The Golden Child

I miss my brother. No, he’s not dead or anything, in fact, we currently live about seven minutes apart. But I rarely see him. We run into each other at family functions— at least as far as family functions go given the dysfunctional composition of our family. We are always cordial, and in some ways easily fall back into loose comradery and long-shared inside jokes. There is a shared understanding of each other that I think we both underestimate. There’s also some frustration in the parts of each other that are completely misunderstood. We are very different in some ways, remarkably alike in others — which I suppose is true of any siblings. Ironically, I think my sister and brother are very much alike, although both would bristle at the notion. In recent years, I guess you could qualify my brother and I’s relationship as “strained,” although that seems too harsh a descriptor, and indicates a cataclysmic event of some kind. There wasn’t. It was more of a gradual growing apart, an acceptance that some differences weren’t going to be reconciled, though part of me is still puzzled by what those difference are. I have my suspicions, but those are musing for another day. Bottom line, we used to be close, now we’re not, and that sucks.

Growing up, my brother was the closest thing to a father that I knew. Yes, a bizarre statement considering I had an actual father in the house, but Dad never really filled the role of trusted advisor and wise sage. And certainly he was no kind of protector. Quite the opposite — he engendered fear, distrust, and the omnipresent realization that he was Pinocchio to Mom’s Geppetto.

My brother and I were left to fend for ourselves in deciphering the finer points of life. As he’s older, he obviously had far more wisdom than I — even if it was only 2½ years’ worth. I would look to him for the answers to everything. Most times he had them. He’s been blessed with a world class intellect, so on merit alone his words carried weight.

The dispensing of wisdom typically came in the nighttime hours when we were supposed to be sleeping. I vaguely remember having to go to bed at ridiculously early hours, and of course we were supposed to be quiet up there. So I would sneak across the tiny hall to sit next to his bed and we’d whisper until I was either caught or tired. Usually being caught in this instance wasn’t the end of the world — Mom was generally too lazy to make the trek upstairs and would instead bellow an order to get back to bed. I didn’t need to be told twice. We got pretty good at sneaking around in general, and at some point knew how to avoid all the creaky spots in the floors and steps.

In spite of everything, we were still boys, and would push the envelope in our own way. Our cousins introduced us to the novel idea of folding paper into tiny arrows and shooting them with rubber bands. Of course, that meant it’s time to play war! One night we folded our arsenals, hid our paper stashes, readied the backup rubber bands, and went into battle. Peering around corners, diving silently under cover. Snapping rounds rapid fire in the direction of our foe. It was a blast. Once, I got hit in the eye, and I think I let out an involuntary yelp. My brother instantly shushed me, and I knew why. Thankfully, our battle remained covert. The next morning, the floor was littered with countless sheets of tiny paper. I bet there’s still a few of those artifacts tucked away in the recesses of that house.

One night we were feeling especially brave, and pushed the boundaries of safety about as far as they could go. I had an old eraser in the shape of a Volkswagen Beetle. We got the bright idea to play hide and seek with it. One of us would go hide it, then the other was tasked with retrieving it for the next round. Sounds simple enough, but we were competitive, and that meant we were going to try and outdo each other.

It started off as tentative forays into each other’s turf. I’d hide it under the dust bunnies behind his speakers, he’d slip it into a crevice behind my dresser. But it was a small house, and there was limited real estate in our respective domains. Besides, the danger factor wasn’t nearly enough for our new found testosterone. Soon, we were sneaking it down the three-step landing and placing it at the top of the stairs. Slightly precarious, but not dangerous. Then, it was time to up that ante. On the steps themselves. The aged oak of yesteryear, buried beneath the puke green carpet of the disco decade. Loud, ornery, creaky steps, moaning their complaint with each footfall. Oh yes, this was now a man’s game. Which of us could navigate the stairway of doom without perking the ear of the beast that roamed the nether regions below? One step down. Hiding the eraser was the easy part, because you could reach without actually having to step down . Two steps down. Three. We have crossed over into suicide territory. The beast might even be able to smell our fear. There is so much to process in a short amount of time. The stairs. Always mindful of the stairs. Keep to the outside of the treads, they are less worn and less prone to cry out in anguish. The third step must be completely avoided — it is in league with the beast and will eagerly give away your position. But noise is only one factor. You must stay out of the line of sight, as you never know when the beast will be making its rounds below. Dammit. Why am I wearing tighty whiteys and a white t-shirt? I must be practically glowing. And the final problem. Where is that eraser? I can’t see it. How many steps down? Which side of the stairway? Do I continue the stealth approach or make a lightning fast snatch and grab? What is my alibi should I be discovered? Is it even possible to talk my way out of it? Oh no. He has raised the stakes beyond what I could ever imagine. The eraser is not on a stair. It is tucked away in the corner of the overhead landing, teetering precariously on the lip of the molding. How did he put it there? How in God’s name has it not fallen already? Deep breath. I can do this. Straddle wide, left right left. Hug the left side. Reach. Shit. Can’t quite get it. One. More. Step. Almost there… Yes! I’ve got it! Run! Silent like the Apache in all those Louis L’Amour books. Run! I am around the landing. I hear the beast circling around the corner. She stops. Sniffs the air. All is silent. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. She grunts and shuffles on. I exhale slowly. I have lived to fight another round.

Where the hell am I going to hide this eraser?

By the wee hours, we had pushed each other to the brink. We had repeatedly managed to sneak all the way down the stairs and into the living room, praying that mom wouldn’t leave her perch in the kitchen. Eventually, one of us got caught, and thankfully not with eraser in hand. That might have been difficult to explain. “Just doing some late night drawing. In the living room. Without paper or pencil. Nothing to see here.” My brother must have been the one that got busted, and I vaguely remember him utilizing the whole “just using the bathroom” line. He, of course, could get away with it. It would have been a vastly different scenario if I was the one roaming the house in my skivvies. Game over, time for bed.

He was my protector, at least as much as he could have been. I know he carries some residual guilt for not being able to do more, but for God’s sake, he was a child, too. We tried to look out for each other as best we could. Most siblings go through some phase where they fight like cats and dogs. We never really had that, because we knew our fight was against a larger foe. Sure, as kids we’d get into spats and tattle on each other. I’m sure there were plenty of times I was the annoying little brother, and I didn’t particularly appreciate when he’d come home from wrestling practice and wrap me into a pretzel. But mostly we both tried to keep the peace. To do whatever we could to prevent another blowup. I can’t imagine how things must have been from his perspective. I know what it was like to be on the other end of mom’s wrath — something that I never recall being directed at him. He had to watch it all, though, helplessly. That’s got to be a heavy burden to bear.

He was definitely the golden child. While I could never do anything right in mom’s eyes, he could do no wrong. While this may sound like an exaggeration, my siblings, and even my father would readily admit to this being true. Apparently the extended family saw it, too, as aunts and uncles have started to open up about witnessing the two very different forms of treatment afforded my brother and I.

In the world of the Borderline this is actually quite normal. My understanding of the illness is that there is essentially a fracturing of the brain at an early age. In a Borderline mind, things are black and white; there is no grey area. Dan was good, I was bad. That’s about as simple as it gets. He was smart and good looking and athletic. Sweet and kind and thoughtful. I was dumb and ugly and scrawny. I was also sneaky and deceitful and selfish. We could quite literally do the same things and get very different results. I have no idea why I became the lightning rod for every torment that lurked inside her twisted brain. If I remove myself and think about it dispassionately in the present, it’s actually a fascinating study in and of itself. Was there a conscious reason that she channeled her hate through me? Could it have been as simple as childbirth? He was premature, a tiny baby born in a military hospital in Germany. He had lung issues and had to fight for his life in those early days. Me? I was a 10lb. behemoth, and they had to break my shoulders to get me out of my mother’s womb. Was that it? From day one I caused her more pain, so she was going to see to it that it was all returned back to me. I realize that sounds completely ludicrous, but I have spent a lifetime trying to understand any of it. If I can rationalize abuse in some capacity, no matter how far-fetched, maybe I can think away some of that pain instead of feeling it.

The truth is, my brother was good, in all those ways that high-achieving kids make their parents proud. As I mentioned, he’s got a powerful brain, and that was evident from the get-go. He skipped first grade, then plowed his way to the top of the academic food chain. He was a National Merit Scholar, Salutatorian, and got some ridiculously high scores on his ACT and SAT. I was recently walking the halls of my old high school and found a random plaque celebrating the band musician of the year award he received. It was generally like that. Teachers all knew who I was and were thrilled to have another Watson kid in class. No one was surprised when MIT and other impressive schools took a look at him. He ended up on some sort of scholarship to Purdue, and eventually got his Master’s in Mechanical Engineering from there. He’s been an engineer in the corporate world ever since, and I think finally has found the kind of job that is fulfilling and rewarding.

I learned a lot from him. He was, in appropriate teenage boy fashion, the finder and keeper of hi-fi stereo equipment. In our younger years, this consisted of a cassette recorder equipped with a microphone. We’d turn on the transistor radio (no, this wasn’t circa 1950, but we worked with what we had) and when a good song came on, put the tape recorder right over the speaker and hit record. Then you had to be real quiet, so that the fidelity of the recording wasn’t compromised. Nothing worse than a sneeze sneaking into the tape of your favorite song. There were mix tapes of all sorts of random things. Steve Martin’s “King Tut” followed by something called “Rappin Ron Reagan,” then Power Station’s “Some Like it Hot.” No, I don’t know why Robert Palmer is dressed like a priest in the video. But I do know the girls all loved John Taylor.