Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #42

When Tyler got home for winter break, he hugged me first, and I teared up before blinking it back. I wasn't even sad, but just so damn happy to see him because, even though it's only been a month since Thanksgiving, it feels so much longer. But time is a funny thing when you're locked in memory. (Rewound and played over and over again. It makes those moments eternal, stretching them on and on, until reality is a distant light on the horizon.)

And even though it's the holidays, I'm not in a celebratory mood. Really, I'm the only one who would rather be anywhere else. (Of course that begs the question: Where?) I'm silence smeared over the house, drifting from room to room. My parents play cheery Christmas music to keep my moods at bay, and it almost works.

At least it almost works during the daylight and early evening, when we are together. Tyler sitting next to me on the couch, cheering when the Vikings score, elbowing me until I join in. My mom taking me to the cafes with both like, or dragging Tyler with us to the movies. My dad being my dad.

And it's okay. The kind I can tolerate, the kind that almost seems like it could be more than okay. But night rolls around, sweeping through the house, and the memories slink back in.

Sleep doesn't come easy. It almost seems like something mythical at this point. Like I'll have to go out and seek it, but the harder I try, the faster it slips away. I'm so tired. It's not just not sleeping, though I'm sure that doesn't help. It's bone deep and soul deep. How do you combat that? I'm starting to think it's not possible.

But sleeping is the issue I might be able to deal with. Like everything, the problem is my head; it won't stop conjuring images. The good nights, I can write and write and write, and come through tired and satisfied, drifting into a hard slumber.

But the nights I can't, Clair comes. Not real Clair, but this horrible thought of what she is now.

She's pale, like a ghost. Too pale to be considered pretty (skin translucent and bloodless, blue veins worming just beneath the surface).

A vision, a haunting.

(She comes at night, when my mind cannot hold back my imagination. What's that snake called, the one that consumes its tail in an endless loop? That's what my mind is.)

She keeps me up at night, or rather, my mind does.

This time, though, I can't stay in the dark to haunt myself.

When I slip out of bed and head downstairs, I don't expect anyone else to be up. I don't even know the time, just that it's late, but Tyler's perched on a bar-stool, illuminated in the glow of his laptop. He cocks his head when I come into the kitchen, so I must not be as ghostly as my imaginings, which is sort of a relief.

Tyler flicks on the switch next to the counter, so we're both in the light.

"You want to talk about it?" he asks, snapping his computer shut.

"Not really." I cross my arms over my chest, pulling myself close.

"C'mere." He pats the stool next to him (too, too loud in the quiet night, but I sit anyway.)

"Well, I'd make us some coffee, but," he glances at his wrist, theatrical, "it's way too late for that." (He doesn't have a watch to check. Just the back of his arm, smooth bare skin, except for a shiny scar that he got from a burn a long time ago.)

"So, what are we having? Tea? I think we've got some peppermint stuff, but I don't really know." He barrels on when I don't say anything, "OJ? Hot chocolate?"

I nod to the last one.

"Excellent. Two mugs, coming right up." (One of them is emblazoned with "World's Okayest Dad," and the other with cartoon animals. Tyler puts the Dad mug in front of me, along with the tin of cocoa.)

"Why are you up so late, Ty?"

He blows a stream of air out his nose. "Working on a paper."

"It's break!"

He laughs. "Not for grad students. No such thing."

It's ridiculous, seeing how hard he works, even when he's not supposed to be working hard. And for me, it takes so much effort just to get to class, let alone focus and actually pass it. And I can't even worry about Tyler, who is probably tired and stressed; it's immediately a comparison, and I hate that. Why can't I help him sometimes? Why am I always the weak one? He must need me too, right? Sibling code and all that...

I've gone silent, and Tyler, always always always knowing what to do, says, "Hey, M., it's okay. We all know what's going on, and it's okay to not be okay." He pulls me close, his arms brotherly strong around me.

After a minute, Tyler shifts position, and I catch him grimacing. "You stink, kiddo."

A watery laugh escapes me. "Thanks for that."

He grins, eyes mischievously bright. "Anytime." His shoulder bumps against mine, and I bump his back.

"Careful, you'll spill your drink." (A moment of confusion, glancing at my mug tucked safe between my palms, when he rams into my shoulder again, sloshing hot chocolate all over my hands.)

"Tyler, you ass." It's hissed out, so I don't wake anyone. I make a move after him, but Tyler is too quick, spinning out of reach.

After another step towards him, I retreat to the counter, plotting. His drink is nearly untouched.

"M., no!" He groans as I take a swig.

But.

It's hot. Too, too hot. Sputter, spit, cough, choke, sputter.

Tyler is in hysterics, doubled over and howling at the picture I make (hunched over, coughing up my lungs, trying not to laugh and choke. Drowning in cocoa and laughter.)

It's then we both notice our audience, faint silhouettes just outside our spotlight.

"What's going on?" (Sleepy tired mumble)

Tyler and I lose it, and the scene blurs with tears of laughter.

(I am happy. The thought is tiny, but it's there, for a flicker of an instant.)