Lemonade Pork Chops

You won’t ever forget that thud. The noise of his body hitting the floor, falling ten feet and landing on his back, his head. You don’t forget a noise like that. Even when you’re ten years old. Because that sound of your brother falling from the second-floor landing, hitting his head on the railing, and coming to rest at the bottom of the stairs with sprawled limbs, that’s the sound of terror.

What you don’t remember is the screams that came next. The screams that your dad remembers as broken sobs. You block those out of your memory, the thud was bad enough. The silence after that was bad enough, so it’s best to block out when the screams started.

Your mom was always worried about someone falling off that landing. The box, your family calls it. The platform your stairs revolve around that leaves an opening for children to play on, to fall from. She was always worried about it, but you and your brother brushed off her concern. But he was up there for a special occasion, to decorate a tiny Christmas tree, so it was okay. That made it okay. He had permission to be on the box which gave him permission not to fall or so you thought. It was your mom’s worst fears come to life and she wasn’t even there to hear the thud, to forget the screams. Maybe that was for the best.

You were though. Your father was. He was downstairs preparing your favorite dinner, lemonade pork chops. You were upstairs playing with your friends, Carla and Paige. They heard the thud too, but it wasn’t their twin brother that fell. It wasn’t their thud to hold in their memory. Your thud. Your dad’s thud. Your brother’s thud. Your mother’s thud, only she wasn’t there, but maybe she still heard it.

You hear that thud, and you know something is wrong. It’s different than a book hitting the floor, or a glass shattering on the tile. It’s different and you know that even before the screams begin, even before your father yells for you.

“Sydney!”

And you know that it is time for your friends to go. Except now you all must walk down the stairs and pass your brother lying there on the carpet with his limbs askew. You hug the railing that he just hit. You sidestep his body to usher your friends out the front door, out of the house with a screaming ten year old child, a screaming that you don’t remember.

“Don’t move. Don’t move.” Your dad keeps telling your brother. “Stay still.”

You’re old enough to know that your brother could be paralyzed. Your brother could move, and his life could be over. You too plead with your brother. Don’t move, don’t move, please don’t move. You don’t remember ever loving your brother more than you do in this moment. This moment when he might be taken from you, when you’re no longer a twin. Not Jake and Sydney. Just Sydney, without your Jake.

You’re the one who hands your dad the home phone to call 911. School had tried to train you for this moment, those numbers, but it's not you that dials those three numbers or talks to the operator.

Your father tells them what has happened, and they too say, “Don’t move. An ambulance is on the way. Don’t move.”

The call is over. Your dad is crouched by your brother and you stand just behind them. You think if you move something bad might happen and it does. You move and you notice it for the first time.

“He’s bleeding!” You cry.

And that makes it so much worse. The blood comes from under his head, and you know that’s not a good thing. You didn’t get a good glimpse of the spot with Jake’s head in the way, but you know it's there. The red seeping stain might not be any bigger than your palm, but it’s there and it’s not supposed to be.

You remember the thud. You remember the blood. You remember “don’t move”.

The ambulance finally comes. Your father answers the door and there’s relief on his face. You’re not sure how long you were all waiting, but it's long enough. It’s a long time not to move.

The paramedics kneel by your brother’s head and put a brace around his neck. They forget to say “don’t move” as they ready themselves to put him on the stretcher. They lift him up and there’s nothing for you to do but watch, to wait, to hold your breath. Don’t move.

They take him away.

Your dad goes too. Your mom is called and rushes to the hospital.

But you must stay. Your grandparents wait there with you. You’re not sure when they got there, if they were there the entire time or if they heard the thud too. You still don’t know and neither does your dad when you ask him years later. You remember them being there because it was the day after Thanksgiving. And they always came to your house for Thanksgiving break. It was a Friday, the day after, because Jake had been putting up the tiny Christmas tree that always went onto the stair landing. He wasn’t supposed to fall. He was supposed to be careful. He just wanted to put a train track around the tree like he saw in the movies.

He was putting up Christmas decorations.

You were playing with your friends.

Your dad was making lemonade pork chops for dinner.

And now you aren’t sure what you’re going to eat.

Your dad isn’t there for dinner, neither is your mom, or your brother. It’s you and your grandparents. You remember eating leftover ham from the day before, but you don’t really taste it. You’re thinking about whether you still have a sibling, the things you should have done differently, the things that your brother may not get to do. You realize your brother might be in a wheelchair when he gets home and wonder how he will go up the stairs then.

You realize then that he never finished his decorating.

Your mom and dad and brother come home hours later. Your brother walks through the door on two feet. He goes straight into your parents’ room, into their bed, to go to sleep. You stare at the closed door and wonder if he’s okay. You’re still not sure.

“He was lucky,” your parents say, “Only a concussion. He had to get a staple in his head.”

You aren’t sure what that means. You don’t know how a staple can stop the blood that poured out of his skull. You don’t know how your brother is still alive, still working. You just know that every time you’re on the stairs you see his sprawled body lying there at the bottom. You see the blood on the now clean carpet. You hear a thud in your ears that sounds like your heart, but it could also be the sound of a body hitting the floor.

The next day your brother is tired, and he tells you that he doesn’t remember what happened. One minute he was up there, falling, the next he was at the hospital. He forgets the ‘don’t move’. He gets to forget the thud. But that’s okay, as long as he’s okay you can hold the memory for the two of you.

He shows you his new staple. He broke his head open, but that’s such a tiny break, you think, no one will even know that it’s there. You wonder what it felt like for someone to put a staple in his head. It probably hurt. Maybe he heard it. You always thought that staples were for paper, but now they’re for your brother too.

The day after the thud you have lemonade pork chops for dinner. They’re a day later than expected, but still good. You don’t know this, but that’s the last time you eat lemonade pork chops. You’re ten and it was your favorite dish, but you’ll soon forget the way you used to savor the taste of it on your tongue. Maybe someday you’ll forget the other things too. The blood that seeped into the carpet. Your dad repeating the same two words.

Ten years later and the thud still rings in your ears.

At least you forgot the screams.

About the Author

Sydney Howse is a junior majoring in English  with a concentration in Creative Writing. She loves fantasy novels, especially anything with dragons in it, but can also be found writing and reading some other stuff. She grew up in Texas, but does not consider herself a Texan by any means.