Rescuing my brother (part 2)
I look back on this time with regret and I wish I did more to help my brother. Since that time, and with a lot of self-reflection and journaling, I've learned to forgive myself and let it go.
As soon as my sister and I land at JFK, we grab a cab and head to our downtown Manhattan Airbnb to drop off our luggage. Then, we take the subway to go straight to Jilli’s place on the Upper West Side, a short 20-minute ride away.
An odd feeling washes over me like I am about to visit a stranger. My brother has morphed into someone I don’t quite know anymore. He’s not the dorky kid I used to pick up from elementary school who would ask me to take him to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal.
He’s now a person who puts his hand through windows and blacks out when he drinks, terrifying his girlfriend and sisters. I’m convinced the past—his shady drug deals and lies and running away from law enforcement are catching up to him mentally. When he’s sober, he’s anxious and paranoid, and when he drinks, he’s explosive.
He won’t tell me or my sister what exactly he did, but he’s alluded to it. The little we do know, my sister and I are skeptical and aren’t sure what is the truth and what’s fabricated. His hard drug usage is also affecting him and distorting his notion of reality and fantasy. Like the time he told me he was kidnapped in Mexico. When I asked him about the kidnapping years later, he snorted and said he never said that. He said he was just “on vacation” in Puerto Villarta.
I don’t know what to believe, and maybe I don’t need to know. But not knowing isn’t healthy for me, as I often picture him being a part of a drug deal gone wrong, where guns are drawn, lives are lost, and people end up in prison. I sense he’s going through some PTSD or trauma that seems to manifest in violent outbursts each time he drinks.
My sister and I step out of the subway and walk a few blocks until Google Maps tells us we’ve arrived. The building is newer and it could almost a doorman kind of building, except there was no doorman. I’m instantly reminded of my days when I lived in NYC—East Village, Downtown, and Fort Greene in Brooklyn. I lived in NYC in my mid-twenties, about the same age my brother is now. I smile when I reflect on my time in NYC—partying it up, always surrounded by friends, and generally having a great time as a 20-something with my whole life ahead of me.
My brother’s Big Apple experience is starkly different from mine. He hides out in his girlfriend’s apartment, paranoid of the cops finding him for something illegal he did in another city or state. Besides Jilli, he has no friends or a job to experience everything big city life offers. I feel sorry for him.
My sister’s phone announces we’ve arrived at Jilli’s apartment. From the sidewalk, my sister types in the apartment number from the metal keypad, and a few moments later, the door buzzes.
Once inside, we push the elevator button and make our way to the ninth floor. I feel nervous about seeing my brother for the first time in nearly a year. I wish today’s encounter were under a different pretense–that his two sisters are here to visit him because we miss him and are excited to learn about his new life in NYC.
Instead, we’re here to do our own version of an intervention, and I’m skeptical as hell. I don’t know if Isaac can ever stop this lifestyle of underground living and running from city to city each time something goes wrong. I feel it in the pit of my stomach—he won’t listen to me. He needs professional help. But how do we get him to agree to go, and what options do we have? Treatment and rehab programs cost money. I don’t even know where to start.
When we reach Jilli’s apartment door, I push the doorbell. I hear a muffled dog bark. My sister and I glance at each other—do they have a dog?
After hearing the click of the top lock, the door opens and we’re greeted by a tall Korean girl with long hair and a bright face. She smiles. My brother is standing behind her. He’s wearing an NYC baseball cap, an oversized sweatshirt, and matching sweatpants. A big white bandage is wrapped around his wrist and sticks out from the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“Hi, Unni. Thank you for coming.” Unni means older sister. Jilli addresses my sister first since they texted and talked on the phone after the drama unfolded a few nights earlier.
“Hi,” I awkwardly say. “I’m the other sister,” I smile. Jilli leans in to give me a quick hug.
“Hey, Noona.”He stands briefly to give me and my sister a side hug. “Thanks for coming. I can’t believe you guys flew out here. Uh. How was the flight?”
He smells like weed—the whole apartment does. His eyes are glassy, and I can tell he paused the shoot-em-up Xbox game he was in the middle of playing.
My sister replies, “Well, how could we not, after what you did? What the fuck? What happened?”
Isaac pauses. With a goofy smile that causes his eyes to semi-disappear, he says, “I, I… don’t really know. I guess I drank too much and blacked out. The only thing I remember is waking up in the ER and getting stitched up.”
Jilli shifts in her seat and adds, “You were screaming and saying you were going to jump out of the window.”
She turns to us and says, “He threatened to kill himself, and then, he just punched the window. There was glass everywhere, and then I saw the blood.”
She glances at my brother with a look that expresses both worry and resentment for what he did and for what he put her through.
“What were you on?” I press. I want answers.
“Just weed, and then I drank whiskey. Guess I had a few too many.”
My sister shakes her head and says, “Your demons come out when you drink the brown stuff. This could’ve ended really badly. Do you even realize that?”
When my sister says “really badly,” I know she’s not referring to his injuries but is alluding to the fact that the cops could’ve shown up and arrested him. They could’ve easily run his ID and saw he skipped a bench warrant in Texas for getting caught with a few pounds of weed.
Leaving the state rather than appearing in court made things so much worse. That mistake is always in the back of our minds. Why was he in Texas anyway?
Isaac stays silent.
Jilli keeps her eyes glued on Isaac’s bandage and says, “He punched the glass, and all I saw was a fountain of blood squirting from his wrist. He kept saying he wanted to die. I didn’t know what to do, so I called 911.”
I can tell by her tone that she’s trying to keep it light and smile, but I can tell this incident took a toll on her. Does it make her want to help my brother, or does she want to run for the hills? I wouldn’t blame her if she chose to dump him. In addition to being gorgeous, I can tell Jilli’s smart and driven. Why would someone like her want to be with my brother?
I feel terrible Jilli had to experience that alone. Even though they’ve been dating for the last year, this is probably the first time she’s witnessed the wrath of Isaac’s alcohol-induced anger. I tell her she did the right thing by calling 911.
I turn to my brother, “I don’t think you should drink for a while…” I trail off, unsure of how to convey what’s on my mind—that he needs help from a professional.
He’s not the kind of alcoholic who gets the shakes and needs vodka to make it through the day. That’s what his weed is for. But when he drinks, he can’t stop. He’ll take shot after shot of Hennessy until he blacks out and starts mouthing off. He’s an expert at knowing exactly what to say to piss someone off.
Thank God I’ve never witnessed my brother in a fight, but I’ve heard plenty of his stories. He told me about a time when he was drunk and walked into a club. From the moment he stepped into the club, he must’ve said something to someone because the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, waking up from being punched in the face. My brother chuckled when he recounted what happened, but I didn’t crack a smile. His “funny” stories are troubling and stress me out.
To be continued…
Oh boy, so well written, I can’t wait for more.