Gather Kids, I have a story or two to tell

Little Brother

Falling down the stairs was the best thing that could have happened to Nick before he was three years old. Mom had been working on laundry. Back then the washer and dryer were in a room in the basement in our old house. Nick and I were playing downstairs so she could keep an eye on us, but yet another load was dry and she decided to take them upstairs. I, being the eager-to-help daughter that I was, rushed up the stairs with her.

"Stay down here for just a second Nick," she said, "I'll be right back." We were upstairs for less that two minutes before I heard him screaming. 

"Mom, there's something wrong with Nick, he's crying." She had heard it too, and was already rushing back to the top of the stairs. He was holding his head in both hands. His face was red, and yet he seemed pale. His body was so small that his tears made him look even more fragile than the average three-year old. Screaming. I had never heard a more terrifying noise come from my baby brother, and to this day I have never heard anything that could match it. Thinking about it now makes me realize how much those cries haunt me. 

She flew down the stairs at a reckless speed, but luckily she didn't end up in a heap next to him on the basement floor. She scooped him up carefully and we took him straight to the emergency room.

Without the x-rays that followed over the next several hours, the doctors may never have found the cyst that had been growing in his brain, probably since birth. Hydrocephalus, meaning "water on the brain," is a condition in which cerebrospinal fluid collects in the ventricles of the brain. Huge amounts of pressure had been building in his tiny head until a surgeon went in and connected a straw-like shunt from the sac of fluid to his stomach.  

Before the age of five, he had had five complicated brain surgeries. I only remember bits and pieces from each. Every time mom told him he had to go back to the hospital, he cried. It pained us both to see his tears, but it couldn't be helped. I think it was number four of the five, but I remember him when his face was swollen so badly he couldn't open his eyes. Another when he was forced to lay on his stomach, crying softly because the spinal tap hurt so bad...  Maybe it was right after the fifth when we had to pull him around in a wagon, head still bandaged, for Halloween. 

Years later I learned more details than I ever wanted to know. Dad came so close to kidnapping him from the hospital. He didn't want to see his little boy put though that ring of hell anymore than the rest of us did. 

I remember the smell of the hospital. That disgusting astringent that always clings to your clothes after visiting. I guess it was good he was so young. Maybe these thoughts don't plague him the way they plague me. The only issue he seems to have is the ban my mom has put against him shaving his head in the summertime. 

Cannibals 

Always, it seems, that I am in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Before I could understand what was happening,

cannibals took me by the hand, and lead me to the table.

Dinner was served.

Everyone smiled at me, waiting for me to take the 

first bite. I looked at the plates neighboring my own.

Generous helpings for all.

Heaving at the thought of the mystery meat before me,

I swallowed a chunk, trying to taste it as little as possible.

Juices slid down my chin.

Killing chickens is unnecessary once someone dies of mysterious ailments. 

Lunch, I wondered, who did they have for lunch? 

Mentioning the run away from next door is a bad idea.

Never ask what happened to Uncle Dan.

Opting out of seconds, I excused myself and headed for the bathroom.

Puking in the toilet never felt so wonderful in my entire life.

Queer bits of brown and red fell from my lips as I evacuated my stomach. 

Running from the house, screaming like holy hell, would have been too embarrassing,

so I proceeded one step at a time, until freedom was mine and fresh air filled my lungs.

Tranquility was never my strong suit, but I fought for it like a madman. 

Unusual smells came from the sewer. I didn't mind.

Variance in thought was all that mattered. 

When I failed to return to the house, the 

youngest of my hosts,

Zane, was his name, came to my side, and asked me if I was ready for dessert. 

Mockery in a Headache

I had seen the unicorn sitting in the first row of the otherwise empty theater seats before my scene came up. The other kids proceeded though the rehearsal as if he wasn't there, and for all I know maybe he wasn't, but there he sat. His black tuxedo clashed against the brilliant white shimmer of his coat, and the top hat on his head hid the rainbow mane that I knew trailed from between his pointed ears down the center of his sloped back. I would have laughed at the monocle stationed over one cloud-colored eye if I hadn't known why he wore it so haughtily. 

His hind legs were folded awkwardly, one knee over the other. The tips of his front hooves were poised together in the typical stance of a chastising adult. He tried to make fun of mankind the way he thought I mocked the glory of unicorns. The white sweatsuit that encased my body left me sweat-slicked and itchy. The rainbow yarn stitched to my back was a swaying reminder of my resonating insolence. 

A singular shove from behind landed me in the spotlight. I kept trying to tell myself that all I had to do was skip over the wooden rainbow, prance through the cellophane river, and collect the red wax apples from the other side of the cardboard forest. Rainbow, river, forest. A fifty-foot trek through hell. 

I could feel the unicorn's eyes burning through the back of my sweatshirt. His gaze was boring it's way through me as I progressed one echoing step after another. Where were the business suit clad ferries? Where the fuck was the high heel wearing lawn gnome? Why was I the only one being tormented? 

With an apple gripped firmly in each hand, I dreaded what was to come next.  I stood like a deer caught in the blaze of steadily approaching headlights. Please god don't make me say it. Huge horse teeth caught a reflection of the stage lights as the unicorn smiled at me. No, it wasn't a smile at all. The beast leered at me. Someone started screaming. I looked around to see who I needed to tell to shut up before realizing the piteous wailing was coming from me. 

Concerned faces swam above me. I lay on the stage floor, staring up. I knew I had passed out before the first blurry figure stated as much. I'm lying on the floor after being mentally assaulted by a tux wearing unicorn, do you really think I need you to tell me that my six-year-old brain couldn't take the abuse any longer and finally offered me some peace by shutting down? Nu-uh. Didn't think so. 

By the time I got to my feet, the unicorn was gone. He knew he had won. I'd never say the line I had rehearsed for the last 6 weeks in the sanctity of my bedroom. Maybe I would overcome my fear of public speaking for the Christmas play. Bless us. Everyone... Then again, maybe not.