The Bystander

                My phone went off at 7 in the morning. BEEP BEEP BEEEPING me awake. I groped for it to silence it so I could still sleep. The beeping went off again a few seconds later. Not my alarm. I went to see if it was work trying to call me in from my long awaited vacation. I was hoping it was work so I could say, “call someone else in”. But it wasn’t my work.

                “Hey call, its dad.” I ignored the message as I so often do. I’m not the type of person to respond in any timely fashion. I prefer waiting for people to show up unexpectedly and force me to talk to them. I set the phone back down. But the nagging sense that something was wrong wouldn’t let me rest any longer. Defeated, I sat up stretched and sent back “what’s up?”

                Almost immediately he called back, great he probably needs me to feed his dogs. My father had a new house for his new life (post midlife crisis) that was extravagant and unattended most of the time. “Hello?” I answered with a yawn.

                “Your sister is in the hospital can you go with me to pick her up?” I wish it were the dogs. I agreed to it. So he came and got me in in his oversized truck and we headed to the seediest hospital in the greater Tacoma area. I’m pretty sure that there was blood on the sidewalk in front of the entrance.

                My father is quiet in fury, in humiliation, in pride. My sister is wild in detoxification. She is baseness incarnate. I am there. Just there. I have no opinion, the right thing to do is what I will do. I always do. In the hospital on the road I try to talk to them avoid the obvious issues keep the air light. But my father and my sister cannot do that. They cannot avoid tearing and clawing. So I stop trying and stop mediating their problems. I can only watch. It isn’t going to matter either way.

                I am usually unable to assert myself, unable to prevent what is coming towards me. I have little self-preservation, if any. My father drops us off at my home and my sister decides she will stay here for the night. I say “ok.” Because she needs someone around her I suppose. I don’t wish to be that someone, but who else is there?

                “Do you want some food?” I ask from the doorway of my bedroom. She is in my bed I am on the couch.

                “What the fuck do you think?” she sobs.

                “I think when I’m hung over I want food. So I ask you do you want food?” I try to not laugh, but her vulgarity is amusing.

                “I’m not fucking hung over, Dad doesn’t love me, mom doesn’t love me.” she heaves, I say “I’m going to get some soba. Chicken good for you?” I shut the door. I know she needs to talk but I don’t. Last time we saw each other she stole my credit card and I am still paying it back. She is my sister. I can feed her at least.

                I sit and read at the restaurant. I eat some of my take-out food there, in no hurry to get back. No not in any hurry to get back. Back is where there is guilt, unavoidable guilt. The book I read is a book about an idiot, his inability to stay out of things, his desire to help to his own detriment. Oh Prince Myshkin can you not see? Can you not feel the impending doom? No, you are an idiot. It’s my third time reading the book.