Blue Fog

My mother is crying. Sobbing is hard to hide in a small house.

           Today, due to oxygen issues, a doctor’s mistake, my brother has finally been diagnosed with a 1970s term I use only in the historical context. Mental retardation.

           That’s why no one can understand his speech. That explains why I knew the alphabet when I was younger than he is now. I’m not special.  He’s special, but we haven’t evolved enough to use that word yet.

But what has really changed? He makes me laugh. He’s fun to play with and piss off. He’s my little brother. The person with whom I shall go through life, side by side.

We love him.

            The rest of the day is oddly ordinary. We watch a black and white movie about Russian spies before breaking out our Hot Wheels. Butch starts yawning and goes to bed. I’m heading upstairs when Grandma says, “Let’s sit on the stoop for a while.”

Outside, there are two sweaty glasses of ice water and a little bowl of popcorn.

As we enjoy our snack, Grandma points to the evening sky.

            “Do you know which star is most important, Greg?”

            “The sun.”

            She laughs. “Good point. Do you know the second most important star?”

            She carefully unfolds the celestial map tucked inside her apron.“Your grandpa bought this for me at the World’s Fair in 1939.”

            “Should we get you a new one?”

            “No need. The stars are permanent. More or less.” Her finger runs across two dotted lines until they intersect. “This is the North Star. Find it. You’ll always know your way home.”

Our grandma was born in 1893. She marvels at the modern world.

“Land sakes, just think, man has been up there.” A beat of silence. A wistful sigh. “You’re growing up in a world is very different from mine.”

She kisses my forehead, saying into my hair, “I wish it was going to be easier.”

           I creep upstairs. Butch is smiling in his sleep. Content. His own, unique version of perfect. My mind flashes on Russian spies. Butch is a spy. Russia sent him to check on our family and report back. That’s it. Butch is a spy, pretending to have these problems. It’s the only explanation.

Surely God wouldn’t do this to my perfect little brother.

Boys become teens.

Mom’s Special Olympics t-shirt says, “Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.”

“It’s time for the 800-meter. Butch’s event!”

He’s the only one in red, so Butch is easy to track. He’s running past us in the stands. I see him notice the Triggs Home Improvement hats we’re wearing from my dad’s company. Butch smiles the littlest bit. Just a fraction, but I can tell. He saw us.

Mom is the first to yell. “Come on, Butch!”

Dad has got the guys around him cheering, “Butch! Butch! Butch!”

The wonderful families around us begin urging him on.

I yell, “RUN!” until I no longer have air because I’ve forgotten to breathe.

Butch pulls away from the pack.

He’s about to break the tape and cross the finish line, when he stops. Decisively. With commitment.  Everyone in the stands scream, “Break the tape!  Cross the finish line.”

Butch looks toward the crowd, confused. The second-place kid breaks the tape and makes it over the finish line. Butch, now understanding, casually steps over the finish line.

The coach comes running over. “Dorothy, Ray … I’m so sorry. No one knew that Butch didn’t know to break the tape!”

“Don’t worry about it,” says my dad. “We’ve got a kid who chooses not to break things.”

My mother says, “We couldn’t be prouder.”

Butch wears his second-place medal as though it were made of real silver.

            We become adults.

Butch is awake when I enter what used to be our room.

“Don’t bother me, Greg. I got to get up early tomorrow.”

Butch delivers mail at the state office building downtown. They love him, and he loves them. Try to get him to take a day off. He won’t.

“I’ll be quiet.”

He sniffles.

“ Are you crying? Why?” I ask.

“You’re leaving.”

“Minneapolis isn’t far. I’ll come home all the time,” I say.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because that won’t happen for me.”

The air inside the room gets heavy and sad.

“I love you, Butch.”

“I know.”

These days I think about the doctor who delivered my brother a lot. Probably delivered me as well. I don’t know his name. I don’t want to. What if I went to school with one of his kids? Better not to know.

Intentional ignorance. My favorite.

Is he still alive? What he’s doing right now?

Is he aware of how his actions have affected my family - because he was distracted or made the wrong decision. Human mistakes that last forever. The impact he had in the first seconds of my brother’s life. The potential that was stolen. The responsibilities to which he tethered me and my family.

I get angry at myself for wondering who Butch would be under any other circumstances.

It accomplishes nothing.  And I’d trade him for no one or anything. We carry on and live with the consequence.

Consequence that is always with my brother and the people who love him.

Consequence I carry as I walk through a gallery looking at paintings. A painting of someone shining through a blue fog. Claiming power and strength.

When I look at the painting, and my brother, I see someone who doesn’t worry about who he’d be under other circumstances. Insightful, kind and his own version of powerful despite being surrounded by tape he hasn’t learned how to break.