Anything that my brother ate, I didn’t. Anything he touched, I sanitized. If he sat in the left-back seat of Dad’s Ford Explorer, you would find me in the right-hand seat. I followed it to a T, because this was the fourth command in an unlabeled list. Scrawled in the back of an old notebook, my list was a “How to live the perfect life” (i.e., clean and content). Although my handwriting had tried for perfection, the dots were far too big for their i’s, and the periods that ended sentences seemed to shout, “STOP, OR ELSE.” I had written it as a third grader, perched on a love seat that overlooked a backyard. The cushion was balanced between the window and the linoleum floor that glistened five feet below. My locked knees, hunched shoulders and list kept me safe from falling.
Like any A+ chemistry procedure, the list began with a verb. Not the colorful or active verbs used in English papers, just one word: don’t. Don’t touch the bathroom doorknob. (My sister had picked her nose and then touched it). Don’t use the fork with the scratch on the right side (it had been used to dig holes in the backyard once). Occasionally, the commands were not germophobic but were proactive instead. For example, number six: Always say goodnight to Mom and Dad twice. Once when they are in the room, and once when they walk down the stairs. This one was asterisked: *Walls are thick. Yell down. The “or else” section of each command was implied, of course. If you sat in that left seat, you would get (insert cough or disease). If mom didn’t reply to your second “GOOD NIGHT,” either you or she was as good as dead. If you gave the satisfaction of reacting to anyone, or God forbid, crying, you had lost.
The worst part of this guide: it worked. Confirmation bias pioneered my childhood, shepherding me through flus, freak accidents and uncontrollable frizz. But that’s it; my list was the only hand I held. So of course, when Elliott stuck his five nail-bitten fingers at the Easter blessing in 2018, you best believe I didn’t hold them. Holding that hand meant that I’d let someone close, which then meant they could hurt me, which would 100% end in tears. I would not have that. Looking back, my perception releases its focus on the hand. It adjusts to the boy who had reached out in hopes of grabbing onto a sister that was drifting away; his blond wisps curl around his ears as his body melts into a chair far too big. And it wasn’t the only time or the only hand I turned away. My younger sister hated me more than she wanted to be me, and Mom and Dad were disappointed that I couldn’t be patient with any of them (BECAUSE, BY THE WAY, BEING PATIENT WASN’T ON THE LIST).
Although that boy hasn’t forgiven me, the man my brother is becoming seems to be getting there. With each Chipotle burrito I buy and war movie I let him pick, hopefully, I’m working my way back. The list I wrote 10 years ago did what it was supposed to do; it protected me from germs and danger. But I also ended up building a wall that kept me safe from rejection, yet it was the loneliest place I could think of. I’m still in there, but my “How to” (not die, not get sick, not cry, etc.) list has been tossed.
Loving your siblings is like brushing your teeth or doing the dishes: you do it because you have to, not necessarily because you want to. What I’ve learned is that with every interaction you have with them, you are choosing between loving them or being indifferent. At the end of the day, hopefully you’ve chosen to show up (because you kind of have to), and you’ll realize that you need them a lot more than you think you did.
