Not because I was being systematically starved, but because I had no appetite for most of the local country cuisine and used to stock up on days when something palatable presented itself, or otherwise compensate with strawberry jam and butter sandwiches after the others had eaten.
My mother and her husband, Farmer Orren, had left me in charge of the house chores and my two younger brothers that day while they visited the nearest mid-sized village, a good few hours' drive away. I was twelve, going on thirteen, a skinny pale pimpled snotling who stammered occasionally, my brothers were 8 and 5.
My youngest brother was autistic to the point where he did not communicate much to the outside world beyond grunts, hollow sounds, and signs. I used to be the one who could connect the closest with him, not with words, but I somehow sensed what he was thinking and was able to act as his communication gateway to some degree. A man-sized fence had been built around the back yard to enable him to play unsupervised outdoors; he would otherwise have required a whole headcount to watch him all the time.
I used to ride around the countryside that summer on the bike my uncle bought me the summer before, most of the time with the 5-year old clinging to my back on the gravel roads that connected the farms with the outside world. Fear wasn't a word that was familiar to him, not fear of death or mutilation at least. Safety helmets or children's seats were a distant future, and everyone was grateful I took him off their hands.
Sometimes I secretly wonder if they were subconsciously hoping he'd fall off and be gone during one of our trips, or maybe they just didn't want to think about it as long as nothing happened. Few people care about accidents until they occur.
My mother and her husband, Farmer Orren, had left me in charge of the house chores and my two younger brothers that day while they visited the nearest mid-sized village, a good few hours' drive away. I was twelve, going on thirteen, a skinny pale pimpled snotling who stammered occasionally, my brothers were 8 and 5.
My youngest brother was autistic to the point where he did not communicate much to the outside world beyond grunts, hollow sounds, and signs. I used to be the one who could connect the closest with him, not with words, but I somehow sensed what he was thinking and was able to act as his communication gateway to some degree. A man-sized fence had been built around the back yard to enable him to play unsupervised outdoors; he would otherwise have required a whole headcount to watch him all the time.
I used to ride around the countryside that summer on the bike my uncle bought me the summer before, most of the time with the 5-year old clinging to my back on the gravel roads that connected the farms with the outside world. Fear wasn't a word that was familiar to him, not fear of death or mutilation at least. Safety helmets or children's seats were a distant future, and everyone was grateful I took him off their hands. Sometimes I secretly wonder if they were subconsciously hoping he'd fall off and be gone during one of our trips, or maybe they just didn't want to think about it as long as nothing happened. Few people care about accidents until they occur.
Me, I was secretly waiting for him to wake up and snap out of it. What's the point of spending your life as a vegetable? He looked normal. Why couldn't he just be normal?
I often tickled him as an infant, until my big sister told me you shouldn't do that because tickled babies never learn how to talk. She was just trying to protect him from my overly enthusiastic attention, but I remembered this as the years passed and he never spoke a coherent syllable.
My other brother was a frisky 8-year-old that could do anything; he rode horses bareback, made friends easily, and was generally a likable guy. In other words, the complete opposite of me.
After cooking dinner, I presented him with a choice:
Needless to say, he chose option #2; taking out the trash in our case meant dumping it in the assigned garbage pit outside, pouring copious amounts of gasoline on it, and then setting it on fire, which probably sounded like much more fun than washing dishes for an 8-year-old.
In my mind's eye, I believed he had done this countless times before, but in retrospect, perhaps this was his first time. There had been a previous incident when he and his best friend had been playing with bullets and tossed them into the fire that I was in charge of. I shoved them away, heard something pop, turned around, and felt a sharp sting in my left upper arm and something warm starting to flow. One of the cartridges had exploded, and the shrapnel had hit me. Technically, my brother shot me when he was 7, and I still have the scars to prove it.
I watched him sally enthusiastically out the door with the garbage bag and a box of matches, resigned myself to doing the dishes, and tried to think of something interesting to pass the time. After a couple of minutes, my thoughts were interrupted by a painful howl with my name in it coming from the direction of the garbage pit.
I ran outside and saw my brother running towards me with a trail of flame following him. An icy calm came over me, and I jumped over the fence and sprinted towards him. Somehow I patted out the flames with my unfeeling hands, dragged him crying into the bathroom where I removed most of his clothing down to his undergarments and forced him to sit in the bathtub, while I drenched his red, swollen backside with icy cold water from the showerhead, while he whimpered and sobbed, clearly in pain and shock.
I often tickled him as an infant, until my big sister told me you shouldn't do that because tickled babies never learn how to talk. She was just trying to protect him from my overly enthusiastic attention, but I remembered this as the years passed and he never spoke a coherent syllable.
My other brother was a frisky 8-year-old that could do anything; he rode horses bareback, made friends easily, and was generally a likable guy. In other words, the complete opposite of me.
After cooking dinner, I presented him with a choice:
- Do the dishes
*or* - Take out the trash.
Needless to say, he chose option #2; taking out the trash in our case meant dumping it in the assigned garbage pit outside, pouring copious amounts of gasoline on it, and then setting it on fire, which probably sounded like much more fun than washing dishes for an 8-year-old.
In my mind's eye, I believed he had done this countless times before, but in retrospect, perhaps this was his first time. There had been a previous incident when he and his best friend had been playing with bullets and tossed them into the fire that I was in charge of. I shoved them away, heard something pop, turned around, and felt a sharp sting in my left upper arm and something warm starting to flow. One of the cartridges had exploded, and the shrapnel had hit me. Technically, my brother shot me when he was 7, and I still have the scars to prove it.
I watched him sally enthusiastically out the door with the garbage bag and a box of matches, resigned myself to doing the dishes, and tried to think of something interesting to pass the time. After a couple of minutes, my thoughts were interrupted by a painful howl with my name in it coming from the direction of the garbage pit.
I ran outside and saw my brother running towards me with a trail of flame following him. An icy calm came over me, and I jumped over the fence and sprinted towards him. Somehow I patted out the flames with my unfeeling hands, dragged him crying into the bathroom where I removed most of his clothing down to his undergarments and forced him to sit in the bathtub, while I drenched his red, swollen backside with icy cold water from the showerhead, while he whimpered and sobbed, clearly in pain and shock.
The smell of burned flesh was overwhelming, but didn't register in my brain. Afterwards, I remember it only vaguely, but to this day, I have never been able to eat the fat part of any meat from the barbecue, as it is associated in my mind with the burning fat on my brother's back.
After a few minutes of cooling down the crying burn victim, I ran to the phone in the living room and called up his grandparents from the next farm, who promptly came and picked him up and drove him to the nearest hospital, 32 km away. That was the last I saw of him and my mother for the next 6 months.
Everything changed after this accident; nothing would ever be the same again.
After a few minutes of cooling down the crying burn victim, I ran to the phone in the living room and called up his grandparents from the next farm, who promptly came and picked him up and drove him to the nearest hospital, 32 km away. That was the last I saw of him and my mother for the next 6 months.
I was left behind, alone, and empty inside.
I had saved my younger brother's life after endangering him through lack of attention, but my guilty conscience whispered it should have been me burning.
Alone...? Where was my youngest brother? The other brother I'd been charged with keeping safe.
The last time I'd seen him, he had been outside in the playpen, playing with his tractors.
I'd been placed in charge of two brothers, not one.
My focus had been elsewhere as I unlatched the gate and dragged my sobbing brother through it and into the bathroom to tend to him.
I forgot to close the gate behind us; it had been left wide open.
And my other brother was now gone.
I was all alone, thoughts racing, starting to panic, but still rational enough to think coherently.
I ran outside and headed down to the river, which was only a few kilometers away.
He'd done this before, disappeared suddenly from the back yard, but I'd always seen when that was happening and was always able to run after him to catch him before he got too far away.
This time, he was nowhere in sight. I didn't know how long ago it was since he bolted, but it was surely time enough for him to get down to the river itself and maybe take a swim in it.
He liked water; it calmed him, but he couldn't swim and wouldn't be able to understand how treacherous the river could be.
I raced through the fields, leaping ditches and trying to retrace his steps.
Nothing. He was nowhere to be seen.
I reached the lake, but he wasn't there. I ran downstream, hoping to find him.
Had he....? Please, it can't be.
Not again, not him too.
When I had lost all hope of finding him and was about to return to the farm, empty-handed in despair, I finally spotted him. He was a few kilometers downstream, playing in a calm part of the river where it wasn't too deep and the current wasn't too strong.
He was safe, for now. He was wading in the river, picking up rocks from the bottom and throwing them back in to make a big splash. Squealing with joy each time.
Whatever energy had abandoned me came rushing back in, and I sprinted all the way to him, convinced he was about to be swept downstream or slip on some rock and hit his head and drown.
I reached him without any further incidents, and took him home, and I kept him safe. I didn't tell anyone about this; it wouldn't have made any difference for them to know what happened.
Orren and my mother returned eventually, but they both left again immediately to rush to the hospital after they learned what had happened and where he'd been taken.
Orren then returned alone; my mother had accompanied my brother via air ambulance to the regional capital, as his burns were so severe the local hospital was unable to cope with them, 80% of his body had 3rd degree or 2nd degree burns, and he would require extensive skin grafts to survive. She stayed with him while he hovered between life and death for weeks on end.
Everything changed after this accident; nothing would ever be the same again.
It was the final chapter in the beginning of the end of Orren's and my mother's marriage; her time away from the farm convinced her that she'd be better off alone with us than with him by her side.
That he wasn't contributing to our well-being, or his own. That staying would be a worse alternative than leaving. That she'd have the strength to raise three kids, on her own, somewhere far away from him.
That summer, I didn't return to the farm; I spent it with my grandparents in the fjord.
Orren and my mother were divorced within a year of the accident; even the darkest hours can produce some measure of light.
I just wish the cost hadn't been this high; I wish my brother hadn't been the one to have to pay the price.
I wished I had, I'd failed to protect him.
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