September 24, 2018 | Occasus | Issue 8 | Fiction

Goner
I picked them off one by one, the tip of each fingernail ripped before it ever reached past the end of my finger. The doctors paced around in the hall, mumbling to leave us out. The entire treatment was infuriating; we traveled hours to Owen Sound and get no information. Oliver looked at me with despondent, heavyset eyes.  His hair framed his face and set shadows, making the severity of his bone structure stand out even more; the chemo had sucked the life from him. My tongue was saturated with cafeteria coffee and blood, another coping mechanism that I got from my mother. My teeth gnashed at the poor muscle like it never stood a chance. This was supposed to be his last round. Remission burned in our minds the way that rain does during a drought.

Oliver was a good kid. The kind of kid you have to constantly remind that they are capable of good. He wanted to destroy himself more than life was already destroying him. The first time he tried to kill himself was nothing less that eventful. He plunged himself into the grotto on a cold winter night, the waves throwing his body into the sharp rocks like a rag doll. We were just going for a smoke and when I turned, he was gone. I thought it was a joke until I heard screaming.

He hadn’t tried in a while, so I assumed that chapter of our lives was over. He was reacting well to the chemo, physically. His body was growing stronger, not by much, but enough that I could notice.

Back at home I helped Oliver settle down on the couch, his arms slung around my neck, hanging with defeat. His eyes were dark and sunk around the lashes from weeks of missed sleep. I could hear two sets of feet shuffling around upstairs; Jeff and his girlfriend must have just woken up. Jeff wasn’t a horrible father, he was kind enough to stay behind when our mom left. I didn’t know this girlfriend that well, but I think she may be that one waitress that over serves the under-age kids. If that is her, I appreciate Jeff’s choice in women.
             
“We need more Moosehead” barked Jeff. Endearing, really. Oliver thanked him for asking how he was and let him know chemo was great. I almost saw shame on my father’s face, but it disintegrated quickly when he noticed there was still no beer. I don’t think Jeff has thought of someone besides himself since our mother left. I say mother in the loosest way possible, assigning only the traits of 1) giving birth to us and 2) cashing welfare checks for dependants.
Tobermory was a bleak town in the winter, a population crawling in just under four thousand. The winds in the winter stripped us bare of any warmth or humidity, and delivered a bone chilling current from both sides. As the tip of the Bruce Peninsula, and the freshwater scuba capital of the world, we become slightly busy during the warmer weeks of the summer. For us locals however, most months consist of a steady lifestyle hinged on hunting and drinking to excess. However annoying tourists are, the summer is forever a fond memory. Jeff is the second mate on the M.S. Chi-Cheemaun, the shuttle ferry that takes cottage-goers across the lake to Manitoulin Island. His functioning kicks in when the warmth does and he becomes not completely useless.

When we were little, before Oli was diagnosed and Jeff was mostly sober, we would go with him in the control room and ‘help’ him drive the boat. We would spend the weekends on the island, away from our mom. It was so simple, and so far away from us now.
           
We had Jeff when we were little, but not enough of him to have a whole father. Oliver had always been taking care of me, I was the centre of his world. He felt this innate responsibility for me. Now it’s changed. Now I drive him down the peninsula to doctors. I enrolled him in online school, I schedule appointments that fit with his classes, I make his food, and I understand why my mother left.
 Oliver and I go down to the Princess Hotel for drinks. It’s a grand blue and white building that sits on the edge of the harbour. The bar extends out onto a patio where you can watch boat goers and shoppers mosey around the pier. Three and a half empty pints sit in front of Oliver, sweating in the early summer heat. “You really shouldn’t be drinking this much” I point out to him. He doesn’t respond.

“Oli I’m really sick of -”

 “Yeah well I’m really sick” he barks before I can finish my sentence.

“I know,” I say through my teeth.

Anger boils in the back of my throat, I tighten. Oliver finishes his beer. The world does what he wants. I know his life sucks and whatever, but the cancer perks are never ending. He can get away with horrible comments and being an unapologetic dick. As he gets up to go to the bar, I say after him, “Just because you’re sick doesn’t mean that you can treat everyone in your life like shit.”

He keeps walking.

Some locals are throwing rocks into the water and chuckling whilst clutching a paper bag clad bottle. Oliver hasn’t come back. My mind wanders off to my mom. Usually I don’t think about her, but recently she’s all I can think about. How do you just have a kid with cancer and leave? How do you have a daughter, who has no one else, other than a brother with cancer, and leave? Why don’t I hate her? Oliver remembers her more than I do, I was only 8 when she left. He always tells me I drink like her, clutching a bottle of wine until it’s gone, then going on some rant about how life is melancholic and I deserve better. He watched her do this until she convinced herself there was happiness away from here. I don’t drink around him anymore. I don’t need to be reminded that I’m just like her.
           
I walk into the bar to look for Oliver. I mosey over and see Jeff’s girlfriend (I think) working the bar. I order a bottle of wine and go back to my table. Fuck Oliver. I hazily watch the locals in the pier parking lot holler and push one another. Fuck this place.  
 
Oliver comes strolling back in with some local on his arm. She is wearing a cut t-shirt, low waist shorts, and grey converse. “Nice” he says as he motions to the bottle. They sit down. No matter how much I take care of him, I will always be the little sister that he can pass judgement on. I finish the bottle in front of him, happy with the distaste on his face. I get up and leave, thinking he wouldn’t care.
           
In the parking lot, I take my place among the locals and join the pointless shenanigans. I feel hazy and my stomach is warm with merlot sitting peacefully.  The air is breezy and it smells like the summer. The sun is just setting over the lake. A biker has his arm around my shoulder and I lean into the warmth radiating from inside his leather jacket. Out of the corner of my eye I see Oliver striding across the lot to us. The look on his face is the same as that one time he saw me making out with his best friend. Oh shit.  I think to myself, before I remember that he is a chemo kid with the strength of a seven-year-old girl. I start chuckling as he tries to shove me away from the guy. I give in to not embarrass him around the hicks, and stumble away. He wraps his long, skinny fingers around my wrist and drags me away.

“What the FUCK!” he screams in my face. 

“Ol, you’ve had too much to drink” I chuckle.

I enjoyed being in charge of him sometimes. He places his hands on my shoulders and shoves me into the ground. I hit the gravel and skid backward, the individual rocks tearing open the back of my thighs as I fall.

“Oliver what the fuck”.

I look at him with confusion and betrayal as tears roll down his face.

“I don’t want to do this anymore” he whimpers.

No. No. No.   Oliver stands over me, a different dead look in his eyes than what is normally present. I know I out-weigh him and can probably beat him up, but in this moment, I have never felt smaller. I try asking him what is going on, why now, we’re so close to remission.
“Don’t you see! It will never happen! Life will never be easy Isabell!”

I stare at him empty. I know.

“Yes, it will! There is hope Oliver we are so close.”

He knows I’m bullshitting. He knows life has gotten as good as it will get and then stopped. He drops to his knees.

“She will never come back. It’s my fault and you lost your mom because of me and she will never come back”.

My mouth hangs open. I thought he was difficult because he was angry. Angry at the world, at mom, at me for being like mom. I didn’t know it was guilt.
 
“It’s been ten years Ol, I’m over it, she was a horri-”. He starts running to the car.
“I’m tired of this Oliver!” I plead to his face, my head just peeking through the window of our truck. He sits there, staring down the road as his fingers grip the steering wheel. He slides his hands forward and backward and revs the engine, his head bobbles on his shoulders slowly, a visible reminder of how much he’d had to drink. His head stops.

“Get out of the car Oliver” I sob.

He shakes his head.

“Oliver, this isn’t your fault, you didn’t ask for cancer”.

Tears roll down his cheeks.

 “Oliver how am I supposed to get out of here without you?”.

He pounds the sole of his foot into the gas pedal and shoots off from me. I am left standing in the middle of the road. Watching him leave.
I was never sure if Oliver wanted to die, or just wanted to have the ability to end his life anytime. I think he liked the idea that he had control of the way he would go. He didn’t want it to be cancer, he was much more than that. The police found his car wrapped around a telephone pole. There were so few in Tobermory, there were only 3,500 people to deliver land lines to. The odds of hitting one were about the same as being lucky enough to be born here. He suffered a broken leg, shattered ribs, and “visit from an angel”, as he likes to put it. Back at the hospital in Owen Sound, they patched him up. Because of the drunk driving and the suicide attempt, they wouldn’t release him into the care of his 18-year-old sister; I knew Jeff wasn’t about to come to our rescue.
           
Oliver was charged with impaired driving, but cancer perks granted him only the loss of his licence and a future court date, which left him with a discharge on his own recognisance. When I finally got him home, Jeff was fuming. The fatherliest thing he had done in a while. He went on a rant about new rules and how he wasn’t going to be taking this anymore and shit was changing. Sure. “Let me just put Oliver in bed okay Jeff, I’ll be back.” I wheel him into his room and help him into his single bed. He looks at me like a hurt puppy. He hasn’t stopped apologizing since leaving the hospital, but I think he just knows I’m the only one who will take care of him for a while. He promised the attempts were over. Sure.
           
I walk back into the living room, and Jeff is sitting on the couch, playing with his wedding ring. “I broke up with Sheila.” I shrug. I don’t think my dad has any grip on reality, my brother is on his death bed, and he wants to gossip about some waitress. “Your mother is coming home.” I walk across the living room, and wind my elbow back. I strike him hard across the face, grab the keys, and leave.
CELIA KATE SHAPCOTT is a student in Writing 1000.