Better Half

Better Half

I am not the child my mother wanted. Neither is my brother, who even
now is sitting at his place by the window, staring at the curtains with
his pink piggy eyes. He giggles and coos and rocks back and forth at
passing shadows. Sometimes he sits so still in the dim light, his white
hair hacked off in chunks, that he looks half-dead, or perhaps scared
half to death. He's easy to feed.

The child my mother did want is my sister, born with the requisite ten
toes and fingers, a perfect blond curl springing forth from her
forehead and sporting a pink bow its entire first year. The bow gave
way as the curls multiplied, taking on a life of their own and
requiring thirty minutes of each morning to tame. "There we go!" my
mother would squeal, opening the bathroom door and presenting my sister
to us as we waited, knees locked together, to use the toilet. This has
changed in the past five years, the bathroom locked for forty minutes,
forty-five, an hour. I take my brother into the small garden now. We do
our business and go back inside, pretending otherwise.

"Wawa," my brother calls my sister, his private language twisting the
first letter of her name to something he'll recognize. "Joust" he says
for juice; "goroom" for a toy car; "ha?hahahahaha" for thank you.
Dove-like gurgles seep out of his throat when he's not sure. He isn't
pretty.

My sister and mother often arrive home in the afternoon, orbiting one
another while smiling and clutching bags from stores that have migrated
from the east coast to our own neon-filled neighborhood. "Here we are!"
my mother squeals, my brother and I staying put. Today is one such day:
hot outside, cool inside, the curtains drawn against the sun to produce
my brother's shadows.

As is her custom, my sister faces us and places her new possessions in
a half-circle in front of her, like a shield. She makes no eye contact
while slowly unwrapping each item: a shimmering blouse made to look
cheap; a pair of rubber-soled sandals with a yellow daisy on each thick
heel; a package of six barrettes shaped like dragonflies, held high and
turned for easier viewing. My mother makes noises in the kitchen, the
muffled sound of my brother's dry cereal dinner reaching our ears as it
hits its plastic bowl.

My sister reaches into the last bag, the smallest one. It tilts
dangerously as she digs around. She removes a book, made for a child,
bright blue with gold binding. Up it goes, hovering in front of her
face, until finally the spine is parallel with the floor and it falls
open in her hands. A castle pops up: pastel spires tipped with gold, a
heavy wooden door, windows reflecting a blue sky. My mother peeks
around the corner and says, "Would you look at that?" while a small,
turbaned man on a carpet seems to shoot off the page.

My brother claps once, twice, before his palms fail to make contact in
his excitement. His head bobs up and down as his legs pull him towards
my sister. "Book!" he screeches, finally, his eyes wide and focused.
"Book! Book! Book! Book!" - the word as clear and sharp as the sunlight
outside. We stare at him stupidly, openmouthed, and for a moment I
understand what it is to be him.

My sister stands and approaches him slowly, as she would a snarling
dog. He has bitten before, but never her. She extends the book to my
brother, and instead of snatching it he takes it carefully, gently, as
if he's been handling books all his life. "Ha?hahahahaha," he
says.

Later, I know, my sister will tiptoe back to this room, where my
brother sleeps next to the darkened screen of the curtains. Her feet
will be encased in silent satin slippers, her hair freshly combed. She
will take the book back to her room, where it will sit tucked into a
shelf, dusted and pretty and unread.