I was cozily snuggled deep in the depths of my
quilt, scribbling away at my marble notebook on
my story. Various other notebooks were strewn
about my bed, waiting to be written in. I
especially needed to work on “Upset Memories”
and had to hurry with this “Bean.” I was so
engrossed I didn’t even hear Dad’s voice when
he called for me, but as his voice could easily
penetrate skill, the second call sent me
scrambling.
“Coming!” I hollered. I didn’t particularly need to
bellow that out so loud but I think I inherited my
father’s vocal cords. I rushed through the
hallway and down the maple stairs to where the
whole family sat in the living room. One glance
at the solemn faces and I knew there were two
possibilities: 1) I was dubbed as the only
possible suspect in a horrible crime or 2) (and
more likely) a family conference was in order. I
took my place in the middle of the couch and
curled up, preparing for a discussion.
Dad began. “I guess you all remember when
Brad had to go to a foster home and we said if
there was any more danger of that happening
we’d take him?” Brad was my thirteen-year-old
cousin, with a bad case of ADHD. We all
nodded our heads seriously. When Dad talked
with that weighted voice it was indeed a sober
situation. “Well, your aunt Beth has asked us if
the offer was still open,” he continued slowly.
Though my face remained expressionless, my
mind was racing. Brad? Here? No way. How
long? When? and so on and so forth. Dad
resumed the discussion. “He’s been giving her a
lot of trouble, and she’s got too much on her
back right now. She feels she can’t deal with it
anymore.”
I couldn’t hold it back. I had to ask. “Did you say
yes?” I blurted out.
“Yes,” replied Dad. “He’s coming next month.”
An immediate sensation was caused. Kelly
seemed quite thrilled, but then she’d always
been the one to get along okay with Brad. She
was, after all, only ten, and ten-year-olds tended
to look up to anyone older than them. My older
sister Jessica’s muscles tightened and her eyes
darted up. I could tell she wasn’t too excited
about the idea. Mom kept a straight face and
looked on expressionless. But me, well, I
couldn’t explain why, but despite myself a bit of
excitement slithered through me. I was only four
months younger than him but acted four years
older; it was a solemn fact. We’d always been
the ones who would be at each other’s throats
the whole time during vacation. Maybe it was
because I’d always wanted a brother, even
though Brad certainly wouldn’t have been my
first choice. Or maybe it was simply because I
liked the idea of helping Brad to be a better
person. Not that I’m perfect, but I loved teaching
and perhaps my opinion of myself was a bit too
high.
“Depending on the way he acts and how much
he improves,” added Dad, “He’ll probably be
here from six months to a year. Then he’s going
to try going back to his mom, and hopefully he
won’t go back to the way he is now.”
So on the thirty-first of December we all bundled
up in our Lumina van and drove to the airport to
dig up Brad. We waited about a half an hour in
the airport waiting for his plane to come and
finally it pulled up to our station. When the first
stream of passengers didn’t reveal the young
traveler, Dad joked that maybe he’d jumped into
a luggage car and run away. I was hoping that
he wouldn’t mind the small room prepared for
him. Dad had changed the schoolroom into a
bedroom; built a new wall and bought a rug and
repainted it, added a dresser and the brass bed
set, and voila! A bedroom the size of the
bathroom was prepared. Actually, the bed took
up a good third, almost half the space. But it
was cozy and it wasn’t as if he’d be spending all
of his time in there. At least, that’s what I
thought.
Eventually the cousin stepped into the port. I
knew immediately it was him, and I had a
sinking feeling. His hair was tousled every which
way: he’d obviously been sleeping. His pale
face looked angry, rebellious, and more bony
than I imagined a face could be. His pants were
basically falling off his skinny and bony body,
and a huge ski jacket gave him an interesting
though unattractive figure. This wasn’t going to
be as fun as I had thought.
Everyone put on a bright face for Brad, and he
went straight to Dad, paying no attention to
anyone else. “Hey, Brad!” I offered brightly but
he made no response and started a
conversation about plane food with Dad. I trailed
along behind the group musingly, all the
excitement but one small fragment completely
gone. I suddenly wished I hadn’t put on my
favorite frog earrings, or spent thirty minutes on
my ash-blonde hair. Little did I know that this
was just the beginning.
“H-h-hey, where’s Dawn?” Brad asked suddenly.
I tried to regain my former disposition and
replied with an attempt at a giggle, “Right here;
didn’t you hear when I said hello?” I spitefully
noticed the stuttering and cracking voice he
addressed me with but said nothing about it.
“O-o-oh,” he cracked ingratiatinly, and opened
his rather large mouth widely, stuck his neck out
and guffawed grotesquely. “H’ I didn’t even
s-see you there!”
When we arrived at home he didn’t seem to
care about all the work we’d put in to making
sure he’d be comfortable; he passed by his
room with only a dubious look and a wavering
“It’s SMALL.” The only thing he said when Dad
brought him over the entire house and showed
him the addition which had taken us three years
and we were still working on was “Can I work
with you sometimes: just me?” This, too, was
the beginning of some pretty major problems
relating Brad, me, and my Dad.
But before I go any further, let me describe
myself: I was thirteen at the time, five feet
seven inches, and with long ash-blonde hair. If
any person dared call it dirty blonde I would go
into a dancing rage, or, depending on the
person, coolly deliver them a withering glare. I
was an expert at withering glares. It probably
was a part of my hot Irish temper, inherited from
my father. I figured the only things I inherited
from the Irish people were the pale skin, the
temper, and the love for music. Beyond that, I
didn’t seem to get some of the things I
considered most fascinating, such as
step-dancing, rich red hair, and I was quite
unable to attempt an Irish accent. Other things
about me relating to this story are my love for
horses, my never-ending need to have a book to
read at all times (else I go crazy), an ambition,
perhaps a bit farfetched, which included a
career in writing, music, and art. I considered
myself advanced in the “finer arts”. It is not my
place to say whether I was or not, but I certainly
had no call to be so self-righteous about it. The
very last thing that I shall say about myself is
that I am a very unusual person, one with an
extensive vocabulary (which I was sure to use in
any quarrel), and a splendid attraction to fairies
and goblins, as well as the 1800’s. Oh, yes, and
I associated with quite queer characters as well.
But I guarantee you, we would have more fun in
one afternoon together than many new
teenagers ever do.
Part 2
That first day at the airport was only an example
-a perfect example of the future. That night we
went to a New Years party at the house of
friends from church. They had laid out various
tasties and appetizers: a good variety of them.
Brad craned his neck, arched his eyebrows, and
tut-tutted. He then asked, “Do you have any
pace?”
Mr. Janguin smiled kindly at him. “Any what,
dear?”
“Any pace!” he returned as if it was quite
obvious, then clenched his teeth, widened his
eyes, and clasped his punch in anticipation.
The hostess looked thoroughly confused, and
one couldn’t blame her. He was referring to
salsa, which he always did by the brand he was
presently using. Kelly gave Brad a “duh” glance
and informed Mrs. Janguin of this trait. She
regained her smile and replied, “No, dear. What
you see here is what we have.”
It would take forever to describe all the
embarrassing details of that night, but in short,
Brad proceeded to laugh uproariously at any
joke, attempt a few of his own, badger the
Janguin’s dog dreadfully, and get two people to
quit playing Ping-Pong with him.
When we got home it as well after midnight and
I went straight to bed. At six o’clock the next
morning, I was pulled awake by Brad bellowing
up the stairs, “Is everybody decent!” He would
ask this before coming upstairs to where us girls
dwelt. I groaned and turned over, discovering a
cat on my pillow.
“D-Dawn, do you w-want any oatmeal?” He
queried after pounding on the door. My tired
“no” wasn’t heard, and when he cracked out,
“What?” I shouted a frenzied “NO!!”
I could hear him muttering indignant chides
while he hurried downstairs. This was another of
his traits; after any argument or what-not he
would mutter rebellious phrases, many times
loud enough for the whole household to hear.
So, such went life at our house. Brad had a
capacity for getting in trouble and many times
Dad would get so furious he’d just tell Brad to
get out of his sight. He was almost always
grounded.
Now a few months before this, our ancient
Plymouth had burst into flames in our driveway,
and the rocks were still black and our shoes
would bring the irremovable stuff into the house.
So about a month after Brad’s arrival, Dad said
for us to shovel them into the cart and dump
them in the trenches by the road. I protested,
but to no avail. I knew it was just a fight waiting
to happen. Brad and I couldn’t work together,
play together, do anything together without
some terrific fight.
“Brad, I can do it myself, I just happen to be
stronger than you,” I retorted when Brad
shouldered his way to my side to pull the loaded
cart. I was cruel to his badgered mind, I really
was, and he never escaped my hook.
He bit the bait with a snap. “Oh, yeah right!
J-just leave me alone, why don’t you just leave
me alone!”
I pursed my lips and began turning the cart
towards the road. He started running with it,
yanking the bar over my heels and catching my
feet so I fell over painfully. He started laughing.
I couldn’t believe that any human could laugh at
a fellow human getting hurt, and I cried, “I’m
sitting here wailing and you’re laughing?” He
paused in his rowdy guffawing to croak, “You
should see the look on your face!”
I threw down my shovel, stood up and glared at
him, and shouted, “You don’t even care, do you!
You don’t even care that you hurt me!”
“Th-that’s not true!”
We went back and forth until I screamed “I hate
you!” (something I hadn’t done since I was 7
years old) and ran inside. I hurled off my boots
and threw myself into bed, crying my eyes out. I
heard Dad asking Brad what had happened and
Brad over-exaggerating and making it seem
even worse than it was. I knew I had done
wrong. But at these words I hardened my heart
and made up my mind not to apologize.
You may think here that I am and was a
dreadful person and didn’t give Brad enough
credit. This is true. But it becomes less true if
this wasn’t a short story, because I can not
completely describe the way he said things, did
things.... the way his mind pattern seemed to
work. One or two of these incidents would have
been insignificant, but he had the superior, “I’m
right and you’re wrong,” “Everybody hates me”
and “I can do what I wanna do and you can’t
stop me” attitudes, and in combination with his
extremely loud voice, which stuttered and
cracked, and his clumsy and careless stature,
he wasn’t a very likable fellow.
But back to the black rock incident. Dad came
up and I told him my side of the story. He tried
to keep an objective standpoint. I really had to
admire the way he handled Brad. He was
patient -mostly- and only chided him for the
wrong things, not the annoying things. he knew
Brad needed a father, because all the men in
Brad’s life had been jerks; molesting his sister
and beating his mother. That was one of the
things about Dad I did admire; he was a good
man, deeply Christian and with set principles.
But Brad did need a father, and it was hard to
share mine. Sometimes harder when Dad paid
more attention to my cousin’s needs than my
own. It was selfish of me, and I knew it. I just
wasn’t willing to let go.
Dad was naturally upset that I had lost it, and
told me so. He told me to get busy but this time
the rest of the family joined in, which was less
friction. Dad made me apologize, which I did.
Brad seemed to think himself very gracious to
forgive me, but forgot to apologize to me, which
I seethed about. But eventually I forgave him
and concerned myself with other trifles.
Now Brad needed a father, as I expressed to
you before. He lept on dad and jealously clung
to him. Whenever Dad would play with us girls,
he would insist on joining in. Weekends he
demanded that he and only he would help Dad
while we were cleaning house or something like
that. And the moment Dad would come home
from work, Brad was on his neck and took all his
attention. but what really got to me was the
slithering. When we watched movies together,
dad would lay on the couch and brad would
literally lay on top of him, and fidget and turn in
such a slithering fashion that just made me ill.
dad didn’t enjoy it; he would be constantly telling
Brad to sit up on the other side of the couch.
Finally we had a long talk with Dad about it and
he was really cool about it, and promised to pay
more attention to us, and assured us he still
loved us more than anything.
Well, about six months went by, and Brad
improved immensely. He had the rules down
pat, and his good heart began to show through.
He began to adopt to life in Connecticut and
stopped comparing it to Colorado in our
presence. He had made friends with a kid from
church, not one I was overly fond of, but a good
kid nonetheless. Dad felt all that was left was a
heart change.
But then, the carefully laid wall of bricks came
tumbling down piece by piece with a series of
phone calls. Finally we heard the verdict. Aunt
Beth was moving to Connecticut.
Part 3
Aunt Gail, Uncle Bob, and Dad all went to help
Aunt Beth move. They arrived back in New
Hartford late one Winter afternoon. I remember
her appearing on the porch, then Brad bowling
out to greet her. He’d been off-the-wall since
he’d heard she was coming. Grandpa had been
flown in earlier to escape all the stress involved
with packing up the whole house to come to
Connecticut.
So Aunt Beth moved in. It was decided she
would stay at our house until she could find a
house of her own. My sisters and I didn’t mind;
Aunt Beth always spoiled us rotten. The only
drawback we saw was her bed, dresser, and
makeshift salon in our already full room. But we
got used to it. But that did not end up to be the
“only drawback”. The very day she entered the
house, any progress made with Brad faded from
perception. Her methods of discipline conflicted
with Dad’s dramatically; while Dad kept a steady
hand on Brad: consequences for actions, no
exceptions, no let-backs, and only bring up the
wrong things -- Aunt Beth was more off-on,
touch-and-go, inconsistent. Brad would show
various means of affection which would annoy
her, thus a blow-up, thus Brad’s defensive
behavior, then came the punishment, after that
his manipulating, and her let-down. The two
were constantly at each others’ throats, and the
word “peace” ran right out of our house.
Even while all this was going on, I suddenly
realized why Brad had such an argumentative
behavior, problems with authority, and “social
problems”. It wasn’t all him being an idiot. It
wasn’t, either, Aunt Beth’s fault. The lack of a
father, Aunt Beth having a full-time job and
frequent migraines, and the way Brad was
treated by his peers -- it all worked together to
give Brad the opinion that life was bent on being
cruel to him, and that he was on his own. “I have
to look out for myself,” was something he
obviously considered to be true. And his mom
wasn’t letting him do it.
While he adored his mother, he despised her.
But mostly he hated himself, and was bent on
being ready to fight with anyone who got too
close to the truth.
I was sure this realization would fix everything.
It didn’t. Brad and I hardly passed a day without
a verbal battle. Every night I begged God to
help me love him, but every day I would lash
out at him. All this, of course, didn’t go
unnoticed by the adults. Aunt Beth called it
“rivalry”. Dad told me I needed self-control.
Mom just didn’t like it.
My family were all sure of what was going on,
but I was dreadfully confused. Nothing made
much sense; what was keeping me from my
goal? Why was it I couldn’t love Brad? I didn’t
get it.
Aunt Beth bought a house in early summer, and
spent the next few months designing it. Of
course, our family helped. This was what we
excelled at: work. Ah, work: that word was
well-known to us. Every weekend was stuffed
full of working. So when we helped, we helped a
lot. The months spent at our house had gotten
Brad used to work, too. Unfortunately, the effect
work had on us kids was not positive, and Brad,
Kelly, and I drove the adults crazy with our
bickering. Dad had trouble keeping us under
control, Aunt Beth had constant migraines, and
Brad got worse.
Finally, the day came when our aunt moved in
to her new house. After lengthy discussion, it
was decided Brad wouldn’t move in with his
mom yet. His condition “wasn’t stable”.
When his mom left, Brad began learning the
importance of respect, to himself and others.
dad worked hard to help brad learn, and Brad
responded by improving. the only problem still
presenting itself was that fact that Brad still
didn’t accept his mom’s position of authority.
“Uncle’s” was clearly printed in red letters, but
“mom’s” wasn’t. When his mom issued a decree
he didn’t like, Brad went to my dad for “justice”.
it was a problem. But Dad knew that, too, and
tried to let Aunt Beth decide for herself, and
informed Brad that he needed to do what his
mother told him.
And what about me during all this? I must be
honest; I didn’t accept it. I still looked on him as
Brad, and to me, Brad was annoying and
messed up, and would always be that way. So
while Brad improved and received praise, I
seethed inwardly. I foolishly clung to the past
and refused to give my cousin a second chance.
Not too much of this showed, though, because I
was one busy kid: three different jobs, riding,
friends, and youth groups kept me away from
home most the time.
Then Dad announced that Brad could move into
his mom’s house. Brad was ecstatic.
“Dawn, did you hear?! I’m going to my mom’s
house!”
“Yeah, I heard that. It’s cool.”
And that was that. He left. And life slipped back
into it’s normal pattern.
It was my older sister that really began my
changing process. School began, and she and
Brad went to the same school. She brought
home sad stories. It didn’t seem like he was
being accepted, or had many friends.
This is when my screwed-shut eyes began to
open. And I realized. It didn’t matter how good,
how bad, or how annoying my cousin was. I was
so busy beating the splinter in his eye, I’d
forgotten the log in my own. It didn’t matter that
it was hard. It mattered that I was a Christian,
and God was depending on me to do my best;
and to understand that loving is not always a
feeling. In some cases, it is a decision. A
decision to do what Jesus would do in any
circumstance, no matter how hard it was.
Do I get along perfectly with Brad now? Do we
give each other understanding smiles over the
dinner table? No. But now I get it, and now I can
love him. And things are on an upward spiral.
And you know what? That’s what really matters.
The End
Based on a true story
