Memiors

I don’t mind my brother. I’m used to his selfish ways and his bothersome tendencies. They’ve been with him as long as I can remember. Unlike myself, my parents are terribly annoyed with Chris’ attitude and habits.
I am eleven years old, Chris is fourteen, and we are sitting in our small living room watching the movie Encino Man. It is a film about a caveman who was preserved in ice and discovered during the 80’s by a couple teenagers. The movie isn’t very good, now that I think of it, but I will admit I was as interested as my brother at the time.
My mother was also in the tan, carpeted room, talking on the phone with a coworker. My mother is notorious for being a loud talker on the phone, and being in such a cramped room, her voice resounded off the walls, making it nearly impossible for my brother or I to hear the television.
I’m a little upset at the interruption to the movie, (after all, this was before I owned a DVR and could pause the TV) but I keep my mouth shut and wait quietly for my mother to finish. It was the respectful thing to do and it didn’t really matter if I missed a scene or two.
Chris on the other hand, makes several body gestures and noises to show his disappointment, and after less than a minute, snatches the remote and raises the volume. My mother, her fingers twirling a pen, the phone held to her ear by her shoulder, glares at him and he lowers the volume.
Chris crosses his arms, angry, and tries to listen to Brendan Frasier, but ultimately cannot.
“Be quiet, mom.” My mother disregards his first words.
He speaks again. “Mom, be quiet.”
Now my mother is having a difficult time hearing her own conversation. She looks Chris in the eyes and mouths the word “stop”.
To Chris, a command, such as stop, is regarded more as a challenge.
He waits a minute and then speaks again. “Mom. Be quiet.” This time he is louder and he separates each word as if they were separate statements.
Suddenly, my usually sweet and caring mother is irate. She drops her pen into her lap and raises both of her middles fingers. Loudly whispering so as to not let her coworker hear, “Fuck you, you little bastard, rot in fucking hell!”
Chris doesn’t ask her to be quiet again, but stares at the TV he can’t hear and grimaces. My jaw has dropped. I’d never heard my mother say anything to that effect before. I’d never even heard her wish misfortune on anyone, much less her own son.
Later she apologized to Chris with tears in her eyes, stressing how she loved him with all her heart. Chris apologized too, but not with the same remorse.
After that night, Chris was distant from his mom and their relationship began to dwindle. It was not obvious then, but the results cannot be argued.
At the same time, I struggled to become closer and closer to my mother. When Chris would ignore her, I would ask her about her day. When Chris would call her cooking bitter, I would compliment her abilities. Chris spent less and less time with my mother (or father actually) and I spent more and more.

I am fourteen years old, Chris is sixteen, and we, along with my mother, are visiting my mother’s friend Carol. Carol is an old Lebanese woman. Not too old, early fifties maybe. She lives alone, her husband has passed away, and her two children moved out long ago. She works double shifts at a hospital as a nurse constantly, and therefore, there is basically nothing to do at her apartment. While her and my mother converse, Chris and I sit on her old couch, playing tic-tac-toe. The couch is rough, like Velcro, and the pillows on the end are stiff like wood. Chris and I both want to leave. My mother stands up and our hopes arise, but alas, she reaches for the coffee pot and pours two more cups. We slouch deeper into the Velcro-like couch.
We play what feels like a few million more games of tic-tac-toe, and then my mother stands again. This time the two women walk together to the front door. Chris and I race outside to meet them on the porch. Outside they stand on the steps, dragging out goodbyes. This last delay is too much for Chris to take. “Mooooooooom,” Chris cries out. “Let’s goooooooo.”
“Hold on, Chris.”
“Moooooooooom, c’mon.”
“Be patient, Chris.”
“Mom!”
“Chris, if you can’t be patient, go wait in the car.”
Once again, Chris feels challenged. He walks directly up to my mother, who he is a good 6 inches taller than, and stares down directly into her eyes. My mother returns his glare and he says, “I wanna go.”
My mother reaches out and slaps him across the face. Both their bodies are tense. I can tell Chris wants to slap her back. They stare for a few more moments and then Chris retreats to the car.
I don’t remember an apology this time. I sure there was one but I must have missed it.