bike ride. Or: things she will not say out loud
I went for a bike ride this evening. The sun had gone down, and there was a spatter of rain from above, but it was warm enough and I was feeling restless. Up second ave, left along the aqueduct, past the vast grounds of the Douglas, and when the road split in two, I went left. At LaSalle's fifth avenue, I turned left again, opposing the direction of traffic, and slowed down.
I don't know if or when I made the decision, but I found myself cycling towards the group home in which my oldest brother had been residing before he died of liver cancer three and a half years ago. Twas a group home owned and run by my parents' friends, where several schizophrenics lived in proximity to the Douglas Hospital.
Red brick, front porch painted brown. Unexceptional.
But I remember being fourteen years old, sitting in the back of my parents' Dodge Caravan, pulling up in front of the house on a Sunday after Church. He'd be standing on that porch, eager for our arrival and while other patients smoked their cigarettes, he would amble down towards the car to accept the aromatic plastic bag my mom would pass to him through the passenger-side door. Her home cooking. He'd lean in to peer at me through bulging, jaundiced eyes. With an almost toothless smile, he'd say hello and ask me how old I was now. Said I was beautiful.
Sometimes my mom would go inside and visit his dwelling space. My dad would join her, shaking his leg impatiently as they chatted in Ilonggo with their friends, the owners. I'd wait in the car, frightened of the overweight man, 26 years my senior, with the yellow eyes and the missing teeth who shared my last name and little else.
He'd follow my parents back to the car and my dad would reach into his back pocket to produce a five-dollar bill. My brother would refuse it, saying he was just using the money to buy cigarettes for his friends. He didn't smoke. And my mom would say, "Sigi na" to signal our goodbye, and he'd sigh a little, turn and climb back onto that balcony and wave as we drove back up fifth ave, right on Centrale, then home.
I cycled by there tonight, not sure how I would feel or react. Fear. Eyes darting to light and dark spaces and the desperate need to not stop. I kept the wheels turning as I cycled past that porch, past street names that I never knew, though I've memorized the landmarks. A church. A school yard. Over to the parking lot of the Bird Sanctuary, left on the riverside bike path and back towards Verdun.
The wind was stronger at the river and the rain was getting more intense. I continued on, LaSalle boulevard running alongside me to my left. Dim street lights cast pole-shaped shadows across the orange-tinted grass. I saw my own umbrous form coming at me from three directions as I biked past one street lamp, and another. To my right, the dark expanse of the St. Lawrence river and beyond that the inaudible glow of South Shore houses. I felt the wind pushing on my chest, roaring, rushing past my ears and I became frightened of my brother's presence pulling me back or chasing me forward and I breathed deep, telling myself it was only the wind. and only the rain.
Fifty meters later, I stopped my bike, walked it over the small expanse of lawn and planted myself on the street proper. I continued again, the oncoming traffic a welcome distraction from the persistence of my brother's ghost. And then it was West on LaSalle, a small veering to the left to join up with Wellington, sixth, fifth, fourth, third, second ave and I was home.
I don't know if or when I made the decision, but I found myself cycling towards the group home in which my oldest brother had been residing before he died of liver cancer three and a half years ago. Twas a group home owned and run by my parents' friends, where several schizophrenics lived in proximity to the Douglas Hospital.
Red brick, front porch painted brown. Unexceptional.
But I remember being fourteen years old, sitting in the back of my parents' Dodge Caravan, pulling up in front of the house on a Sunday after Church. He'd be standing on that porch, eager for our arrival and while other patients smoked their cigarettes, he would amble down towards the car to accept the aromatic plastic bag my mom would pass to him through the passenger-side door. Her home cooking. He'd lean in to peer at me through bulging, jaundiced eyes. With an almost toothless smile, he'd say hello and ask me how old I was now. Said I was beautiful.
Sometimes my mom would go inside and visit his dwelling space. My dad would join her, shaking his leg impatiently as they chatted in Ilonggo with their friends, the owners. I'd wait in the car, frightened of the overweight man, 26 years my senior, with the yellow eyes and the missing teeth who shared my last name and little else.
He'd follow my parents back to the car and my dad would reach into his back pocket to produce a five-dollar bill. My brother would refuse it, saying he was just using the money to buy cigarettes for his friends. He didn't smoke. And my mom would say, "Sigi na" to signal our goodbye, and he'd sigh a little, turn and climb back onto that balcony and wave as we drove back up fifth ave, right on Centrale, then home.
I cycled by there tonight, not sure how I would feel or react. Fear. Eyes darting to light and dark spaces and the desperate need to not stop. I kept the wheels turning as I cycled past that porch, past street names that I never knew, though I've memorized the landmarks. A church. A school yard. Over to the parking lot of the Bird Sanctuary, left on the riverside bike path and back towards Verdun.
The wind was stronger at the river and the rain was getting more intense. I continued on, LaSalle boulevard running alongside me to my left. Dim street lights cast pole-shaped shadows across the orange-tinted grass. I saw my own umbrous form coming at me from three directions as I biked past one street lamp, and another. To my right, the dark expanse of the St. Lawrence river and beyond that the inaudible glow of South Shore houses. I felt the wind pushing on my chest, roaring, rushing past my ears and I became frightened of my brother's presence pulling me back or chasing me forward and I breathed deep, telling myself it was only the wind. and only the rain.
Fifty meters later, I stopped my bike, walked it over the small expanse of lawn and planted myself on the street proper. I continued again, the oncoming traffic a welcome distraction from the persistence of my brother's ghost. And then it was West on LaSalle, a small veering to the left to join up with Wellington, sixth, fifth, fourth, third, second ave and I was home.