Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [7]
That’s what she used to punish us, by the way. The flyswatter.
My brother hated the flyswatter.
Micah was unquestionably the most frequent recipient of the flyswatter punishment. My mom liked it because even though it stung, it didn’t really hurt, and it made a loud noise when connecting with the diaper or through pants. The sound was what really got to you—it’s like the popping of a balloon—and to this day, I still feel a strange sort of retributive glee when I swat insects in my home.
It wasn’t long after the first time Micah ran away that he did it again. For whatever reason, he got in trouble, and this time it was my dad who went for the flyswatter. By then, Micah had grown tired of this particular punishment, so when he saw my father reaching for it, he said firmly, “You’re not going to swat me with it.”
My dad turned, flyswatter in hand, and that’s when Micah took off. Sitting in the living room, I watched as my four-year-old brother raced from the kitchen, flew by me, and headed up the stairs with my dad close behind. I heard the thumping upstairs as my brother performed various, unknown acrobatics in the bedroom, and a moment later, he was zipping back down the stairs, past me again, through the kitchen and blasting through the back door, moving faster than I’d ever seen him move.
My dad, huffing and puffing—he was a lifelong smoker—rumbled down the stairs, and followed him. I didn’t see either of them again for hours. After it was dark, when I was already in bed, I looked up to see my mom leading Micah into our room. My mom tucked him in bed and kissed him on the cheek. Despite the darkness, I could see he was filthy; smeared with dirt, he looked like he’d spent the past few hours underground. As soon as she left, I asked Micah what happened.
“I told him he wasn’t going to swat me,” he said.
“Did he?”
“No. He couldn’t catch me. Then he couldn’t find me.”
I smiled, thinking, I knew you’d make it.
CHAPTER 2
A couple of days after I sent Micah the information about the trip, the phone rang. I was at my desk in the office, struggling through another difficult day of writing, and when I picked up the receiver Micah began rattling on almost immediately.
“This trip is . . . amazing,” he said. “Have you seen where we’re going to be going? We’re going to Easter Island and Cambodia! We’re going to see the Taj Mahal! We’re going to the Australian outback!”
“I know,” I said, “doesn’t it sound great?”
“It’s more than great. It’s awesome! Did you see that we’re going on a dogsled ride in Norway?”
“Yeah, I know . . .”
“We’ll ride elephants in India!”
“I know . . .”
“We’re going to Africa! Africa, for God’s sake!”
“I know . . .”
“This is going to be great!”
“So Christine said you could go?”
“I told you I’m going.”
“I know. But is Christine okay with it?”
“She’s not exactly thrilled, but she okayed it. I mean . . . Africa! India! Cambodia! With my brother? What’s she going to say?”
She could have said no, I thought. They had two kids—Peyton was only a couple of months old, Alli was nine—and Micah was planning to leave for a month shortly after Peyton’s first birthday. But I was certain that Christine, like Cathy, understood that Micah needed to see me as much as I needed to see him, albeit for different reasons. As siblings, we’d come to depend on each other in times of crisis, a dependence that had grown only stronger as we aged. We’d supported each other through personal and emotional struggles, we’d lived each other’s ups and downs. We’d learned a lot about ourselves by learning about each other, and while siblings by nature often are close, with Micah and me, it went a step further. The sound of his voice never failed to remind me of the childhood we’d shared, and his laughter inevitably resurrected distant memories, long-lost images unfurling without warning, like flags on a breezy day.
“Nick? Hello? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Just thinking.