My Brother Taught Me...

By Kayla Smith

Photos provided by Kayla Smith

“You can’t be doing this kind of stuff anymore, Kayla. You’re too old for it,” my brother told me that day in October. I had allowed him to make the order for our food at Subway. Instead, I just stood there, staring at the beige tiled floors of the restaurant. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

He was the younger sibling. I, the elder, generally stepped back, awkward and silent. If he wants to take initiative, then he can do it, I thought. Unlike me, Stevie was a talker and always spoke his mind. He had a great reputation going for him, the ideal high school experience—lots of friends, Friday nights at the football games, driving around for the fun of it. He walked around the house without a shirt on, dancing and rapping along to his favorite songs. Other times, he’d veg out on the couch watching Dragon Ball or Finding Bigfoot. He was an aspiring star on the track team, aiming higher and higher all the time. Stevie did his best without ever seeming like he had to try.

And now, I’m the one who needs to step up.

November 27, 2018 made sure of that.

My mom texted me that afternoon, asking me to call her, but I texted back that I was at dinner with friends.

“Okay, well, please call me when you can,” she responded by text.

Whatever was the matter, it didn’t seem too serious. I bit back into my corndog, listening to my friends goof off and crack jokes.

Back in my dorm room, alone, I did what she asked. An unfamiliar voice picked up the phone.

“It’s a domestic situation.” That’s all she would really tell me.

“Okay,” I said, my voice small and trembling.

I tried to stay calm, but the various possibilities of what may have happened were already streaming through my head. I hope everyone is okay. Please, nobody be hurt. Oh, God, please, let nothing bad have happened.

I needed a ride home. I wanted my older sister, Stephanie, to come pick me up, but she was too far out of the way. The lady on the phone had recommended, instead, two of my mom’s friends, older women with whitening hair, Diane and Linda. They took me from campus and drove me the half hour back home. During the drive, they casually carried on conversations about that realtor friend they knew and how they could never pick up smoking in their youth. Occasionally, they’d ask me things like how school was going, but for the most part, they allowed me to stay quiet in the backseat.

Questions still ran through my head, but fear held me back from asking them so I could find out what had happened. With how calm the ladies were, maybe it won’t be something so bad.

Arriving at home, I half-expected to see red and blue lights flashing onto the front lawn. Maybe some fight got out of hand between my parents. But it was dark, only the glow of the streetlamp reaching our house. Inside, the lights were dimmed, a soft golden haze pervading the foyer.

As I walked through the door, my big sister rushed up to hug me, crying. Her thin arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders as I stood there, shaking. Confused, terrified. That lady on the phone had told me where my father was—my mother and sisters, too. She hadn’t mentioned my brother. Where’s Stevie? Please, don’t tell me….

For a moment, I thought I saw him sitting in the living room, his shock of grayish-brown hair visible behind an old rocking chair. I blinked. Nothing was there.

After Stephanie pulled away, she and my mom’s friends directed me to the couch, where my parents sat.

What’s happening? Why am I here? What happened? A wobbliness spread up my legs, weakness giving way as I sat down. I waited for someone to speak.

My mom did not say a word, her face slackened with a tired, miserable expression. Her usually bouncy, curly dark brown hair was limp.

My dad leaned forward, his voice lighter than usual, breathy. The crop of dark hair on his head looked sparser than ever. He looked at me with his wide, brown eyes. I managed to stare back.

He broke the silence. “There was a car accident today, and your brother… Stevie has passed on.”

My mind went blank. The tears were immediate. “No! No, no, no… what?!” I wailed. No one else said a word as I bent over, clutching my head. They just gave me that moment.

My thoughts returned slowly. There’s some mistake. It can’t be right. This is all wrong. If only I could’ve said something. Just one thing so that he wouldn’t get in that car….

I heard my father’s voice again. “The kid who was driving, do you know someone named Fred?” he asked, and I quickly shook my head.

He wasn’t even behind the wheel, no wonder. He was a good driver, better than me or Stephanie. There must be some mistake.

There wasn’t. A week later, he still had not sprung back up and come home to us.

We had the funeral, or Celebration of Life, as my dad calls it, at a church named Revolution. Shaped like a big, steel gray box on the outside, the auditorium was dark with a vaulted ceiling. The church’s philosophy is that it doesn’t matter where you worship God; they don’t need a big, fancy white building with spires and stained-glass windows to praise the Lord. I’d usually agree with that sentiment, but it just looked bleak under the present circumstances.

The lights had been dimmed, save for a spotlight upon the main stage. I hadn’t yet removed my soft, purple jacket. Maybe it was because of the chill in the room or maybe it just could’ve been a comfort to me.

I sat in the front row, only a few feet away from Stevie’s bright red casket. It looks small, somehow. Not enough to contain that tall, lanky body. I stared at the carpeted ground, as if that meant it wasn’t there anymore.

A couple hundred people had shown up: friends, family, neighbors, classmates. I never looked back to see them, so maybe there was a more hopeful mood among them. I heard their laughter as Stevie’s tribute video ran on the big screen, showing him dancing silly with his friends and yelling at the TV while playing video games. My parents and sisters choked out a few laughs, but I couldn’t muster even a giggle. It was just too soon.

The pastor, a middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses, stood before us and spoke. It was a sermon: a piece of advice, a warning.

“Seventeen years was Stevie’s whole life. Don’t live like you’ve got forever ahead of you.”

I know.

Stephanie broke into sobs again next to me. I sat stiffly, eyes on the floor again. My fingers picked at the fabric of my black pants.

I know.

Whenever something terrible happens, it’s hard to let go of the past. What could I have done to change it? But a new thought had already entered my head. Why did it happen?

And so, there was that night at Subway. He’d urged me to address the employee behind the counter, a short and thin older lady with a wispy white ponytail—to simply tell her what bread I wanted and what to put on it.

“No, why can’t you order? I’m so awkward at this stuff.” My response was a complaint and a plea.

“Because you’re the oldest here. I’m not supposed to be doing it,” he said frankly.

“Ugh, fine.”

I gave it a shot. “Hi, um, yes, I’d like the Italian Herbs and Cheese bread. Oh, and toasted, please. Yes, sorry.” My voice rose higher, like a polite little girl trying to please her teacher on the first day of school.

He carried out the rest of the order and transaction after me. He picked up my slack. “Yeah, ham. No mayo. Yep. M-hm. Thanks.” He spoke low, his tone casual and uncaring.

“He doesn’t understand,” I texted Stephanie after getting back into the black Mercedes he and I shared. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I sat in the backseat while he drove home. “I’ve got social anxiety. Things that are easy for most people aren’t for me.”

But I knew even then that I couldn’t keep stepping into the background, letting my nerves get the best of me, or allow someone else to take on the responsibility of speaking when I’m the adult. When I’ve been one for three years now.

I know he was right.

Now, there is no Stevie to take control of a situation when I falter. I need to pick up my own slack. I may have let my sense of childhood linger a little too long, before, but it is truly over now. Every day, I’d rather him be here than six feet under, across the street from that little Subway. But this wasn’t a mistake, and I do have something to learn from it.

At home, I walk past his room every time I use the stairs to get to my own. He’s not inside anymore, but a poster of him sticks to the door with three words printed. Just three unsuspecting words that had been on his Instagram bio.

“New Day Today.”

It’s not forever, but for now, there’s a chance to live better.

Kayla Smith is a senior Graphic Design major from Winter Garden, FL. After graduation, she wants to earn a certificate from the Georgia Film Academy. Her favorite memory of the department is creating a horror film in Professor Silka’s COM 306 class