My mother called tonight, with the news that my brother is in the hospital. It is impossible to know what happened, but as she tells it, he had been severely beaten and required five stitches to close up a wound around his right eye. She wept hysterically as she told me this, and vowed to seek revenge.
It is impossible to know what happened, except that it only ever gets worse.
I consider the possibilities. Did he attack someone first, believing them to be a threat? Or did someone beat him up for the hell of it, without provocation? Or, did something else entirely happen to him, which my mother paranoiacally interpreted as an act of violence? I wonder how he makes sense of whatever did occur, and if he is afraid.
I called my father immediately afterward, knowing that he has already given up. He moves to Sarnia on Monday, where he will attempt to salvage some sense of peace from the last years of his life. This is what he wanted to talk about tonight—what might still be good, not his unrecognisably damaged son.
I force myself to think about what’s good. Last night with James. Today with Arit. An email from Matthew. A phone call from D. Ivan in my lap. Simone waiting her turn. The Arcade Fire CD. Montreal in summer. Dawn breaking.