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He’s back. At the hospital.
That’s what your brother tells you as he shoves the phone back onto its receiver and drags you out the door. Before you know it, you’re behind the wheel and everything is moving so slow and so fast at the same time that a voice in your head warns about drinking and driving. Not that you’ve touched a drop in months, much less in the past week.
He’s back. You’re headed to him now.
But maybe he’s not. All week it seems he’s been here, but just out of sight. When you’re at work, he could be at home. At home, he could be in the lot. He is wherever you aren’t, though sometimes, in the darkness and stillness of the night once your middle brother has cried himself to sleep, you catch brief flashes of him out of the corner of your eye.
He’s back. He haunts you. And maybe he should.
You’re the one that drove him off, after all. Those boys nearly killed him, and instead of running home, he ran away. Of course, that’s not fair to him. He was scared and lost and didn’t know what to do. But you remember when he used to come to you in times like that, looked up to you as a wise older brother who knew everything. And you can’t help but wonder if he would’ve, if you hadn’t let your temper get the best of you. Part of you wishes he considered coming home before jumping on that train, but maybe you shouldn’t, because he didn’t come home, did he?
You’re still lost in thought as you pull up to the hospital and your brother takes off before the truck has stopped moving. You’re as anxious to see your baby brother as he is, of course you are, but eagerness battles with fear as you amble slowly up to the doors. Because this is it; whatever he does as you step into the waiting area will define your relationship for the next few months, maybe until he moves out. You’ve never been one for dramatics, but you can’t help feeling that his rejection may break you.
The doors slide open as you catch a glimpse of the back of your middle brother’s shirt and his cry of your youngest brother’s name. Suddenly, he’s there and he’s real, he has to be, because your brother is holding him in his arms. He’s different, even from here you can tell, and it's not just because of his chopped and bleached hair. He has a certain desperation to him that mirrors the one that’s been hanging around the house all week.
He’s back, and for the first time since that night, his green-gray eyes meet yours.
You’re standing there, eyes pleading, and it’s all you can do to keep standing there and not get on your knees and beg. Beg to him and beg to a world that has done nothing but take from you since the day you were old enough to live in it, but it has given you your little brother back, so maybe it’ll give you forgiveness too. But if it doesn’t, it’ll be okay. You try to convince yourself, it’s okay because he’s alive and he’s home and that’s all that matters-
And then he’s in your arms. Squeezing you as tight as you’re squeezing him, like both of you are afraid of letting go. You pull him in and try to tuck him into that space in your chest that felt so hollow for that whole week, where you can keep him safe. And you’re taking a breath for the first time in months or years, it must’ve been, because you can’t remember the last time your lungs felt this light. The relief is disorienting, which is probably why your fears manage to slip past your lips before you’re able to choke them back. But as he sobs out apologies and your brother whispers comforts into his hair, you gripping them both as hard as you’re able, you think maybe the brief moment of honesty was worth it.