Once Upon a Time

March 2, 2007

It’s three a.m. I had that dream again—the one where it’s my birthday and I’m staring out my bedroom window at police cars. My face is smeared with snot and tears and my heart is heavy. Well, this time, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I opened it and saw Indy. But he wasn’t nineteen. He was eight. He gave me a sympathetic smile and placed his arm around me. Next thing I knew, he was whispering poison into my ear and I was sliding to the carpeted floor in a subconscious stupor. It scared the heebie-jeebies out of me and woke me up. That nagging feeling is still there, deep in my chest, thick blood within my heart.

Who is Indy? What does he have to do with me?

I don’t know, but my eyes can’t stay open any longer. I’m going back to bed. I’ll talk to you later.

----

He talked to me again today. I was sitting at my lunch table, and he just walked up to me and asked if he could speak with me privately. I frowned at him and said he could talk to me after school. He seemed perturbed that he would have to wait longer.
          “It’s kinda urgent.” He said, his brow knitting together with private anxiety.
          I shrugged. “It can wait.”
          Indy sighed. “You don’t get it, do you?”
          I frowned. “Get what? That you’re some creepy senior who shows up out of nowhere and stalks me? What’s there to get?”
          Indy’s face dissolved into a grin and he chuckled. “Oh, that’s what you think of me?”
          His serious tone and concerned look returned when he saw I was annoyed.
          “Micky,” He told me, “Didn’t you tell your aunt and uncle about me? Didn’t you talk about me?”
          I cleared my throat, waiting for something worthy of a response.
          He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know who I am?”
          I huffed. “Obviously not! What are you getting at?”
          He gave me a small, sympathetically secretive smile. “I’m your brother.”
          I crossed my arms over my chest and hissed under my breath, “Go away before I call an administrator over here!”
          Indy sighed. “Fine, don’t believe me, but ask your aunt and uncle. I’m telling the truth.”
          I watched him stand up and walk away. He disappeared down a side hallway. I turned back to my lunch table. The three other girls were staring at me. Amber, one of them, put her hand on my shoulder. She gave me a quizzical yet concerned look.
          “What was that about?” She asked.

My brother?! Newsflash: I DON’T HAVE A BROTHER! Who is this creep?

I’m starting to get worried. I mean, what do you do when some stranger acclaims to be your brother? I think I need to talk to Aunt Linda. She can straighten this mess out.

I think I just heard the garage door open. If it’s her, I’ll ask her about Indy. Be right back!

----

She was getting the mail when I asked her. The magazines and letters and spam thudded to the ground as his name filled her ears. It was weird. What isn’t these days?
          “Is Indy my brother?” I asked her.
          She swallowed. “I think we need to go inside for this Micky.”
          I asked in disbelief, “He is my brother, isn’t he?”
          Aunt Linda dropped her gaze. “Let’s go inside.”

I helped her pick up the scattered mail and took it inside. She told me to sit at the dinner table. I obediently took a seat.
          “Micky, eleven years ago…your mother died.” Aunt Linda began.
          “In a car crash…right?” I interjected.
          She sighed. “Just shut up for a minute, Micky.”
          I bit my lip. Mom and Dad didn’t die in a car crash. Then…?
          “No, your mom died from meningitis. It devastated your father, especially since your mother was suspected of being pregnant. Your father…got drunk…It was your birthday…and he abused you…and your brother…Indy…on your birthday. The neighbors called the police when they heard crashing and screams from your father’s house. The police came and arrested your father. The coroner came and took your mother to the morgue. Uncle Stewart and I arrived not too much later and took you and Indy home with us. Two years later, when Indy was in the third grade, he ran away. We reported him as missing and the police tried to track him down. They never found him. They suspected that he found his real mother. He’s actually your half-brother. His mother was another, less affectionate woman. The police never found her either. They filed him as dead and he was so until about a year ago when Indy showed up again, this time legally able to live on his own.”
          I shook my head.

That may be why he seemed so familiar. And that comment about us being related! Ah! I should have put two and two together! And he knew! He took one look at me and knew! I owe him an apology. And he owes me an explanation.
          “So Indy really is my big brother?”
          Aunt Linda nodded grimly. “I apologize for hiding the truth, but I didn’t want you to worry about a possibly dead brother.”
          I sighed. Her rationality didn’t really matter. But the fact that she hid it from me…Her and Uncle Stewart both…A brother is a pretty big secret. They’d never kept something this huge from me before—how could I trust them?
          “I want to talk to Indy.” I said slowly. “I want to…hear his side of the story.”
          Aunt Linda nodded. “Sounds reasonable. Do you want him here? We could all talk together…have dinner or something…”
          I shook my head. “I want to speak with him alone. I want…I want to know who he is.”
          She placed a hand on mine. “Okay, but always remember: we’re here for support.”
          I nodded. “Yeah…I’m gonna go do…something.”
          “All right, dear.”

A brother? I HAVE A BROTHER?! Why the hell has no one ever told me?!

I am chewing this pen top faster than I am writing. I wanna know what the hell is going on. Now. A brother?

----

I found an old journal of mine. It was tucked away in my closet, on the top shelf, in a ratty shoe box—figures. That’s where all the good stuff always is. Anyway, this journal is from my elementary years. I don’t remember writing it. Heck, I don’t remember the stuff that I wrote in it either. Half of it is numbers—equations, math, diagrams, chemistry…I stare at the smeared pages, trying to decipher my handwriting. It…it doesn’t make any sense.

What does?

I also found some old photos. There are pictures with my mom and my dad and Indy and me in them. I mean, I guess they are my mom and dad. I don’t remember them. And Indy—well, he hasn’t changed much. This is so odd. I’m discovering a whole side of my life that I never knew existed. There is something…dark here. Like, there is a very good reason why I don’t remember anything.

Ah, well, it’s late, yet again, and I’m tired, as always, and I’m ready to go to sleep. Before I hit the sack, I want to rewrite a still legible entry in here. It’s hard to read but my cramped little letters are the easiest to read of the ones prior to them. The entry isn’t long.

February 29, 1996
12:00 pm

          My father tossed my newly-three year-old self into the air. “Happy Birthday, Micky!”
          I giggled with pleasure. For reasons unknown to him. I loved my father and dreaded what we were to do.
          My father turned to ask my brother how old he was. My brother had left. I saw my father frown. I knew he suspected something odd. He set me down and wandered upstairs. I followed after him.
          “Indy?” my father called, “Indy, where are you?”
          My father crept into the dark and quiet master bedroom, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife. Indy was knelt by her side, placing cool washcloths on her burning forehead.
         “Indy, what are you doing in here? Out at once!” my father said, a frightened look on his face.
          My brother stared him in the face and remarked bluntly, “She’s dying.”
          My father’s face shown with perspiration. The humid room was making me sweat as well- although not as much as he was.
          My brother’s face contorted with anger, “What is going on?”
          My father did not answer his seven year-old son.
          Indy shouted, “How long has she been like this? You need to take her to the emergency room at once!”
          “Indy!?...” I whispered, horrified. He glanced at me then continued his rant.
          “Out.” My father’s reply came. “Out at once.” My father’s face was a deep hue, and his body trembled involuntarily.
          I shrunk into the corner, afraid. I watched Indy slowly obey his orders. He showed no fear but surely must have felt it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not on our birthday.
         My father ignored me, turned to my mother.
          “Helen,” came his soft words. He reached for her hand. A slight rustle signaled her facing him.
          “Please…” my father started.
          “Hush.” my mother strained, “Just morning sickness.”
          My father brushed his free hand across her moist forehead, pushing back the stray hair matted down. They both knew she was lying. I pushed away the tears tugging at my cheeks. I sniffed. My father looked up at me. Tear-streaked cheeks and red eyes spoke to me. I cast my eyes away from the dark, sunken look haunting my father’s.
          “Oh, Micky,” he said, soothingly. I ran to him. I did not care that I was betraying our twisted fate. I threw myself into his arms, comforting and secure. I stole a peek at my mother. Exhaustion, suffering all reflected in her beautiful, gleaming eyes. I saw her slight smile.
          “Happy Birthday, Baby,” she said to me.
          These were her last words to me. Ever.
         Less than three hours later, my mother was dead. Gone. My father howled in pain. He had loved her so much. I questioned how this had happened. An accident? Surely. Hopefully.
          What of Daddy? He became drunk with alcohol. He drunk himself into a frenzy and smashed his beer bottles into the walls of the kitchen, unable to go upstairs. Unable to see her. Indy and I snuck to the basement, hoping to sidestep his unavoidable abuse.


Pretty creepy, huh? I don’t know what it means, but something…something big happened eleven years ago. And Indy and I are somehow responsible.

Hey! I was reading the next entry. It’s the dream that I have so often! Here, I’ll write it for you, too.

March 1, 1996
4:00 am

          My breath fogged the window my face was pressed up against. Lightning lit up the sky, adding to the annoying lights coming from below, in front of the house. The police had arrested our father. They suspected him of killing my mother. As soon as the police discover what we had left in the basement, they would be convinced that he did her in. They would never suspect two young kids of murder. While the police investigated the house, my mother’s body was on the way to the coroner at the nearest morgue, and Indy had resorted to answering the door. I was sleepy and tired of them ringing our doorbell as they were doing at the moment. Indy, stop locking them out. If they were smart, that would seem suspicious. But Indy could neither hear me nor would do as I wish. Plus, the police aren’t smart.
         I peered through the rain to see who it was this time. Police. And somebody was with them. They stepped into our house. I sighed. They’d most likely come to take us to a foster care program. Minutes later I heard my brother’s light footsteps as he trod down the hallway to my room.
          “Come on, Micky. Aunt Linda and Uncle Stewart are here. They’ll take us home.” Indy stuck his hand out for me to take. I accepted, and he pulled me up to him. He hugged me, “We’ll be fine.”
          I looked up doubtfully into his mysterious hazel eyes, famous for changing shades. Blazing brown with an edge of green, met my plain crystal blue eyes. “Where are they taking us?”
          “We,” Indy said grabbing my suitcase full of clothes, “will be staying with them until Dad gets out of jail.” he flashed his wide grin and twisted the words, “What a glorious moment that will be.”
          I frowned and started to ask why, but he shook his head, “Not here.” My eyes widened with understanding. I gasped and violently shook my head. He kept smiling and strolled out of my room. I followed, upset by my brother’s intentions.
          Downstairs, Aunt Linda and Uncle Stewart took us and our luggage into their loving arms. I smiled gratefully as well as my crazy brother. With a farewell to the policemen, we piled into the small Toyota and took off down the slick road.
I turned back to gaze at our home. A small glow from the basement caught my attention. I tapped my brother who was busy faking sleep. He opened an eye at me. I pointed to the house and gave him a nervous look. Indy stared at the light then at me.
          “So?” he whispered below our relative’s hearing.
          “The basement light is on!” I responded terrified, “ They’ll find out!”
          My brother gave me a scornful look, “Have faith in your older brother. They’ll find nothing.”
          I studied his face. “How?”
          “It’s gone.” He patted the small tote bag at his side and grinned his creepy grin.
          I smiled, relieved, and leaned back in my seat. I just hope he’s right. I stared out the window at the wet world. Slowly, steady breathing filled the car. I slept silently but restlessly. Not at peace with the day’s events. Tomorrow I would be a normal four year-old. No cares of yesterday’s genius.


Okay, I don’t know about you, but what kind of a three year-old writes like this? And yesterday’s genius? I’m barely a straight A student. I wouldn’t call me a genius. At all. Are you reading this? Is this for real? And murder? I really need to talk to Indy. I’m more confused than ever. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!