Wayne got stuck being Mom’s main assistant. Junior mom. That’s probably why he never had kids, why he married a bitch who only wants to be served. I remember when he made his one strike for survival. I was 8 and he was 17. That’s when he began using his middle name. I never understood how my parents could name a boy Leslie. He switched to Wayne and said he wanted to join the Army. And Mom threw a fit. He got the name but not the career.

Bruce is the only one of us who has a real life. That’s because he was the emotional runt of the litter. He used to say Mom loved Wayne more, and Matt, and of course me. We all acted like it was a family joke but we knew he was right. Mom relied on Wayne. She totally babied Matt; he was the best-looking of us and she had some kind of Hollywood dreams about him. And then there was me. Bruce was awkward, kind of ugly, different. Mom paid him much less attention. Lucky boy.

I guess he had a sad go of it as a child, but then he escaped. He went to college. He stayed away. He married Nancy. They had their son and their house and their lives without us.

Okay, if I’m honest, Matt got away too. First into meth and then crack and then death. And now there are 3. Two really, since we never see Bruce.

Near the end of his visit, I tried to talk to Wayne about Mom. He was helping me prepare all her nighttime meds, so we had plenty of time. But he was as usual deaf/dumb/blind. I read somewhere that when there’s more than one son and a dominant mom, the first son never really leaves. Shit, maybe that’s my problem with Bobby.

Anyway, Wayne was useless. Just like when Dad was dying; he listened to the doctors as if they were gods, and he never listened to me. I know Dad would have lived longer if I’d been in full charge; that’s part of the reason I shut out Uncle David and Aunt Ruth. I don’t think Uncle David ever forgave me for that time I stood outside the hospital room door and wouldn’t let him in. Ruth sure hasn’t.

“I think part of Mom’s problem is she’s overmedicated,” I told Wayne. “Every time I take her in they add a new prescription.” But he wasn’t paying attention. Instead he told me how I have to be careful now that her regimen is so complex. Then he went back into Mom’s room, for 5 more minutes of adoration. He must have told her he loved her a dozen times. She loved him back, with her smug grin and pats from her gnarly old hands, and then started whining for me to bring her fresh juice.

Tomorrow

I know the shape of tomorrow. Every tomorrow, unless I do something about it. I’ll have to be here to answer Mom’s demands, to take care of 32-year old Bobby, to respond or not to Aunt Ruth’s bids for attention. I know I can’t count on Wayne for support. Bruce is gone. And Freddy, wherever he is, is as lost to us as Matthew was and probably just as terminal. It’s been over a quarter century since I had sex, and more than that since I had love. I don’t know whether I’m more sad or angry.

I have to get out. I have to escape this sorry life.

I could follow Matt and Freddy. I squirreled away Freddy’s last stash – I didn’t intend to use it or sell it but I remember feeling like I needed a secret, some sort of privacy, and I hid his drugs in the false drawer-back that Matt created when he was still living here. I could learn to use, and leave. It’s Mom’s house anyway; Wayne can move in and see how much he really loves her.

For that matter I could use Mom’s morphine. I’ve cut back on administering it to her lately anyway – she doesn’t seem to be in that much pain, or maybe I’m turning into a sadist – but I’ve been careful to refill the prescription when expected, so there’s a comfortable quantity here.

Or I could stop withholding it from Mom. Make it up to her by letting her have what I’ve denied her these last several weeks. It wouldn’t take that much. I’m sure even if it were discovered there’d be no doubt it was accidental. I’ve been so unhappy lately I think they all think I’m confused.

Then I could call Aunt Ruth. Give her the sad news. Let her know that Mom’s been sicker than we all thought. If I act sorrowful enough she’ll come around. Probably visit and start telling me what to do. Then I’ll rise up and show my anger. Finally. Maybe I’ll visit the medicine cabinet: make someone a special cocktail. Bitch.