Sounds of terror pop my eyes open as I lay in my bed. Glancing at the clock, my fuzzy head registers the bright red, neon numerals glowing from my alarm clock; 2:10 AM. It’s that time, I realize, and wait for the second horrible wail to confirm my suspicion. It arrives in seconds, like clockwork. A second more sustained cry of naked terror. Almost simultaneously I hear the ruffle of bedding as my parents jump from underneath their covers and race the short distance down the hall to my brother’s room. Despite familiarity, my heart begins to race and my throat tightens.
I am twelve years old. I am in my own bed, on the second floor of the house I have lived in all of my life. My entire immediate family is here, my parents and Jon, my nine year old brother. I am warm,the covers pulled up around me. I am also scared.
The screams of terror are my little brother’s. They continue at an increasing rate, but decreasing volume. In between the screams and occasional sobs, I hear the voices of my parents.
“It’s okay Jon,” my father repeatedly says in a voice mixed of sleep and panic.
“Jon….Jon, open up, come on,” my mother says in a firm determined voice, the same one she has when she is telling me to sit down and do my homework.
I stay in my bed, under the warm covers for a minute or so more, and then decide it’s time to get up and help. Pushing aside the blankets, I sit up and swing my legs down onto the floor. The fog of early morning sleep has been swept away by the terrible noises coming from my brother’s room. Adrenaline
rules this hour now.
In my fuzzy and warm dark blue pajamas with non-descript football helmet pattern, I quickly walk out of my room, into the hall, pass my now vacant parent’s bedroom and turn past the stairway to approach the doorway to my brother’s room. I know what I will find inside that room. I have seen this scene so many times before, but still, I hesitate, fear fighting familiar.
Crossing the threshold, the familiar scene unfolds before me. My brother is sitting up on the edge of the bed. He is wearing his red Star Wars pajamas. To the left of Jon, is my father. His pajamas are plain navy blue. He is sitting on the edge of the bed with his arm around my brother supporting him. My mother in her white nightgown is to Jon’s left, but half kneeling, half standing in front of him. My parents’ faces are intent and grave. My brother is still screaming those soul-wrenching screams.
Jon is also shaking uncontrollably. My mother and father speak to each other in soft tones, with only hints of panic. My mother is fighting with my brother to keep his mouth open so that she can squeeze the small packets of honey inside. Occasionally she squeezes the honey onto her fingers and shoves them into my brother’s mouth, rubbing the sticky, sugary substance into the inside of his cheeks. She has been bitten before, but she continues without hesitation.
There is no need for me to stay still and soak in the all too familiar scene.
“I’ll get the toast,” I declare to the room in a voice filled with sleep and fear.
“Okay, go ahead.” The response is from my father, his arms still supporting my brother’s back.
Turning out of the doorway, I am glad to have something to do, and even happier that the task requires that I leave Jon’s bedroom. I hit the stairs and descend to the first floor. I walk through the hallway and into the dark kitchen.
Before I am out of earshot, I hear my mother’s firm and unwavering voice once more.
“Jon, look at me. Open your eyes, Jon, and look at me.”
Flipping the light switch to the left of the doorway from the hall, I turn on the kitchen lights overhead. The lights are shockingly bright at that hour of the morning, and remind me that I should be lying in bed, sleeping for another four hours or so. Instead, I am here in the bright kitchen moving to the bread drawer. I am here making toast.
A rustle of fur, blanket and metal, reminds me that I am not alone in the kitchen, even at this hour. Cassie, the dog given to my brother when he learned to give his own insulin shots, is here with me. Her cage is just outside the kitchen in the adjacent laundry room. She is stirring a bit, but not getting up. Even she is becoming used to this early morning routine.
From the bread drawer I pull out the loaf of white bread, open it and slide the first two slices out of the plastic sleeve. The slices are placed in the nearby toaster. I remember to slide the toaster button down. I have forgotten to do that in the past, resulting in impatient parents. Taking a deep breathe, I lean against the cold kitchen counter and wait.
The silence of the kitchen is comforting to me. I am glad to be downstairs, away from my trembling, terrified brother. I am glad not to be my parents, forcing honey down my brother’s throat. I am glad not to hear the sobs, or screams from him. Making toast is my job, and I do it happily.
The popping of the toaster reminds me that my job is only partly complete. Turning toward the toaster and the countertop, I remove a creamy white plate from the cupboard and gingerly take the hot slices of bread from the mouth of the toaster and place them on the plate. Next I open the refrigerator where I find the butter and jelly. With a knife I spread the butter first, then the jelly. I am generous with the layers of jelly. I do not want to be doing this again before dawn.
With the toast buttered and jellied, I take the plate and march through the kitchen and hallway and back up the stairs. I hear my brother talking now. He is responding to questions asked by my mother. He knows where he is, who she is, who my father is. He is going to be okay.
With toast in hand, I arrive again at the doorway to my brother’s room. My father is picking up the emptied honey packages from the floor. My mother is wiping my brother’s mouth with a wet washcloth. His eyes turn to me as I walk into the room. He is quiet now and his body is still. He is back in control, and back to being the brother I know so well during the daytime.
My mother puts the washcloth down and takes the plate of toast from me. She thanks me, and reminds me that I can go back to bed. I stay for a few more minutes. My brother is talking again, answering more of my mother’s reassuring questions.
My father rises from the bed, places his hand on my shoulder as he passes me, and walks out of the room and into the adjacent bathroom. This too is part of our well-rehearsed early morning routine. Having risen out of bed so quickly in response to my brother’s terror, my father is sick to his stomach. It happens every time.
The first half of the toast is gone and my brother busily shoves the second half into his mouth. He is smiling and looks content with the early morning snack. I say a weary goodnight to the room and leave my mother and brother sitting on the bed.
Returning to my bedroom, I slide back under the sheet and pull the blankets up around me. Before closing my eyes, I glance at the red, neon numerals of my alarm clock. 2:53 AM. It’s funny how it always seems to take longer than it actually does.
My father will be calling my name in just a few hours in order to get me up for school. Closing my eyes, I hope for quick sleep.