If I couldn’t even find excitement in the idea of taking a trip around the world, what kind of person was I? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that I didn’t want to stay that way forever. Somehow, I needed to find my balance again.
Of course, there are thousands of books and talk shows offering ways to straighten out your life, and experts of every variety claim to have the answers. Intinctively, though, I wanted to figure things out with the help of the one person in my life who had lived through the same things I had: my brother.
Micah had had his own struggles over the last three years, particularly about his faith. For the most part, he’d abandoned prayer, and discussing faith had become uncomfortable to him. His wife, Christine, had talked to me about her concerns a couple of times—she was devout in her Christian beliefs, as Micah himself had once been—and I slowly began to realize that somehow there was a chance we could help each other. And in that way, I began to think of the trip less as a journey around the world than a journey to rediscover who I was and how I’d developed the way I had.
When I reflected on my childhood, I usually recalled it as light without shadow, as if the dark edges never existed. Or if they did, they were something to be reveled in, like badges of honor. Dangerous events were transformed over the years into humorous anecdotes; painful moments were modified into sweet tales of innocence. In the past, when asked about my parents, I usually responded that my mom and dad were both ordinary and typical, as was my childhood. Lately, however, I’ve come to realize that while my comments were true in some ways, they rang false in others, and it wasn’t until I had children of my own that I finally began to understand the daily pressures that must have plagued both of them. Parenthood is fraught with worry, and my parents—despite the long leash they gave us—no doubt worried about us frequently. But if raising children is difficult, I’ve learned that marriage is sometimes even more challenging, and in this, my parents’ was no exception.
By early 1972, my parents were struggling to keep their household intact. We were children and were unaware of the details; all we knew was that my dad had begun whistling all the time, and by then, it had begun to take on ominous significance. The sound of those nameless melodies, with their pitch rising and falling, was the first of the warning signs of my father’s anger that we children grew to recognize—DEFCON 1, if you will.
In DEFCON 2, mumbling would be added to the whistling and my dad would pace in circles, refusing to talk to anyone. DEFCON 3 was indicated by the actual thinning of his lips, and in DEFCON 4, his face would begin turning red. He was sometimes able to halt the eventual progression toward nuclear launch, but if he ever hit DEFCON 5—where he would curl his tongue against his bottom teeth so that his tongue protruded from his mouth, held in place with his top teeth, we kids knew our best option was one of two things: run or hide. We knew he’d be reaching for his belt, which had replaced the flyswatter as the instrument of punishment.
Those moments, while still rare, were growing more frequent. Looking back, I can’t say that I blame him. In 1963, he was a young, recently married, starving student; nine years later, he was still a starving student, only with the added responsibility of providing for a family of five. Working had slowed his education to a glacial pace, and trying to write a dissertation with the three of us using the apartment as our playground in the evenings was enough to drive anyone nuts.
My mom, on the other hand, continued to adore us unequivocally. When we tagged along with her to the store or she brought us to church, she was quick to display her pride to anyone who happened to be nearby. She had an uncanny ability to forget how rotten we were at times, but her ability to forgive was tempered by the same toughness she’d forever been instilling in us. As wild as we got, as far afield as we roamed, there was never a doubt in either my brother’s mind or mine exactly who was in charge. If mom said to be home by dinner, we were home. If she said to clean up our bedroom, we did so right away. And if we happened to make a mistake, she’d make sure that we corrected it. She also defended us like a mother bear when she felt it was merited. When a teacher slapped Micah at school, my mom stormed in that afternoon, dragging Micah and me behind her.
“If you ever slap my child again, I’ll call the police and have you arrested. You will NOT touch my child.”
On the way out, Micah and I strutted like roosters, thinking, Take that, you old bat. My mom showed you who’s boss . . .
“You’re the best, Mom,” Micah preened. My mom whirled around and brought a finger to his face.
“Don’t think for a second that I don’t know why she slapped you. You probably deserved it, and if you ever talk back to her like that again, I’ll show you what a real slap feels like.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“You know I love you, right?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“You know I’ll always stand up for you, right?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“But I’m still disappointed in you. And you’ll be grounded for this.”
Micah was grounded, but the disappointment hurt worse. We hated to disappoint her.
Despite the pressures my parents were under, my dad gradually became more comfortable with us as we grew older. At times, he would let us crawl up into his lap as he watched old horror movies on television—he absolutely loved horror movies—and we came to treasure these moments, pining for them like the exquisite morsels they were. Naturally, we became extremely knowledgeable in the proper ways to kill vampires and werewolves in the event that our family was ever confronted by such a being. My brother and I had carved a collection of wooden stakes out of Popsicle sticks, which we kept under the bed.
In ever rarer quiet moments, my dad used to play the guitar for us as well. His sound was fluid and assured, and one evening he surprised us by telling us that he’d once been in a band.
The thought of my father in a band was fairly heady stuff. It meant that our dad not only had magic powers, but was cool, and of the two, this was of greater importance to us. We knew after all that we were cool, and we thought our parents were, too. But now we had proof.
We liked to imagine our dad playing before screaming crowds—the kind we saw on television when the Beatles played. We even had long conversations about it, but our dad simply laughed when we asked him how he’d been able to fend all those girls off.
“My band wasn’t quite that popular,” he tried to explain, but we didn’t believe him. Why should we? The facts, after all, were clear. He was in a band. He sang and played like a professional. And he used to live in England. What could be more obvious? After a while, I think we actually convinced ourselves that he not only knew Paul McCartney and John Lennon personally, but had played no small role in their success.
And he was our dad.
Aside from watching spooky movies, listening to him play became our favorite activity with him. Usually, we’d be goofing off in the living room when we’d hear him start tuning his guitar. This was our signal to calm down, and we’d quickly take our places at his feet.
He never rushed. He always made sure the guitar’s pitch was perfect. He seldom sang right away—I think he was shy— but instead, would simply strum through a few songs, tapping his foot in time. His fingers moved amazingly fast, as if guided by unknown forces, and when he looked at us, he’d smile, occcasionally waggling his eyebrows.
Eventually he would sing, and we’d listen raptly for as long as he did. And when he finally got around to playing something by the Beatles, my brother, sister, and I would glance knowingly at one another, sharing the same thought: “See, I told you he knew them.”
Perhaps responding to the rising tension in the house—by that time, my parents had begun arguing about everything from money to my dad’s emotional absence in our lives, arguments that frequently left my mom in tears—my mom began coming into our room at bedtime, where she’d lie down with each of us in succession. Though I didn’t understand it at the time—back then, it simply seemed to be another way to show her love for us—I now think she used those moments to escape the stress of her marriage, if only for a short while. While in bed, she’d ask each of us about our day, and we’d whisper our answers, sharing whatever happened to be on our minds. We’d talk about God or school or friends and though she’d sometimes speak, more often than not she’d simply let us ramble on, jumping from one subject to the next. She was warm and soft, like a heated pillow, and those stolen moments felt like heaven itself.
Later, my dad would finally come to tuck us in. Most of the time, since he got home so late, we’d already be asleep, but I always woke as soon as the door creaked open and the light from the hallway spilled in.
Sometimes, I pretended that I hadn’t heard him, just to see what he would do. But my dad had a routine he always followed, whether we were sleeping or not. He went from one bed to the next, pulling the covers up, before gently stroking our hair. Then, he’d stand over us for a moment, before finally leaning down to kiss us on the cheek. By the end of the day, he looked tired and his whiskers felt like rough sandpaper. He smelled like Old Spice and cigarettes, and in a quiet voice, he’d whisper, “I love you,” to each of us.
Only then would my day finally feel complete. Warm and comforted, I wouldn’t wake again for the rest of the night.
That year—perhaps because our parents understood how their arguments were affecting their children—we experienced the only miracle of our young lives. I woke to find my sister nudging me awake early one morning.
“Come quick,” she said, “you’re not going to believe what I just saw.”
“What is it?”
“Come on,” she urged. “Hurry. I already woke up Micah.”
Rubbing my eyes, I hurried from the room, following my brother and sister. All of a sudden they stopped, and when Micah turned, I saw his eyes widen in shock. He pointed to the kitchen table.
Three Weeks With My Brother
I followed his gaze, and for a moment all I could do was blink. There, right in the middle of the table, were two plastic swords and a plastic crown. Brand-new toys.
“Why are there toys there?” I asked.
“What could it mean?” Dana asked.
“It’s doesn’t make sense,” Micah added. “It’s not Christmas or our birthday.”
We pulled up our chairs and stared at them. Of course, we wanted to touch them, but we didn’t. We couldn’t. Their unexpected arrival left us stunned.
“Do you think mom or dad got them for someone else’s birthday party?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” Micah answered.
“Maybe they’re for us,” Dana volunteered.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Parents don’t buy things for their kids for no reason,” Micah said quickly.
“Yeah, Dana,” I added. “It’s like a rule or something.”
But there they were, before us. Taunting us. What if they were for us? No, it was impossible.
The sword was calling to me. It would be so easy to touch and my hand began to creep forward.
“Don’t,” Micah warned. “Mom and dad will get mad if you touch it.”
“I think they’re for us,” Dana said again.
“No they’re not,” Micah said, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the new toys either. Dana, too, continued to stare.
“Maybe we should go ask mom and dad,” Dana said.
“I’m not going in their bedroom,” Micah said. “They’re sleeping. You know how mad they get if we wake them up.”
“I’m not going in there either,” I said, shaking my head.
“I’ll go,” Dana said, rising from the table. With only the slightest hesitation, she disappeared into our parents’ bedroom.
“That’s a brave girl,” Micah said.
“I hope she doesn’t get in too much trouble,” I whispered.
We waited for the shouts, but strangely, none came. Dana appeared outside the door, closed it behind her, and crept back down the hall.
“Were they still sleeping?”
Dana shook her head excitedly as she approached the table. “No—mom was awake. She said the toys were for us. She said dad brought them home for us.”
For a moment, all I could do was stare. I’d heard what she said, but couldn’t bring myself to believe it.
“No way!”
“That’s what she said.”
“So we can play with them?”
“I guess so.”
“Are you sure? You’ve got to be sure about this, Dana.”
“Mom told me,” she insisted.
Our eyes swiveled back to the table, and with trembling hands we reached for them. The sword was light in my hands. It was brand-new. And we got it for nothing.
Dana took the crown and gently placed it on her head. Micah took the other sword and stood from the table. He swooshed it through the air, and smiled.
“Come on!” he cried, “Let’s go outside and play!”
“What do you want to play?” Dana asked.
“You be the princess, and we’ll be the knights. And we’ll protect you!”
“From what?” Dana asked.
“From the dragons and the bad guys. Come on, let’s go find a fort!”
Three Weeks With My Brother
“Shouldn’t we get dressed first? We’re still in our pajamas.”
“We will in a little while,” Micah said, not bothering to hide his impatience. “Let’s go play first! And remember, since you asked mom and dad, you can give us orders. We’ll protect you!”
So that’s what we did. We played for hours, protecting our sister from harm. Micah and I slew countless imaginary creatures. Dana called us Sir Micah and Sir Nicky, and we saved her life a hundred times that day. In real life, she had almost died once; in our imagination, we would never let it happen again.