Brian’s
Brains
PM
Kellermann
When I was young, I frequently fell out of bed. Sometimes, I woke up on the way down. More often, I slept straight through, waking up in the morning on the floor. Needless to say, these night flights made sleeping in the top bunk an adventure. But as much as I hated heights, I feared the bottom bunk even more. I couldn’t sleep down there, worrying that at any minute my brother Brian and his bed might come crashing down on me. I think Brian may have planted this fear in me because he got such a kick out of watching me flop to the floor in the middle of the night.
But revenge is sweet. And gooey. And foreboding.
One night, when I was about six, unable to sleep, I slipped down into the bottom bunk to sleep with Brian. This was not unusual; I often feared monsters climbing in the attic window and craved the security of my older brother. On this night, however, monsters weren’t keeping me awake; a stomach virus was. Not long after I crawled into Brian’s bed, I threw up on his pillow. Even at six, I was smart enough to know that I shouldn’t sleep in my own vomit. Given the choice, braving heights seemed preferable to lying in a pile of puke. I climbed back up to the top bunk and quickly fell asleep —and I did so quietly so as not to waken Brian.
Sometime later, Brian rolled over and felt something gooey on the side of his head. “My brains are falling out!” he screamed. “My brains are falling out!”
I rolled over and fell back to sleep.
w w w w w
Thirty years later, I sit in a waiting room at Saint Peter’s Hospital. War paint mars Brian’s forehead; dots and arrows mark his dome—red and black magic marker isobars, guidance for technicians to direct the radiation. As the nurse leads Brian down the hall, I look down again at my magazine.
“My brains are falling out!” he screamed. “My brains are falling out!”
I turn the page and slip back inside my dream.