Rescuing my brother (part 3)
In case you missed parts 1 and 2, this is when my sister and I flew to NYC in an attempt to do an intervention with my brother.
This “rescue” moment stands out to me because my brother not only hurt himself badly but also because it was a plea for help. I remember feeling helpless like there was absolutely nothing I could do. My brother is going on his sixth year in prison, and I’ve learned that he is stubborn as hell and won’t change his ways because I tell him to. His transformation needs to come from within.
My sister and I just landed in NYC and have already seen my brother and his girlfriend, Jilli. We’re meeting up for dinner.
That evening, we go to dinner at a semi-fancy restaurant in Manhattan. I wonder why we’re even going out to eat. We’re not here to socialize. But my sister insists we should try talking to my brother.
My sister and I reached the restaurant first. I would’ve never picked a place this nice. The waitress seats us in the restaurant's center, right in front of a prominent bar with hundreds of bottles lined up on neat shelves. The bar is elegantly lit with buttery backlighting and has local beers on tap.
Moments later, Jilli and my brother walk in, holding hands. I notice how tall, lean, and youthful they are. Jilli is nearly the same height as my brother, and I’m struck by how good they look together—a Korean Barbie and Ken.
When Isaac was a baby, people swooned over him because he was adorable but also approachable and friendly. He was never fussy or cried for Mom. Instead, he smiled when strangers held him in their arms.
My brother spots us and pulls out a chair at the table. “What up. You guys wait long?” His eyes dart around the restaurant, a sign of approval.
I reply, “We just got here. The menu doesn’t look bad—seems they do American and Thai fusion.” The small talk already exhausts me. We should be talking about what’s going on with him and why he said he wanted to kill himself. I don’t care if he was blacked out when he said it.
The waitress comes over with a toothy smile and asks if we’d like anything to drink. My brother immediately orders a beer. My sister, Jilli, and I exchange glances, but we say nothing. Jilli looks uncomfortable.
When our drinks come out, my brother practically downs his glass. Almost instantly, his eyelids look heavier, and my heart drops because I know he’s on his way to Drunkville. How ironic is it that my sister and I flew to the East Coast for intervention, yet here we are, buying him drinks at the restaurant?
I knew it was a bad idea to be out. We should’ve just spent the evening at Jilli’s place to talk more intimately about what happened. My face feels hot, and my lips are pursed together. I feel disgusted at myself.
My brother eyes the empty beer glass in front of him and announces, “I want another beer. You see the waitress anywhere?”
“Maybe you should not,” my sister says, clearly annoyed. “Wait until you eat something. Look at the menu—you’re not even looking.”
“Chillax, Noona. I know what I want to order. Burgers and fries all the way,” he smiles.
Before the waitress comes by, my brother is at the bar, ordering another beer. I suck in my breath. This is his way of saying he doesn’t have to listen to us—he can do what he wants, including ordering drinks from the bar, even though he can’t pay for any of it.
Jilli, my sister, and I sit at the table while my brother devours his beers at the bar. We watch as he flags the bartender with his bandaged-up arm. It’s quiet enough that we can hear him order a shot of Hennessy. I already feel depleted, and I’ve lost my appetite.
Jilli slides her chair out and casually walks to the bar. She leans over and says something to my brother. Then, the waitress comes with our food. Jilli points to our table, and my brother turns to see that the food has arrived. I’m relieved to see him walking back to the table to sit and eat. But his eyes look heavier, and I can tell he’s intoxicated.
I wish I could punch him on the side of the head and tell him he needs help. I can feel the rage coming from my sister too. But instead of saying something, we sit and stew in silence.
I wished I knew what to say to make him listen. All those years of watching season after season of HBO’s “Intervention” aren’t helping me like they should. It feels pointless, and I’m pissed that we came all this way to buy him an expensive meal and $15 shots of Hennessy.
My brother inhales his burger. He waves the waitress over and tries to order another beer. I interrupt with a smile directed at the waitress. I tell her he will not be having another drink, thank you. The look in my eyes says it all. She nods and walks away.
I point my finger in my brother’s direction. “You are not ordering any more drinks. Don’t you think you should lay off the booze for a while? Jesus Christ.” I lower my voice, “You just punched your arm through a window and threatened to jump. What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
Without looking up from his plate, my brother slurs, “I drank mostly beer just now. Relax.”
Jilli touches his arm and says, “Your sister is right. You said you’d stop drinking for a while, remember? You promised.”
I don’t try to argue with a semi-drunk Isaac because it’s pointless. Instead, we quietly finish our food. I want to hightail it out of the restaurant before my brother gets drunk and causes a scene.
God. I hate that we can’t even enjoy a decent meal together. I hate that my sister and I flew 3,000 miles to try and talk some sense into him, but instead, we find ourselves sitting back and watching him order drink after drink. Why didn’t I intervene when Isaac got up to order drinks at the bar? It all feels so pointless. What difference would it have made to go to the bar and stop him from ordering his Hennessy? He would’ve argued with me that he was fine and to stop freaking out over nothing. Maybe he would’ve raised his voice and caused a scene.
When I have to make a real effort to peel away my brother’s layers to reach a vulnerable inside, I don’t want to. Maybe I’m fed up and tired. I tell myself I’m not a counselor or a therapist. I don’t know how to talk to my brother, let alone tell him he needs help.
Before we’re done with our food, my sister asks for the check. I know she does this so Isaac will know the evening is over and stop more attempts at ordering alcohol.
My sister and I pay for the check and make our way out of the restaurant. Outside, my brother asks about tomorrow and our plans. We tell Isaac we’ll swing by Jilli’s in the morning since our flight is in the early evening.
I feel stupid for thinking this trip would somehow magically help my brother. We accomplished nothing. I’m disappointed in myself that we wasted the evening without talking to him and telling him we were worried about him. My worry always manifests in irritation and frustration, but I can’t help it.
Something tells me tomorrow’s encounter will be pointless too. I’m ready to fly back home right now.
Ugh. I’m sorry . This is so hard to read. I feel your family’s pain ❤️