Novels

My brother sends me a text saying he and my sister-in-law are hurt and annoyed that my wife and I are pregnant at the same time as them. That it’s weird and seems purposeful. That my wife did it intentionally just so she could be pregnant at the same time as my sister-in-law because she told them about a dream she had where this happened and then—poof—it happened! My wife, the witch, using her black magic to get knocked up as soon as she found out they were knocked up. She’d taken out a Ziplock bag with the blood of sacrificed children from the reserves in the garage freezer, ate a few scrambled snake eggs, went into a trance, and offered her soul to Satan in exchange for this small favor. He says our pregnancy will just overshadow theirs. He says they’re actively taking a step back from us and that he doesn’t owe me a conversation about it.

I text back, I disagree but thanks for telling me how you feel.

My wife is in the next room, bawling on the phone to her mom.

I call my mom. I don’t know why I call my mom. We haven’t talked much since she got pissed and lashed out and boycotted our post-Covid wedding reception because I invited my dad. I love my dad. My mom hates my dad. They’ve been divorced for over twenty years. The fairytales got it wrong. Sometimes hate is stronger than love. I tell my mom about the text my brother just sent me. She acts surprised. She says she had no idea about any of this. She says she gets where he’s coming from.

I write a novel in my notes app. It’s a collection of the same letter to my brother written and rewritten in various iterations.

Some of the letters go like this: This situation feels really unfair.

Some of the letters go like this: Fuck you, you entitled asshole!

My novel reaches 50,000,000 words. It’s the longest novel ever written. Longer than the Bible. It wraps around the planet twice. I recite the novel in my car on the way to work. I practice it daily. In my head and out loud. In the mirror. In the night sky. Directly into the sun. I methodically pick apart the novel to figure out which words and sentences and arguments I want to emphasize. Which to raise my voice on and which to whisper. I rehearse it over and over. It’s both my best and my worst work. I delete the novel entirely. I tell myself to let it go. I tell myself to forgive him. I tell myself to let karma do its thing. I rewrite the novel. This time it’s over 1,000,000,000 words and in every known human language in the history of known human languages. I write until my fingertips start to bleed and my flesh falls off and the bones stick out. I write it in blood.

My wife doesn’t like to talk about it. Talking about it makes her cry. Thinking about it makes her cry. But when she does talk about it she says, “I just feel so stupid.”

I say, “You’re not stupid.”

She says, “People get pregnant at the same time all the fucking time.”

I say, “I know. I don’t get it.”

I tell my mom we won’t be doing the family Christmas this year. My mom says fine but she wants to spend some time with my two older kids. I say ok but please don’t bring them around my brother and sister-in-law because of the situation. My mom tells me I’m putting her in the middle. That I’m punishing her by giving her this stipulation. That she wasn’t planning on bringing the kids around them but nevermind now she just won’t spend any time with the kids at all. She writes it in all caps LIKE THIS.

I say ok, have a good holiday.

My oldest daughter starts asking why we haven’t seen her uncle and aunt in a long time. I tell her that sometimes grown-ups need a break from each other. She asks if they know she’s going to be a big sister again. I tell her they do and that they’re going to have a baby too so she’ll also have a little cousin. She gets real excited and tells her brother and he gets real excited. They’re both excited and my wife tries not to cry and I try to smile and we both pretend nothing is broken.

I talk to my brother in my head. I argue with my brother in my head. I scream at my brother in my head. I break his fucking jaw in my head. I help him up and ask if he’s ok. He says he’s sorry and he was being a dumbass and we’re brothers again. Then something reminds me of his text and I start the whole fucking thing over in my head.

I tell my wife, “I’m sorry I talk about my brother so much.”

She says, “Don’t be sorry. It’s your family and I know it hurts you more than it hurts me. I don’t know what I’d do if my brother had reacted this way.”

My wife and her mom plan the baby shower. My oldest daughter asks if we’re going to invite her uncle and aunt. I say probably not. She asks if they’re going to have a baby shower and if she’ll be invited. I want to lie to her and tell her of course, they love you, why wouldn’t they invite you? But I tell her the truth. I tell her they already had their baby shower and we weren’t invited. She cries for a really long time in my arms and I tell my brother you did this, you motherfucker in my head over and over and over, and I hope he hears me and it melts his brain.

My mom says she’s tentatively planning on going to the baby shower. She doesn’t go. She gives no explanation why. She goes to their baby shower. Then they have another baby shower that’s just with their friends and she goes to that one too.

I start a new novel that goes like this: Fuck you, mom! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

My brother sends me a text with a picture of his son telling me I’m an uncle and he loves me and he hopes we can talk and work things out. I tell him congratulations and that his son is beautiful. I don’t say anything else. I don’t tell him how shitty it is to expect me to celebrate the birth of his baby when he’s already cast a dark cloud over mine before she’s even born.

I go insane. I work out every day. I dissociate. I drink too much. I hate myself for not standing up for myself. I think I’m a coward. I think I’m a coward who lets anyone and everyone walk all over him and that’s all I’ll ever be. I think my wife should have married a real man who will fight for her. I think my kids deserve a better, stronger father. I meditate. I go on walks. I read self-help books and watch YouTube videos about family trauma and imagine a world where I’m an orphan and what a wonderful world it is to live in.

At thirty-six weeks, the doctor says our baby isn’t growing. She says my wife needs to be induced ASAP. My wife is in labor for over thirty hours before the nurse tells us the umbilical cord is wrapped around our baby’s neck and they need to cut my wife open ASAP. My wife shakes and cries. She signs the paperwork saying if she dies it’s not the hospital’s fault. She calls her mom and her mom tells her it’s going to be ok. The nurses make me wait for a million years before letting me into the operating room where my wife is stretched out like Jesus Christ on his cross. The doctors are cutting and pulling and my wife is crying and I’m telling her everything is going to be ok. I tell her I’m here and everything will be ok even though I can’t do shit if something does go wrong. From my wife’s flesh the doctors pull out our baby girl. She cries and it’s the most beautiful sound we’ve ever heard. The sun pulls the roof off from above us and shines down on her and tears cover our faces and I tell my wife, you did it! She’s here! We spend three more days in the hospital nursing our baby and changing our baby and introducing our baby to everyone and everything and saying this was all made for you. I don’t send my brother a text with a picture of my baby.

I decide I need therapy. I read my brother’s text to my therapist. I read my mom’s text to my therapist. I tell her all about my life, all about my family. She says she can’t diagnose it, but it sounds like my mom might have borderline personality disorder. I tell her that my brother’s therapist told him the same thing. She says it sounds like my brother is going through a lot and it doesn’t really have to do with me but because of the family dynamic my mom created, I’m the one who takes the brunt of it. She tells me I was a parentified child to an emotionally immature parent. She asks, have I ever heard of emotional incest? She tells me issues like this are common among siblings of parents with BPD. She says it sounds like I’m the scapegoat of my family dynamic and my brother is likely often the golden child. I feel less crazy. I feel like my brain isn’t a runny mess of goo anymore. I feel alive. I can see the skyline and the stars and I can feel the wind on my face and all five senses are working again. She asks why I never took my brother up on talking or working things out. I tell her I’m not sure. She calls bullshit. I tell her the truth and the truth is that I’m scared I’ll either lose my shit or let him walk all over me again. She says that’s fine but I should at least try. I say fine. We spend the next couple months writing a new novel. I write a draft and read it to my therapist. She tells me I need to revise this and not say that or be more direct and be less aggressive. It goes through ten thousand rounds of edits. I practice this novel out loud and in my head every day. I read it to my therapist who pretends to be my brother and starts to look like my brother and talk like my brother.

We whittle the novel down to a short email that goes like this: I’m sorry you’ve felt overshadowed. That’s a shitty feeling, but it didn’t warrant your reaction. I know you wanted this life event to yourself but life doesn’t work that way. What you said felt intentionally hurtful, and I can’t allow that kind of behavior around my family. We’re not responsible for your insecurities or jealousies and we shouldn’t be treated as though we are. I love you. Good luck. Take care.

I click send and the email goes through the sky past the birds and the planes and the memories of better times and so long, goodbye.

For the next few weeks, the only sound I hear is static. My brother never responds. I text him to ask if he got my email. No response there either.

The world slowly opens and I hear my baby’s laugh. I watch my two older kids get excited when they play with her. I watch my wife grow into motherhood. I watch my in-laws fall in love with their first grandbaby. I watch my baby’s hair grow blonde and curly and her eyes turn blue and her smile grow big and her teeth come in. I watch her turn one and learn to walk. I hear her call her brother bro bro and her sister sissy even though she says it with a lisp and it sounds like thi-thee. I watch my older kids play soccer and perform in plays and get braces. My wife dyes her hair from red to blonde and after I beg her she dyes it back to red because red is sexy as fuck on her. We redo our backyard. We buy my wife a new mom car. We go to New Orleans with some friends and I see family on my mom’s side who love me and they ask about our baby and bring us gifts for our baby and tell me how beautiful all my kids are. I publish a book and my friends buy it and come to my readings and tell me good job. I talk about future plans with my wife. Like wanting to open a bookstore someday in a small town. I decide to start publishing books by other writers. I start a new novel. It goes like this: It’s whatever I want it to be and has nothing to do with my family. The past and the pain shrink behind me. It doesn’t leave but it doesn’t matter. They’re still there. In my notes app. In my emails. In my text messages. Life grows around them in full bloom until I don’t see them. Until I don’t feel them. Until life is bigger than they ever were.