Answer:
There is a scar above my brother’s knee.
This scar tells a story of distance.
You should know for the longest time my dad worked the late shift. He’d sleep in the day and then be up all night. Because of this, we didn’t get much time with him.
We always joked about Jon being Dad’s favorite.
Although a joke, there was still some semblance of truth to our kidding around.
Most mornings when Mom had time, she’d apply her makeup in the dining room. She’d sit on the floor cross legged, peering into the mirror. Months earlier the mirror came loose from our bathroom cabinet, so now Mom found herself sitting here daily. You should know, the mirror wasn’t in a frame. Instead it had sort of an unfinished edge. This morning Mom in her haphazard rush to get out the door, precariously placed the mirror overlapping the door frame.
I imagine I was chasing Jon around the house one summer morning. Although two years younger than me, he could always hold his own against me. Most often, we didn’t fight, but instead pushed each other to be more competitive. Mostly we played. From lava, to tag, to wrestling, hide-n-go seek, to ninja turtles. We were always roughing about.
Loop after loop we were silly and screaming. “I’m gonna get you now! Come hear sucka! You’re going to DIE!!” “Nuh uh!!” We were endless in our back and forth pursuit of each other. Sometimes we’d chase each other and wrestle over something: the remote control, a toy, a snack, a dictionary.
So now I was hot on Jon’s tail. He turned a corner and I gained on him through the living room.
Instantly Jon crumpled to the ground. A scream hung in the air.
“Chaz!! Stop!!
A flood of red began to seep through Jon’s jeans. I’d never seen this much blood before. Panic settled in.
“Sorry. Sorry! What happened?”
Silence from my brother. The mirror had sliced and sunk into his skin.
I hurried to the phone. Dialed mom’s work. 342-2746.
“Bob’s Tasty Treats.”
“Is Penny there? I need to talk to my mom.”
“Just a second.”
“You know I’m busy. What’s going on?”
“Mom. Jon just sliced his knee open. There’s blood. Like so much blood. It’s everywhere. Help. What do we do?”
“Have you told your dad?”
“Oh yeeeaah… K. Love you so much. Bye”
I rushed upstairs and woke dad up from his slumber. “Dad! Dad! Jon’s hurt. He’s bleeding. Get up!”
I’m not sure what followed. I imagine Dad rushed down the stairs and wrapped Jon’s knee up in a towel or something. He probably packed us all in to our Red Lumina and rushed Jon off to the hospital twenty minutes away. Jon got stitches. I’m not sure how many. Jon doesn’t even know anymore. All Jon really remembers is the pain.
In the years that passed I began to wonder why we didn’t go upstairs to dad in the first place. Why’d we call mom first?
Through a conversation with my sister, we realized this was our normal. Although Dad was around, he was never present. He was absent so often that in a time of crisis we didn’t even turn to him. As a father, I want to be present.
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