There’s something about the way my brother stands, like a man who has known all his years and has only been let down by them, so he sees no reason to rise to his full height. You could tell that we were twins; everything was the same. The bow of his lips was the bow of mine; it was our mother’s bow. The dimple in his chin was our uncle’s dimple, mine covered by an unrefined beard, but it was there all the same. We stared at each other, counting off the similarities.
“The difference between us is that I know where they came from,” I said — only realising too late that I’d said it out loud. He understood anyway.
‘Yes, you do. Where I see markings, you see… history”, he said.
“I want to tell you about that history— “
“Later”, he cut me off gently, chuckling, “Let’s grab a table”
We had been standing outside the restaurant for God knows how long. Not knowing what to do. There was no script for what to say when you meet your brother for the first time. It’s harder when he looks like all the years living in wealth has allowed you escape.
He leads the way in, and we grab a table at the corner of the room.
“So what do you want?” He’s direct, just like mother.
I realise too late that I’ve said that last part out loud.
“Then I’d appreciate the same,” he says.
Can we eat first, drink?
“No. What do you want?” He’s not malicious or rude. He has geniune curitousity embolden by a genuine instinct not to trust me.
Here’s what I want to offer you. I give him the folder. It trembles because my hand does. He hesitates but collects it.
It’s drawn up documents of the estates I inherited, it’s money, and whatever else the lawyer strung together, but the document says he gets half.
“—and he says that part aloud too, as if the thought had slipped past him. I smile, a little comforted to recognise the habit.”
“So..” he closes the folder, places his weathered hands over them, pushing them towards me,“what do you want?”
“A kidney for my son”, I tell him
“And you want to give me everything you own.” he answers like it’s not a question
“It’s my son”
He stares at me, and I hold that stare, mentally prepared to be there until he breaks it.
He must have seen something besides my desperation, besides our father’s eyes, before he sighs and picks up the breakfast menu.
“I’m a brunch guy.”
