They warn me he's been less upbeat lately. They warn me he's grown shaggy.
C doesn't cope well with the excitement of family gatherings, so my family stops at his place after Christmas dinner at my mom's.
My mom calls ahead to ask about his mood. The staff report it as so-so.
Mom says, Well, you've seen it all before and can handle C as well as anyone.
Brother T, who comes home every chance he gets, especially at Christmas, tells me, You've suffered enough at his hands. I find this rather eloquent and just a little comical.
I'd bought each of my brothers a giant (1 kg) Cadbury chocolate bar (tasty and fair trade). T got a hoot out of it. My parents had to take turns lifting it because they couldn't believe it was all one bar. Good times all around.
But when we're about to visit C, T says, He won't be happy about this; he's not eating chocolate anymore. Seriously? Yes, apparently, the former powerlifter has eschewed all sweets on this recent health kick.
Would he like a ribboned bouquet of broccoli, then? Nope, He also throws away his veggies. (My family isn't known for our logic.)
I guess I'll just give him a hug, I say, and wait for T's reaction. I laugh: Don't worry, I value my life!
Of course the rest of the family and the staff know the chocolate taboo. Sister who hardly ever visits and never gets calls is the only one out of the loop.
So always-helpful mom rummages through her closet of goodies and pulls out a mug with a cartoon about exercise: "Why would I punish my body for something my mouth did?" - acceptable since he still drinks coffee (but only at home), except that it's got a little too much pink on it for a 6-foot-tall, muscular guy in his 30s.
A Tim Horton's card? Nope, he's cut out his favourite chilli too. They say now he'll only be seen in a Smitty's. Who knew? Everyone but me, I guess.
Mom finds a tin savings bank that say "MY wish foundation: please donate." I throw in the loonies from my wallet (not many - his staff are going to think I'm a real cheapskate.) And off we go to see what kind of C we'll find.
A bushy, lumberjack-like fellow sipping coffee greets us with a smile. I hand him our family Christmas photo. He comments (more than once) about how my husband is balder, my son is taller, and my daughter looks like me. He can't stop looking at it. And us.
He reminds me over and over that I'm 40 now, and he'll always be younger (because what are little brothers for?).
I meet two of the staff - who've worked at T and C's house for a year - and that makes me feel bad. They offer us what C's drinking.
C brings out one of the maple walking canes he's been making and selling. He tells me where he finds the trees on his staff member's yard and makes sure I understand how hard he sanded it to get it that smooooth. I marvel at how white the wood is and tell him it feel lovely because it does.
As we drive home, I think about T's comment about how I've suffered.
T was only 11 when I left home, so he and I don't have that many memories of growing up together. He was born when I was 6 1/2, so he was more of a doll than a friend. (Who needs expensive plastic babies that eat and pee when you have the real thing?) And T's interests are more in line with my dad's: whenever possible he was in the shop handing my dad the correct screw drivers while I stayed inside, as far as humanly possible from anything motorized.
C and I are only 3 years apart. The sandbox, swing set, playhouse, and toy room in my mind always have a C in them. We built roads and demolished bridges. We made up crazy tag games. We ran our own circus. What people don't understand is that even though we couldn't discuss deep thoughts, we did share feelings: hopes, fears. Lots of laughs.
I wonder what "suffering" T is remembering: The dinners interrupted by screaming? The times my arm got in the way of a meltdown? That's just life. (And for T who lives with C, it's still life.)
I don't blame C for the past any more than I blame myself. We've both done the best with what we had.
And I don't blame him for the fact that he's been less agreeable lately. I've had my down days too.
And while I prefer clean shaven myself (and worry that some may judge him for the woodsman look), I'm proud that he's independent enough to choose his own style. We all have to go through a messy stage where we find our voice and say to heck with what others think; for me it was in college; maybe this is his time. I wonder if his self-imposed diet comes from the same need as well.
I feel like this post lacks resolution, like I need to end with "I'm going to visit C's house more often" or "My Smitty's gift card is in the mail." But maybe this post is like life: a story without a clear moral or tidy ending.
The only conclusion I can draw right now is that I love my brothers. Sometimes poorly. Sometimes passionately. Sometimes silently.
Sometimes by not giving them chocolates. Sometimes by not bugging them about shaving. Always without hugs.
And that's a story (lovely and messy) I'm not done writing.
