I vividly remember the last time my brother hit me.
Ten years later, I can still see his face plainly as it was. The seconds leading to impact. His exact expression. The icy stare of his pale blue eyes.
He’s always had the appearance of our dad’s dad, with the eyes of our mom’s mom. He headbutted my face, so I had a good view.
For many years the two of us went to our local summer camp for people with special needs — I worked there as a student aide, before eventually becoming an adult aide, and Max was a longtime camper.
I was in college and had a car, so I drove us to and from one of the nearby schools three days a week. We almost never had any issues — that phase was far behind us, we were older and had matured considerably by then.
On one particularly hot, sunny July afternoon, my assigned camper’s ride was running a little behind — no worries, these things happen.
Although I didn’t mind waiting a few minutes longer, my brother’s group had just recently gotten back from their outings, so they were already waiting outside in the heat.
The birds seemed to narrate the tension in the air.
Max hates birds.
The pick-up area has a large pine tree with bushes nearby that line the gymnasium wall: a lovely community for winged friends.
As the cacophony of goodbyes and see you tomorrows were afloat, the temperature felt to be reaching its peak, along with the chorus of tweets and chirps also approaching their culmination.
I shuffled down the sidewalk to the doors where my brother typically waited inside, only to be surprised by him suddenly being in front of me.
I can’t recall if I actually said, “Hey Maxman!” or was about to, but the instant we made eye-contact, I could sense his unease.
As if time were frozen around us, it was now just my big brother and me.
His movements were fluid and precise, he slid effortlessly between the human-shaped statues, through gaps that suddenly appeared; and he was quick — it all happened within one breath.
He kept his eyes wide open, scrunching his forehead, lifting his hairline and ears.
He took one stride and we were face to face.
With the second stride, he smoothly leaned back before throwing his full force forward like a bighorn sheep.
We held eye-contact the entire time until I flung my head back, grabbing my nose to stop the blood that was readying itself to flow.
In the loudest voice I have ever used at him, I shouted from the bottom of my chest, “GET IN THE CAR!”
Someone passed me a T-shirt to cover my nose, but I couldn’t tell you who.
This happened to be the closest school to our house, the same house we grew-up in, down the road from this same elementary school we attended as kids.
I helped plant a tree next to the old, tall pine when I was in Cub Scouts. I spent countless hours on the playground running around, regardless of rain or snow. I’ve had so many impressionable moments take place here, and now, here was another.
With the slam of my door, we pulled out of the parking spot with Max in the passenger seat, his shirt pulled over his head like he does when he knows he’s in trouble.
“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??”
We turned right, onto the main road.
“I’M YOUR BROTHER!! FUUCK, MAN!”
We live maybe 90 seconds away, if you drive slowly.
I pulled the blood-soaked shirt from my face so he could hear me perfectly clear.
“HOLY SHIT, YOU FUCKED UP, MAN!”
“Ahh.”
Max is non-verbal. “Ahh” is about the extent of his vocal range. Although he can and certainly does make sounds, they are not actual words; unless you’re one of those cheap Scrabble players using stupid two-letter words, in which case, ew.
“YOU KNOW MOM’S GONNA FIND OUT ABOUT THIS.”
In a softer, more serious, somber tone, “Ahh.”
We turned left onto our street and then right, into the driveway with the big blue mail box.
Our mom was already standing in front of the garage — another staff member had called and warned her.
“Hah. Good luck, dude.”
Max is not a tall guy, but is large. Our mom is far from tall, or large, but might as well have been a giant or fire-breathing dragon.
“GO TO YOUR ROOOM!!”
Words did not need to be spoken — her glaring fury said it all, and Max was aware that he was in the wrong — but when your god speaks directly to you, you listen.
Max darted past her like a lightning bolt holding its tail…
My mom’s been in prison since then…
Not really, she’s a living saint and we are beyond fortunate to have her.
Max stormed-off to his room and stayed there until he cooled down.
I’m sure he didn’t mean to hit me — there was a lot on his plate and sometimes it’s difficult to process changes outside of your control, I get it.
After some time, he meekly walked down the hallway toward the living room.
“Are you Happy Max now?”, an angelic voice chimed.
He pointed to his big fake smile which indicated that all is well again.
“And you’re sorry for hitting your brother?”
“Ahh.”