Remember My Name (27 page)

“You’re scaring me, Jackson.”
Ben’s tone dips into uncertainty. “I can’t tell if you’re serious, but it seems
like you’ve actually thought about this.” In my peripheral vision, I see him
pick up the bottle and roll it across his hands, just like I did earlier. My
heart tap-dances against my ribs as he turns his full attention back to me.
“Would you really leave like that?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble.
“Sometimes living here is really tough.”

Ben looks at me like he’s
really seeing me. “I don’t know if I could lose you again,” he says softly.

“Are you mad?” I’m not sure
why I’m asking.

Shaking his head slowly, he
says, “No, not mad. Worried, though.” He speaks slowly, like he’s afraid I’m
fragile. Maybe I am.

“Will you be back out here
again?” he asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” I
shrug. “More often these days I feel like I don’t have control over anything
anymore. Usually I just sit here and think.”

“And today?”

“Some days are different.”

He lets out a long sigh,
dropping his face into his hands. “I want to talk about this, Jackson, but I
want to make sure Dad doesn’t catch you with that bottle.”

“I’ll bring it back to the
house. Then we can talk if you want.”

“I want to,” he affirms. “I
have to take care of something quick, but I’ll be right behind you. Promise you
won’t do anything rash?”

I nod.

“All right, then get that
stuff back to the house and into his cabinet before he gets home. I’ll meet you
in your room in like twenty minutes, okay?”

I nod again and get to my
feet, leaving Ben on the rock, phone in hand. Maybe I should be worried about
who he’s calling and what he might say, but I’m not. I trust him.

Inside the house, my arm
reaches over the crowd of bottles in the cabinet beside the refrigerator,
trying to sneak the Glenlivet 21 into its resting place at the back. The bottom
clunks against two other bottles as I stretch. I’m about to replace it, good as
new with no one the wiser when a voice stops me. “What are you doing?” I close
my eyes, bracing for what’s coming.

“I didn’t drink any,” I say
shakily, hoping I can sound convincing. “I was just being stupid.”

“At least you’re being
honest about one thing.” Dad sets a hand on my neck and I shiver despite the
sultry heat in the kitchen. When he squeezes, I scrunch up my shoulders and
tilt my head back to lessen the discomfort. He’s warning me. But a warning
against what? Will he throw me across the kitchen again? Not at this exact
moment with my arm hovering over a dozen bottles of expensive whiskey, that’s
for sure.

He lets go, but I don’t relax.
Beneath his words is a river of contempt. “The one you’re holding, let me see
it.” I do as he says. “The 21?”

I flinch at his tone. “I
didn’t know which one I grabbed. I didn’t drink any.”

His eyes examine first the
bottle, then me. In a swift movement, he grabs my jaw. “Breathe,” he commands.

I bite my lower lip. His
fingers tighten on my chin, giving it a shake. I exhale like he says. “Hmph,”
he shakes his head. “A thief and a liar.” I turn my head away slightly,
preemptively squinting my eyelids half closed and expecting the blow at any
second, but it doesn’t come. The pressure on my jaw disappears.

“So you want to drink
whiskey, huh?” he asks. Looking up, I see he’s moved to the table. He sets the
bottle in the center. “Sit.” When I don’t move, he snaps his fingers and points
at the chair.
“Sit.”
I pull out the chair and do as he says. Dad takes
two shot glasses from the cabinet and sits across from me. Setting one down in
front of me, he keeps the other for himself.

I don’t get it. I’ve
obviously shown that I don’t mind the taste, so why is he going to make me take
a shot? Has he given up on punishment altogether?

Removing the cap, he pours a
shot for each of us. Any doubt I had as to whether he was still angry
disappears when he speaks. “Drink,” he commands. The tiny glass is cool against
my fingers. I put back the shot. So does he. Thanks to my sips earlier, my
throat is already numb to the worst of the burn.

Without pausing, he pours
another shot for each of us. The chill in his voice is the furthest thing from
the heat permeating the air. “Drink,” he says. I put back the shot. So does he.
I gaze uneasily at the bottle. It’s still three-fourths full.

On the third shot, my
fingers hesitate to touch the glass. His steely glare cuts into me like the knife
across my hand when I was sixteen. Swallowing my apprehension, I close my
fingers around the tiny glass. I put back the shot. So does he.

I’m not ready for it when
the strength of the alcohol hits me. My stomach has been humming warmly for a
few minutes already, but now the feeling surges through my hands, my face, my
feet, my tongue.

The level in the bottle
steadily drops as he pours round four, five and six for us. I don’t need
another of his looks to know that I don’t want to know what will happen if I
refuse to play this game. I put back the shots. One. After. Another. So does
he.

Round seven empties the
bottle. Well, almost. There is still a little left in the bottom. He tips the
bottle over my glass, waiting for the last drops to glide along the inside of
the bottle before dripping into my share. My torso decides to lean forward a
bit. I catch myself and straighten, reaching my hand out to take the shot.
What’s one more going to matter? At the thought, my throat constricts and my
tongue feels heavy. I’m not used to feeling this way. I never gag or feel sick
when I drink. But then, I also never drink like this. I glance at Dad. Hasn’t
he made his point already? His cold gaze answers my question with an
unequivocal “no.”

I put back the shot. The
kitchen sways back and forth without any movement from me. I clench my teeth as
the liquid falls down my throat. I’m not used to gagging at all. Once it’s
down, the feeling disappears. I’m thankful for that. My head lolls to the side,
but it doesn’t bother me. It’s more comfortable that way. Across from me, Dad’s
features are suffused with disappointment, but I can’t tell if he’s
disappointed in himself or me. As if on cue, he gets up without a word. Like
always, it’s his silence that hurts the most.

Ben

I tried calling Mom three
times. And then I left messages. On our landline’s answering machine, on her
cell phone, and her work cell phone. Then I left a message on her secretary’s
voicemail. It seems like weeks since I’ve talked to her, and I need her now.
Jackson is going through some serious shit that I can’t solve on my own.

Finally giving up on
reaching her, I cross the yard and walk inside, passing Dad on his way out. He
doesn’t say anything to me, which strikes me as odd. At least he doesn’t seem
angry, so Jackson must have successfully stashed the bottle.

Jackson is sitting at the
kitchen table. But something is off about him, because he’s leaning awkwardly
to the side. My attention snaps to the object in the center of the table. My
heart sinks. It’s the empty bottle of Glenlivet 21.

“Jackson,” I say cautiously.
“What happened?”

Instead of answering, he
falls out of his chair onto the floor.
Fucking hell.
Kicking the chair
of the way so he can lie on his back, I kneel beside him. His eyes open slowly,
and his lips form into a lazy grin. “Ben.” His smile grows wider for a moment.
It’s not a true expression of happiness though, instead it’s tainted by
something dark. He touches the side of my face, the tips of his fingers dipping
into my hair.

“What the hell did you do?”

He frowns, looking away.
“Don’t yell at me.”

I grunt. “You promised you
wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

He winces when I say the
word
stupid
. “Don’t say that.” He assumes an air of lucidity. “Dad calls
me that enough.” Then seeming to forget what he just said, he rolls onto his
side, hitting his head on the table leg. “Ow.” His voice is muffled because
he’s talking into the floor.

I raise my head enough to
see the top of the table. Two shot glasses. Then it all clicks. “Did Dad make
you do this?” Jackson doesn’t respond, so I drag him onto his back again.
Shaking his shoulder, I repeat my question.

He lets out a long breath,
and I’m forced to turn my head away. It smells like he soaked himself overnight
in a bath of booze. “I didn’t want to,” he whines. “I didn’t want to, but he
made me.”

A swell of rage rises within
me.
Goddamn it, Dad. How can you treat Jackson like this?
Leaving
Jackson lying on the floor, I run out of the house, throwing the screen door
open as I go.

Dad is already in his truck
and turning the key. As it rumbles awake, his eyes catch mine, flooded with a
disappointment so deep I’m afraid I might drown in it. Then the engine roars
and he pulls out of the driveway, tires kicking gravel.

I’m so mad I can barely
think, but Dad is gone. Jackson is the one who needs help. With a parting wish
that Dad crashes himself into a tree, I turn back toward the house and the
person half passed out on the kitchen floor.

“Hey, big brother,” I say,
crouching beside him again. “You and Dad split the bottle, right?” I pat his
cheek to get his attention, doing it lightly so as not to cause further injury
to my damaged brother.

Jackson’s eyes have been
fuzzed out, but they focus on me now for just a second. I think he’s trying to nod
as he slurs his words together. “I took a shot, he took a shot. I took a shot,
he took a shot. I took a shot, he took a–”

“Okay, I get it,” I
interrupt him. The bottle is a 750 milliliter. If I remember right, that’s
seventeen or eighteen regular shots when it’s full. It wasn’t quite full when
they started. So if there were, say, fifteen shots left in it, then each one
would get seven, maybe a bit more. Shit, that’s a lot. But it’s not too much. I
know, because I know I can handle that much. It’ll be rough for him tomorrow,
but he’ll live.

It would be easier if I
could get him to throw up, but that’s pretty much impossible for either of us.
It’s why we can put down so much food. Or alcohol. Little gag reflex, even less
weakness to nausea. Roanoke-No-Puke is a nickname I sometimes got called back
home. It’s a dumb one, because it doesn’t rhyme and it’s not particularly
imaginative, but it is accurate.

Heaving his arm up over my
shoulder, I give him a second to get his feet under him before beginning the task
of getting him up the stairs. He sways unstably, so I sling my arm around his
waist. He lets his head drop onto my shoulder but still makes an effort to walk
up the stairs along with me.

We’re halfway up the stairs
when he says, “Ben.” His voice is clearer now, as if the alcohol has given his
brain a temporary respite. Standing up might have helped, for the moment
anyway.

“What is it, Jackson?” I
ask, pausing in my efforts to heave him up the stairs.

We sway back and forth,
finally coming to a rest against the wall. The words are difficult for him to
get out. “I hate him.” He burps, wincing as he exhales.
Yeah, I bet that
burns.
I lean away from the cloud of whiskey vapor.

His head braced against the
wall, he lets his eyes rest.

“It’s wrong what he did,” I
say. “It would be child abuse if you weren’t eighteen.”

He barks a laugh. “So it
suddenly stopped being abuse when I had my last birthday?” He’s trying to keep
his words clear but they’re still tripping over each other.

My heart breaks for what our
dad has put him through. But his admission makes me wonder if there’s more I
don’t know about. “What else has he done?”

Jackson burps again, smaller
this time. “Does it really matter?” He pushes himself away from the wall. “Help
me up to the bathroom, ‘kay?”

“Sure.”

He stumbles at the top of
the stairs, but with my help, we make it to the bathroom. I position him in
front of the toilet, his arm still slung around my shoulder. “Um, you need to
take a piss or what?” I’m not convinced he can stand up by himself right now,
but I’ll stay and hold him up while he does his business if he wants me to.

His fingers fumble at his
zipper. “Don’t look,” he mumbles.

Like he even needs to tell
me that. “I won’t,” I assure him.

Leaning forward just a bit,
he starts peeing. Except the sound I hear is the dull, muted one of liquid
striking plastic.
Really, Jackson?
I have to break my promise not to
look. He’s aiming way too high and would be hitting the front of the tank if
the seat weren’t up. Making sure not to touch something I shouldn’t, I push
down with one finger on the back of his hand until he’s actually peeing into
the bowl. For fear of him straying again, I maintain the pressure on his hand
until he’s finished. He doesn’t say anything.

I can’t imagine what Dad
would think if he saw
this.
But I also don’t really care. He can go fuck
himself. He lost the right to have an opinion when he forced Jackson to drink
all that booze, but really it was probably long before that. The thought digs
into my throat like barbed wire as Jackson zips up and I flush the toilet for
him. The water swirls. I wish we could flush our lives, to let the water sweep
through and take away all the bad things we don’t want to see or think about.

Instead of turning to wash
his hands or leave, he pulls away from me and drops purposefully to his knees,
his hands grabbing the edge of the toilet bowl. “You’re trying to puke?” I ask,
incredulous. We don’t throw up. We just don’t.

A year ago, I was at a party
and went overboard. After I woke up at the hospital, Mom started asking
questions and eventually figured out that I hadn’t thrown up since I had the
flu in fifth grade. No matter how much I drank, it didn’t come up. My friends
were jealous and assumed it was a blessing. It isn’t.

A sickening heaving sound from
Jackson’s throat brings me back to the moment. He has two fingers stuffed into
his mouth past his knuckles. He heaves again, but it’s just the hollow echo of
gagging. I can see the tendons moving faintly in his hand, so he must really be
giving that muscle in the back of his throat a hard time, but as he gags for a
third and then fourth time, it’s clear he isn’t getting anywhere.

Removing his fingers, which
now have a glistening layer of saliva covering them, he lets his head hang.
“Fuck,”
he growls through gritted teeth. I kneel next to him and rest my hand on the
middle of his back. The look he gives me can’t be described as anything but
despair. I try to reassure myself that the redness in his face and the tears in
his eyes are probably from trying to make himself throw up.

“Ben,” he says. “Don’t let
this happen.”

I’m not exactly sure what he
means, but when he sticks his fingers back into his mouth, I remember the one
time I
was
able to throw up. It was less than three months after I was
in the hospital. I knew I’d had too much, and I didn’t want to disappoint Mom
again, so I tried
everything
. Eventually something worked.

Jackson is facing down into
the toilet, the first of the inevitable waves of gagging resonating out of the
toilet bowl, when I put my arm around his waist.

“I’m going to try something
that worked for me once,” I whisper. He doesn’t respond, so I proceed by
slipping my hand under his shirt and placing my palm against his stomach. His
skin is warm. Hot, really. He dry heaves again. Sliding my hand down an inch or
two under the waistband of his boxer briefs, I press up and in on his abdomen,
bringing my hand up past his belly button. The next retch sounds like there’s
more substance behind it, but it’s hard to tell. It all sounds terrible. Pushing
away my own embarrassment at touching my brother this way, I move my hand down
to its original position and press again, a little firmer now. This time the
empty heave is replaced by the disgusting sound of liquid traveling up his
throat.

I exhale in relief and
quickly remove my hand from his stomach as he begins to vomit. Now that he’s
started, there’s no stopping him. When he finally finishes, his left hand is
covered in a caramel-colored slime of mucus and stomach acid and his face is
even brighter red than before. He spits one last time into the toilet before
pushing himself to his feet. I step around him to flush the toilet while he
washes his hands and face. From the way he’s leaning on the vanity while he
does this, I can tell he’s intoxicated. He saved himself from a horrible
hangover, but he’s still drunk for the time being.

“Drink water,” I say,
holding out the empty glass we always keep by the sink. He fills it and drinks.
Then he refills it and drains the second glass as well. It’s unclear if he
still needs help to keep his balance but I give it anyway.

The twilight of evening
paints shadows into the hallway as we move along it. When we reach his room, I
relax my grip on him and he falls face first onto the bed. He groans but
doesn’t move. What do I do with him now? In case he does throw up again, I want
to be here. I’ve heard too many horror stories of drunk teens choking on their
own vomit. I shudder at the thought.

Holding his arms, I heave
him over onto his back. “Ben,” he says. “Don’t go.” His words are partly coated
with the syrupy insincerity of intoxication that still lingers in his voice,
but hidden underneath is something more substantial. He needs me now. “Don’t
go,” he repeats, wrapping his arms around his chest like he’s warding off a
chill. Ironic considering how hot it is in here.

“Okay,” I whisper. He rocks
from side to side. I don’t think he heard me. I want to fetch him more water
and some ibuprofen, but I might as well get him ready for bed before he gets
comfortable. Not that comfortable means anything to him right now.

Again being careful not to
touch anything I shouldn’t, I undo the tie on the front of his shorts and tug
them down. I go slow and try my best to preserve his modesty, but the friction
is a bit too much and his boxer briefs get pulled down a few inches before I
get the shorts off. His briefs today are fuchsia with bright yellow stripes.
Turning my gaze away from his partial exposure, I quickly pull his underwear
back up.

Jackson tilts his head to
the side, but he’s not really looking at me. “What are you doing?” he mumbles.

“Just getting you ready for
bed,” I say. Sitting beside him, I get him to sit up and then I remove his
t-shirt too. He flops backward the moment I let go.

Despite his request not to
leave him, I tiptoe out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen, returning
with a tall glass of water and a pair of pink ibuprofen tablets. Setting them
down on the nightstand, I take a seat on the edge of the bed beside my brother.

My eyes focus on his chest,
narrowing in on the simple necklace with the ring on it. Picking up the small
round object resting on his breastbone, I roll it between my thumb and
forefinger. What significance does this have to him? Was it a gift from Matt,
or was there someone else? A bolt of jealousy strikes me. Not jealousy over
some love affair. I don’t care about that. No, the idea that bothers me is that
Jackson has someone so close to his heart that he needs this physical reminder
always with him. In our years apart, did he try to replace me, and did that
someone give him this ring?

It’s hard to see in the
semi-darkness, but a faintly glassy reflection tells me that Jackson’s eyes are
open and fixed on me. I don’t let go of the ring, but I don’t move either. I
wasn’t expecting him to be anything but completely passed out, but I guess
purging all that alcohol from his stomach must be speeding him toward sobriety.