The Sabbath Day

Bobby died without him. He'd lain in his bed at the hospital, with his mother and father at his side, and stopped breathing. Riding his bike home from school, John had somehow known. He'd felt it in his lungs, and in his stomach. The bike teetered, and with the grace of active young boys, he'd swung his leg over the seat, foot arching high over the wheel, and dismounted. He dropped the bike to the grass by the curb, and sat down, watching the sunlight shiver on the sidewalk as it passed through the silver summer leaves.

Some while later, Gamma's car pulled up beside him, but she was not in it. John stood as the driver exited the vehicle. Perhaps he exchanged some words of greeting with the man, but in later years he could never recall them when he thought back to that day, which he often did. He remembered dusting off his smart, school slacks, the crease in them as stiff as the collar of his starched white shirt. He dragged his hands into the sleeves of his sweater, careful to hide the damp, twisted cuff, now missing a button after being subjected to John's anxiety. He hoped no one would notice.

The back door of the car was opened, and the small bike was deposited carefully in the trunk. John didn't ask where they were going. The ride to the hospital was passed in silence.

Driving a wide loop around a decorative garden, the car pulled up to the front doors of the Children's Hospital. The door opened, and birdsong filled the cavernous interior of the car. John could hear the flow of water from the fountain in the garden, the creak of wheelchairs and IV poles as ill children caught a few rays of sun, and the coughs of parents catching their breath and catching a smoke as they prepared for shift change at the side of their injured offspring. He swung one foot, then the other out the door, his hands squeaking against the leather seats as he pushed himself forward until his toes touched the pavement outside. The glass doors at the entrance swung open, and his grandmother appeared, her hand outstretched, reaching for him.

He tried to smile at her, but the look in her eyes compelled his mouth into an imitation of the straight, hard line of her own. He slipped his hand into hers, and followed her into the lobby, up the elevator, and to the door of the room that had been Bobby's for the past month. Silhouetted by the light from the room behind him, his father's shadow towered over him, beckoning him closer. Gamma let go her hand, guiding him forward.

"John," his father breathed his name, in relief, or reverence, John couldn't say, but his arm wrapped around his slim shoulders, and he was pulled inexorably toward the man. Beyond the door frame, John could see his mother, her chin tucked, and her neck bent in mourning like the swans John watched on the pond at Gamma's house. Barbara, a thin, wispy figure, clung to the corner of the room close to the head of the bed, all focus directed to the small bundle that lay still beneath the white sheets.

"John," his father said again. He stepped back, holding John at the length of his arms, tilting his head to make eye contact with his son. "John, son -" he halted, unsure as to how he ought to continue. "Your brother...Bobby passed away." Still John said nothing. "Johnny, he died."

John looked up at his father, still and sombre. "I know," he said.

With no more revelations to be made, John's father struggled for the words to comfort his youngest child. Having had none for himself, his wife, or his daughter, he had nothing either to offer his only son; his name, his legacy and heir. He shook his head, as though hoping to rid himself of his helplessness, but only succeeded in expelling a rush of air, leaving him deflated, and light-headed. John's gaze was drawn back to the room, his mother, and the bed.

"Would you like to see him, John?" Gamma's strong voice sounded from behind him, and he whirled, embarrassed at having been caught prying. But Gamma pressed on, apparently oblivious to his ill-manners. "Would you like to say goodbye?"

He swallowed. "Yes, ma'am," he said, bobbing his head.

"You may go in, if you like."

John turned back to the door, but as he took a step forward the light seemed to shine too bright, the walls seemed to stand too high, and the silence seemed to want to smother him like he used his pillow to do at night. He froze.

"Jack," Gamma said, "Take your son to his mother."

Once more, his father's arm wound around his side, and together they broached the threshold of the hospital room.

Inside, everything felt as though it had been engraved in glass, a brittle scene so transparent that the full depth of grief was visible on the other side. It took him a moment to realise that the stillness was in part due to the absence of sound. No monitors beeped out their incessant measure of life, no restless legs rustled beneath sheets as they sought the freedom required to lash out at doctors, or nurses, or him, and though his mother's eyes were red and swollen, no tears were being choked in her throat. Bobby lay still on the bed, his hand open, and empty, waiting for John's to fill it.

He remembered holding his brother's hand on the way to school every year. He remembered how important he felt to merit such a gesture from his older brother, how a warmth would rush from his cheeks to his toes on those days, how he felt sure he could do just about anything with Bobby beside him. He remembered how this past year, Bobby had dropped his hand at the gates, fearful lest anyone should see him with a baby. How he'd pushed him down on the playground, and called him names when he'd cried. How as the visits to the doctor increased, so too did the pinching, and punches John received. But how they'd always play together on Sundays at Gamma's house. How, one Sunday, he'd been pushed out of the tree and sprained his wrist. How Bobby had cried, and John swore he'd never tell, but Bobby was sorry anyway, and said how scared he was, how he knew he was going to die. How he made John promise to be good, to be cheerful, and to make Mom happy, too.

"You have to promise," he said. "Promise you'll make sure Mom's happy. I make her so sad, and she thinks I don't know that she cries, but sometimes I only pretend to be asleep so I don't have to see her look at me like that. Promise, Johnny. Make her so happy she forgets about how sad I made her."

John wanted to tell Bobby that he was wrong. He knew, because Bobby made him so happy, and so proud to be his brother, that it was impossible he should make Mom feel any different. But Bobby was his hero, and Bobby knew more than he did, so he promised.

John reached out to touch his hand once more, but it was cold and he withdrew, looking over at his mother as she watched him from across the bed.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he said, because he'd heard adults say the same thing, and he wanted to show her he could be strong, and grown up. Then he said, "I love you, Mom," because he wanted to make her happy.