The Trouble Is

Chapter 44: See God Doug

I'm asleep in that hazy kind of way. You know how sometimes you're aware of things around you but you're still asleep? I'm there, in that space, when I hear the sticky sound of my bedroom door opening. Doug stands there like a little toy soldier, waiting for someone to flip the switch and let him talk.

There has always been a little something otherworldly about Douglas, even before the back yard cirque de' religion. When he was really little, like maybe three or four years old, I was pushing him in that yellow plastic Little Tikes swing. He was all little-boy scrawny, so he still fit in the swing. It was that time right before the sun goes down. It was a little chilly, so Mom had him wrapped up in a blanket from his old crib.

We'd been out a while, but even then he never tired of being outside. I had been pushing him from the front of the swing so he would know where I was at all times and wouldn't be startled with the push. Plus, I loved to see his smile when he went up high.

"I see God, Annie," he once said.

I think about that now as he stands in my doorway, silent and patient as he waits for me to stir. I throw back the covers, scoot over, and pat the bed. He dives in, and I quickly cover him with warm bedding.

"Did you have a bad dream?" I ask.

"No," he says, "not really bad."

"A good one, then?"

He thinks about this for a minute.

"I'm not sure, Annie," he says. "I don't think it was a dream. I was sort of awake and sort of asleep and just thinking."

"What were you thinking about?" I ask. I sort of dread the answer here. He's been through so much lately. I've been pretty wrapped up in my own drama for the last few weeks and haven't really taken the time to help him sort out his own. I briefly curse God for putting this wonderful little guy in the middle of this mess that has been our summer. It's no wonder Doug is holding tryouts for religions.

My mind flashes back and forth to Doug in the swing, seeing God as the sun set, and Doug now, seeking God in the harsh summer sun of our back yard. I had a science teacher when I was a freshman who always said "Life is not fair." I didn't really know then how true that would turn out to be. I send him a silent apology for thinking he was an asshole.

His tongue pushes at his slightly loose tooth as he talks.

"I think about Katie sometimes," he says quietly, like a confession. "I think I'm imagining her sometimes. I think about her playing Ninja Turtles with me when you were gone and she came to babysit. And we played Thomas trains too. She did really good voices."

"Those are good memories, Doug," I say, back in my own confessional voice. "I think about things like that too."

"What's your favorite thought?" he asks.

I think about this with the diligence it deserves. You don't stay best friends for practically your whole life without a ton of favorite thoughts and even a few not-so favorites.

"I think my favorite memories are the things we did all the time," I say. "It's easy for people to be with you in the big moments, like going to the circus or coming to all your birthday parties. But only special friends are there with you for the little things."

"What little things?" he asks.

"Like coffee at Starbucks or when you have to help clean up your house," I say.

He nods his little monkish nod, slow and serious.

"Chris is my Katie," he says. He follows it quickly with "Is that OK?"

I'm not sure if he is asking because he needs my approval or because of his comparison of Chris to Katie. Either one is fine.

"It's better than OK," I say. "It's the best thing for him to be."

He falls asleep after that, breathing those little-boy sighs off and on. I know that I'm supposed to "discourage" him from sleeping here. I also know that Mom's probably not going to say anything about it this time. His presence is comforting, even when he's asleep.

I think about that day in the swing, and I think about him lately. He's grown so much, but at the core he's still that little boy in the swing, seeing God. If I thought God were listening, I would ask him to watch over my brother, forever and ever, amen.