Playing With Fire

Time for cake and presents!

I squat down and lean over, allowing Bre to hop on my back. Shooting back up, she squeals in my ear and I’m glad I decided to come. I’ve spent the last few months struggling to brush off my past and be a better person for my family, Bre in particular. Her innocence makes me feel like a kid again. I know she looks up to her big brother, and I need to be better for her.

I run at full speed to the cabana outside where my mother waits for Bre to come open her presents. The array of gifts is staggering. There hasn’t been a holiday, or even just a day when any one of us kids could say we went without. At least thirty gifts line the back wall of the cabana, and only five of Bre’s closest friends were invited.

As I squat back down, allowing Bre to take off running towards the tower of gifts, I marvel at her small stature and pretty features. She looks nothing like me. I know I shouldn’t expect it—I was adopted—but part of me still wishes we had something other than paper to claim us as brother and sister.

---

My mother miscarried as a teenager, too young to support another growing body. They tell the story at family gatherings, the story of how they carried on. When my father stayed with her, they covered their shame with a cheap cubic zirconia engagement ring, and a plain wedding ceremony.

My mother said the wedding ceremony was plain, but meaningful.

My father said the ring cost me my last $53.99 and I paid at least seven dollars of that in pennies from a childhood piggy bank.

A few years later they decided to start their family over again—they were ready for it—in love, employed, stable. Again, her body rejected the manifestation of blood and tissues.

My mother said my body just wasn’t ready to be a home. We just bought some Martha Stewart decorating magazines and tried again. Here she laughs at her joke, but I know it’s still painful. They mourned the loss and tried again in its memory…and again…and again. Each time held no hope, as my mother miscarried to the day she received an infertile diagnosis.

My father said Mom just shuffled the pamphlets in front of her and ignored the truth. He interjected on her behalf. When will it be safe to try again? The doctor gracefully overlooked it, continuing on.

In unison they say, one in every ten families suffers from infertility. You’re not alone, Mrs. Carmichael. It just wasn’t going to work.

---

So they adopted me from an underfunded orphanage in Detroit in a humanitarian effort, and that was is. I was their baby, and they were my family. It didn’t feel different.

Now I sit and observe my other siblings, varying in ages between 3 and 17-years-old. My parents’ diagnosis was abandoned when my mom became pregnant with my brother and sister, fraternal twins. Twenty years after their first miscarriage, their family had grown from two lonely lovers to eight vibrant family members. They were complete. The backyard has a small granite marker for every baby lost, all valued and celebrated like the living ones. Sentimental. Even with six kids and countless angel babies of their own genetic makeup, they never stopped loving me. Yet, I never paid back their kindness and love.

---

I remember the day I started smoking marijuana. I was 14. Half of it was a desire to be cool, half of it was to escape the daily taunts about being unwanted and from the inner city. I remember that Joe King was a piece of shit.

You’re from the ghetto?

He knew I was adopted. Hell, everyone knew I was adopted. My parents were very forthcoming with the information. They said it was part of my story, our story.

Ha! Even your real parents didn’t want you. You were poor, weren’t you?

I was pissed. Joe was a private Catholic school kid until he got to high school, which is where his parents hoped that mingling with kids like me would keep him humble. Bullshit. The only reason he was talking to me was because I was talking to the girl his best friend liked. He didn’t like me stepping out of my place in life. I got in his face and thrust him back into a wall of blue lockers.

Back off, dumbass.

He yelled for a teacher and I ran back to my homeroom before someone saw me. He kept yelling at me as I ran.

Poor kids don’t belong with pretty girls.

The words haunted me, and I got high to mellow out. I dropped out. I stopped working. But when my dealer moved to cocaine for the profit, I joined him. I could make thousands of dollars per day if I just got into the game. I was young, but perfect for the job; the cops didn’t suspect an upper middle-class kid from the suburbs to cause problems. Dealing drugs never sounds ideal until you get your first cash prize. Money in the bank felt good, felt right. I went back to school and got a real diploma. I bought my first car, and got an apartment. I bought my stability, my freedom.

As it turns out though, there’s no reward in being part of the game when people you know start playing it. My 17-year-old brother Alex started to follow in my footsteps when he saw what a day’s work could really bring home. I needed the money, but the game isn’t worth it when you’re watching your own family play with fire.

---

I remember the first day I found my brother on the streets. He was young, maybe

14-years-old at the time, but he hit his growing stage early, and looked at least 18. Did it really matter in the streets? I walked back to my apartment from the local YMCA where I worked out and saw him at a Chinese restaurant on the corner of 8th and Madison. As I walked up, I yelled his name and he turned and dropped what he was holding. Cocaine. I saw red, and without thinking, I ran up and I threw him against the brick wall of the restaurant.

What the fuck do you think you’re doing with that? Huh? Where do Mom and Dad think you are? Think it’s funny running around with grams of cocaine in your pocket? For what?

Chill, Dev. If you didn’t walk up like this, you would have never known. I’m careful. I needed the money.

For what? Mom and Dad and all of their money can’t provide for you?

You did it, too. I don’t want to hear it. You make good money; I’ll make good money. 

Look, we can even do it together so you can keep an eye on me if you’re that worried. I’ll be fine. Are you with me or against me?

Given an ultimatum by my own brother. Where the fuck did he learn this?

I didn’t hesitate. I was against him, my own brother.

---

I quickly surveyed the small crowd of people surrounding my sister and note that he isn’t here.

Mom, did Alex tell you where he was going to be?

I don’t remember, Dev. I think he said something about coming by later. After a school project maybe? Text Dax and ask him. I’m sure they’re together. They’re probably fine. I didn’t get to tell you earlier, but it’s good to see you. You look…healthy.

You’re right; maybe I’ll call him just in case.

Brushing off her last comment, I think about Alex. I know he’s fine. But I also know he’s lying. He runs still runs the west side of town with a couple of bigger guys around to protect him. As soon as I told him to forget his dreams of being my partner, he beefed up security. No funny business where his safety is concerned. I wish he had shown up, but at least she didn’t ask questions this time; I’m running out of excuses to cover him. Looking back at Bre, I take in her innocence again. She’s my beacon of hope, and I love being the one to shower her with the best gifts and surprises. I got a real job because of her. All that drives me in life is the desire to be better for her, to not let another sibling know how my past almost took me away from them. I want to have a daughter like her one day, and I hope they love me as much as Bre does. Or as much as Bre does when she doesn’t know the person I once was.

Picking up the phone, I look through the numbers on my speed dial. Number one is 911, number two is my old supplier, and number three is my brother. Holding down the number three, I listen to the phone ring while I think about what I’m going to say to him. I settle on asking him to come home, for good.

The phone ring switches over to the sound of an automated voicemail and I frown. I know Alex is always by his phone. He doesn’t want to miss an opportunity for new supplies or new clients. I press the number three again and let it ring. This time, the phone picks up on the first ring.

Dev, bro. Thank God. Where are you?

The voice on the end of the line does not belong to my brother.

Jimmie, I’m at Breana’s party, where are you? Where’s Alex?

Jimmie pauses, contemplating his next sentence. I can hear his breaths, irregular and scratchy from chain-smoking Marlboro Reds on street corners while he deals with Alex.

He’s down, man. I don’t think he’s gonna make it. He was making nice with this guys’ girl during a deal, and the dude just brought a gun out. Shot him right in the stomach. He’s bleeding out. I need you to get here now. Corner of 8th and Madison. Don’t take too long.

I sharply inhale, knowing the first rule of the game is no guns. If someone messes you up, they mess you up fair and square with their hands, no metal. I’m pissed. I run back up to the house, looking back at Bre and her party. She’s soaking up the attention, but my mother looks up and locks eyes. Her eyes look helpless, and I know she thinks I’m running to do a deal; I’m running to save your son. She doesn’t know I’m clean. It doesn’t matter. I know I can’t tell her the truth, not yet. I sigh in frustration and take off through the back doors and to the entryway. Grabbing my keys, I run out to my red Camaro and peel out of the driveway.

By the time I approach the corner of 8th and Madison, I see red and white lights engulfing the buildings like rogue flames. I yank my car to the side, a no parking lane, but I don’t care. I jump out of the car and run up to the side of that damn Chinese restaurant and see the pool of blood before I see my brother. His emerald green eyes are still open and he looks lifeless. He is lifeless. Shit. More than five years in the game and I’ve never seen anyone die. We were all careful. My eyes travel from his face to his stomach and I can see the skin tears and blood, and my stomach lurches. I run behind the building and reject all of the contents of my stomach. Pressing my arm into the wall to steady myself, I slowly slide down and allow myself to cleanse my sadness with the salty tears.

Twenty minutes later, I go back as the paramedics cross Alex’s arms over his chest and load him onto a stretcher. The medical crew slams doors shut, shaking their heads as they talk about the foolish kid who should have known better. I cringe at their judgments. My brother was more than his decisions.

The coroner declared Alex dead on arrival at the hospital, and as our family gathered around his hospital bed to say final goodbyes, I kept returning to the paramedics’ conversation. Maybe they were right, Alex was a foolish kid; that’s just it though, he was a kid. Death didn’t care. Alex was gone. Dead by gunshot. Dead by fire.