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I hate coming here. It reminds me of shopping trips with my mother and brother when I was a little girl. I felt embarrassed by my brother who walked with short, shufflinig steps, clung to Mother's hand, smiled and looked at Mom when someone spoke to him. I felt as if everyone was staring at us. I was ashamed of him and ashamed of myself. I knew I should love him, should help my mother, should be a good girl. I tried, but I never learned to love him.
I reminded myself that my brother was brain damaged by a careless doctor. I tortured myself wondering what he could have been if the accident hadn't happened. An engineer like my father, a lawyer like my husband? Just a few minutes more oxygen and the spark of intelligence would be there in his eyes. Instead there's a worried, frightened struggle to understand. He knows enough to realize that he's missing the point - an embarrassment that he's not as smart as other people.
Now it is my job to tell him that our mother is dead. And somehow I must learn to take her place.
"Jackie's waiting for you," the supervisor says.
My brother comes toward me, then backs away as I try to kiss hiim. "How's mother?" he asks.
"Let's go in your room, Jack," I say.
He is taller than I. His face would be handsome if the light of intelligence were reflected there. His hair, like mine, is still a dark blond with only a few gray hairs at the age of 57. I am two years older. He turns toward me, smiling, not wanting to hear what I have to tell him.
"Jack," I say, taking his hand, "Mom died last week of a heart attack."
He brushes away his tears with the back of his hand. Who taught him it was wrong to cry? I put my arms around him, but he stiffens.
"What will happen to her car?" he asks. He fastens on details when he can't fully grasp the meaning of something.
"I'll take care of it for her, Jackie," I say hugging him. He's like a little boy, I think. My little boy now.
"I'll make sure you're okay, honey," I say. "I'll come and see you. I'll write to you."
He is quiet for a minute. I can't tell what he is thinking. I don't know him at all. I had gone to college, married, had children and had seen him only occasionally after my parents put him in the home in Florida when Jack was 37. Busy raising my children, I often forgot to send him birthday cards and Christmas presents. I didn't visit or call him. I would say, "I don't feel anything for my brother," but of course I felt a lot - a lot of resentment and anger.
I take him out to lunch and try to think of things to talk about. He looks down at his ice cream and says softly, "It's a shame about Mother dying."
My God, I think, he's the retarded one, but I'm the one pretending she hasn't died, not talking about her.
Table of Contents
Part I: Childhood
1. Your Needs
2. Your Parents' Marriage
3. Your Feelings and How to Cope With Them
4. How Did You Get That Way?
Part II: Adolescence
5. Adolescent Angst
6. Who Are You?
Adulthood
7. Someone to Talk To
Your Relationships
Your Career
10. Do you Want Children?
11. Who Will Take Care of Your Sibling?
12. It Feels Like Love.
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