious to the ruckus the O'Connell men were embroiled in.

It was 2:43am when the cell phone woke him.

The hospital said something about an accident.

Next thing Tim knew, he was standing in the waiting room at Bingham General clutching a paper cup filled with cold coffee.  

A doctor approaches wearing a grave expression, explaining that Maureen has been in a serious car accident. She's in rough shape but expected to recover fully.

The gravity of it all crashes down on Tim. He internally commits to be there for it all. Cooking dinners, doing the laundry, driving Maureen to physical therapy, whatever she needs, he will do.

Using actions instead of words to solve problems has always been the O'Connell way. But when Tim enters Maureen's hospital room and sees her lying there full of tubes; dried blood in her ponytail; a small, crooked apologetic smile on her face, he loses all control.

It's not a sob, it's a hysterical cry, his body convulsing under the weight of decades of missed expectations. Yet he's grateful. So grateful.

Maureen is alive.

And the realization is piercing.

Maureen is the one who kept him alive.

He steadies his legs as he approaches the bed and sits on a small stool. Gently grabbing her cold, fragile hand, Tim says: "Thank you. For everything. You saved me."

Her hand tightens around his as tears stream down her cheeks.