Brother’s Loss
By Karen Lethlean
Police are on my front doorstep.
This means trouble.
My parents are frozen, inactive, and non-responsive. So, I asked, ‘What is the problem, officers?’
‘We are just asking; do you know Gregory Bruce Lethlean?’
‘He’s my brother.’
I wanted to say, I know him better than you because I’d have said Greg. Not this more formal, seldom used name. Both constables looked down and fiddled with paperwork. I am not a family member expected to be present. Should be away over east, serving in the Army, not at my childhood front door like this.
Part of me wanted to fill up silent gaps, soften upcoming blows, and stave off potential violence. What’s Greg done this time? How will my father respond? Familiar surroundings, on our front veranda, previous stage for many dreadful unpredictable responses to be played out. If all the world is a stage, this is sure where scenes of drama and trauma occurred. I can’t help but be swept up into anxiety. An apology, often a go-to option, didn’t always work. Likely Dad responded with, what are you sorry for? My stupidity, uselessness, for merely being here. Typical of the treatment meted out all our lives.
I told these officers, ‘I am on leave from the army.’
‘Good.’
Why? A positive thing to have another uniform wearer present. A creature with authority, fellow public servant, skilled at marching, disciplined, perhaps sensible. A woman of few words, unflappable, alert and calm. Going off, leaving home a major life event. Able to help with whatever family crisis is about to unfold. Limited rationale as to why, but kindred existed. I see myself as an Army Girl, able to access a feminine empathy.
Whatever my brother has done… cannot be too bad. Crashed another speedway car, destroyed some farmer’s shed trying to fix a broken-down quad bike, fell off a horse, some sort of accident with stock, maybe reached out to an aggressive farm dog. These were possibilities I mulled over.
‘Sorry to bring you, and your family, this news.’
You mean different from a time he drove into town during the wet season. When Greg made local newspapers for needing to be rescued from a car rooftop marooned in an overflowing creek. Or various other accidents and potential he’s been taken to hospital… moments while my brother drove Speedway cars at Claremont, worked around racing cars, manning pits out at Wanneroo raceway, or sundry other potential injury situations my brother managed to get himself into.
You’d think with extensive medical history records about being an epilepsy sufferer, Greg wouldn’t be able to get a driver’s licence. Maybe he worked the systems, made sure enough people saw his need to drive as essential.
In this tense front door moment, I looked at my father’s face and wondered how he coped with Greg growing up less than perfect. Must have cut against Dad’s grain. At least army service granted a means for me to be considered capable and reach a standard close to my father’s notions of perfection. Function inside his benchmark of a useful person. Yet Dad never affirmed any of his children’s successes. Jack will never be one to tell any of us kids we got anything right.
‘What’s happened, Officer?’ I asked.
‘Your brother was found this morning. He’d had a fit.’
Sure, even I knew Greg wasn’t pedantic about taking his tablets. Prone to spending too much time drinking, an activity contributing to the likelihood of fits. Yet probably a major part of his social activities while living up north. Surely hangovers and binges wouldn’t help remembering to take his medications. I’d heard more than one primary school teacher talk about afternoons when Greg’s petit-mal fits hit. With creased brows, cheeks flushed with concern remarking to my mother how, ‘Greg was lost somewhere behind his eyes.’
‘Appears to have been a major fit.’ Said the policeman.
Guessed this to be so, why else would you guys be here?
My fiancé’s hand is on my shoulder. Making crowded front veranda spaces more so.
‘He choked on his vomit. I am afraid Gregory was found dead early this morning.’
The officer’s chin trembles, I think, bringing such news to front doorsteps must be one of the worst things about his job. Far worse than a rampaging regimental sergeant major unhappy with your boot polishing efforts. Or a pushy physical training corporal asserting you can run faster and might need to do so in an effort to protect yourself from nondescript enemies.
A barely restrained gasp slips out of my mother’s throat. Something like air being pushed out of a train tunnel, preceding a speeding express. Her face turned pale.
I wondered does she think; Greg’s troubled life is over. My parents endured his careless adolescent years after they received an epilepsy diagnosis. How many times did Mum sit by his hospital bedside and wonder if her second son might ever wake up? How many times did my parents try to warn him of potential end-of-life situations? Did she run over in her head why Greg left home, especially this final time? My brother asked Dad for a loan to set himself up in a mechanic’s business. A son came with cap in hand, only to be denied money. Did my mother wonder if Greg’s risk-taking embodied a long, drawn-out attempted suicide?
I’ll never know what went through her head, even in the years I might have asked, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about receiving the news my brother, her youngest son, died.
No mother deserved to mourn a child.
Those dreadful words quivered out in late afternoon breezes on our veranda, as we stood stunned. No one comforted anyone else. Arms remained limp at our sides. Dad resembled a rock pillar.
‘Is there anyone you need us to contact?’ A policeman attempted to be helpful.
I stepped a little closer, aligned myself with these uniformed strangers and said, ‘…look, um, nope. Probably be better if this news came from family.’ Never seen my parents act this way. Never seen these two shocked into immobility.
‘I’ll phone Sylvia.’ Dad said.
He hasn’t spoken to his only sister in years. Except I’ve been living in the Eastern states, so maybe they patched up their latest feud, yet again.
Double shock, my father made moves to lean on a woman. Somewhere in my memory, I’d heard one of my many cousins say how Sylvia received a call demanding her return to the family farm to parent her two youngest brothers following my grandmother’s untimely death. I considered if Dad thinks his only sister is an expert in this type of trauma. Or is his older sister a carer Jack reached out for?
‘Karen, you will have to go over to Lori’s.’ His unsteady words bridged my reminiscences. ‘This is not something I want to say on the phone.’
Logical, seeing as my father doesn’t remain in Alan’s company any more than necessary. Barely a civil word spoken since my younger sister began to co-habit. Especially as on their first visit Dad found a DUI ticket secured in pride of place right there in a photo album which also contained school images, relatives’ weddings and new nephew or niece photos. Such reverence forced an unbridgeable rift between Dad, Lori, and her choice of life partner.
I managed to complete this horrible task. With barely containing grief, aware my chin trembled, and hands shook. Clinging to a need to be a strong big sister. Unfairly charged with bearing such horrible news. To fall apart, be unable to complete my father’s designated duty, would decree new evidence of my uselessness. Eventually, an inevitable collapse occurred. When I realized my dead loved brother will not be beside me, smiling as I introduced Michael. Holding my hand to remind me of something Dad said, some bruise, scraped elbow or skinned knee, wasn’t worth tears. Unable to warn Michael who volunteered to drive me to Lori’s house, I descended into near hysterics as we returned. Likely words of Greg’s favourite song, happened on our car radio, or inside my head—The Beatles harmonising over Yesterday… a time beyond troubles. Possibly triggered such emotional cascades. Or images of Lori mumbling, shaking her head and turning us away. Shutting doors, leaving me unable to ease this burden with sibling tenderness.
Knowing sibling connections are severed, I am isolated. Memories lingered, such as Greg’s teaching me to ride a bike. A task only successful after he threatened to weld a seat behind mine and occupy this until I mastered a skill I eventually described as controlled falling. Now I knew I’d never again be able to touch Greg. Even though Michael puts his arms around my shuddering shoulders I cannot truly make contact. Breathless with shock and disbelief, I thought it possible my brother knew he would not live long. Surely even he imagined a longer duration, than his mid-twenties.
I shake my head in realisation my parents lost a child. Not like my low-key shift away from home, unable (until three years given over to the Australian Army are over), unwilling to return. A deceased brother, now always part of family records. An indelible element, a branch scorched from off our family tree. Being someone’s sister doesn’t just go away like this.
I’d witnessed my younger sister shut herself off, unwilling to share any loss of emotional control. Over the ensuing years, her trauma manifested itself in unique ways. I did not realize she rejected news of Greg’s death. Until a shocking confession at a child’s party, many years later. Me being disgraceful, dancing semi-clad, flirting with Alan when she pulled me aside to say, ‘Greg is going to walk in one day. Or as I make an epic trek through the North West he will be there, running a garage, drinking in a local tavern, buying groceries at a store. His death, funeral, everything…is all a big lie.’
Took me many years to learn denial to be a recognized rung of grieving.
So many ways for a sibling to be present in your life yet gone.
Sympathy cards and engagement cards were delivered together. Commiserations, tokens of empathy, in separate envelopes, yet accompanying congratulatory messages.
My father found his own ways to deal with grief and self-recriminations. Each offering, tinged with token sentiments, needed opening away from areas of entertainment, while he gazed over our back garden. He insisted on gathering all the envelopes and ceremoniously opening them while seated at an old table inherited from mum’s parents.
When I chanced to look over his shoulder, I found sympathy cards uncongenial. A flock of non-descript creams or whites, depicting flowers or birds that screamed solitude. Arum Lilies, wreaths of camellia leaves reminding of life, growth, and death cycles.
I always associated death with shades of black and grey, or coffin teak, however, these cards provided evidence, grief has no colour.
After this experience death no longer hovered as departed grandparents. But pushed in unannounced in those fluttering cards of blank semi-whiteness. Bewildering to see engagement cards are drawn from kindred colour palettes.
Condolences were made with scrawls inside, clichés on loss. No comfort, whether for parent or sibling to be had in ‘…sorry’ and ‘you know where I am,’ Did we? Few knew the place where my father and family currently dwelt.
I wondered if similar inane greetings littering cards supposedly celebrating my betrothal, best wishes… lovely to hear…every happiness to you… mouthed more commiseration than accolades. These also displayed bland images of flowers, soft sunbeams, and vaguely religious images, coupled with similar token scrawls. Right then, such gestures didn’t function as preparation for a joyous, blissful married life.
‘Till death us do part…’ kept ringing in my ears. Greg didn’t get a chance to spend a lifetime with his chosen one.
‘He asked me for a loan, and I said no!’ Jack’s shoulders shuddered, as he turned away and attempted to hide tears. Grief and guilt formed a toxic mix. Did he conclude as he slowly processed each of those cards, quietly accrediting identities to those who sent these reminders of loss, and noted sentiments expressed, no matter how benign; did he gain a panacea for self-incrimination?
Every time Dad pushed engagement cards to the side, tiny darts pinned themselves in my head. An action as a reminder, sons received the greatest shares of my father’s being. Of course, unless in matters of money.
I never dared ask for money. Why did Greg do it? Only years later more details emerged. Little did I know this request came out of a desire to assist in financing marriage to a girl he’d met while backpacking across Europe. My father’s rejection led to my brother trying his luck working on a cattle station up north. A career choice he made to access big bucks. Ultimately costing his life. I’d been more successful in the pursuit of money and making an escape from my father. Did my father hear an internal voice… you killed your son? Not as much as plunging a weapon into the child’s body, but by refusing to lend him money. Wouldn’t have shifted Jack’s attitudes about a healthy bank balance providing evidence of a man’s worth. Or his belief a man needed to stand on his own two feet. Still, when he denied Greg’s request, I am sure Dad never imagined such an impact.
Mum lined sympathy cards up along bookshelves, a bevy of beige reminders of loss. Faded and slightly tumbled by increasing hours of sunlight and potential family gatherings associated with the festive season. A festival to celebrate a birth, alongside grief for a child, surely our Christmas wouldn’t be particularly festive that year.
Knew I’d return to barracks after this leave as a very different person.
*
Karen Lethlean is a trying to be retired English teacher at a Senior College. Ever Present Predator is being published by Pareidolia Volume 2 Wanderkammer as part of their memoir section. San Antonio Review will publish In Isolation. She has won awards for her writing; Bum Joke was awarded a comedy writing award. She is currently writing of military services 1972-76. In another life she is a triathlete and has competed at Hawaii Ironman world championships twice.