03.01.02 - Lost

When I was six years old, my brother swam into the ocean and never came back.

When I dream about him, he is standing on the beach, covered in sand and dried seawater. His short, dark hair is plastered to his scalp and he’s wearing red swim trunks and a matching red wristband from the amusement park down the street.

And that smile. The wide, innocent grin that took up his face and narrowed his eyes to crescents. The smile of a boy who never reaches his eight birthday, the smile of pure youth, untouched by the adult world.

We were strong swimmers. We were invincible. Our skin was the deep, dark brown of children who spend every day swimming in the sun.

Marcus was my constant opponent. We were Irish twins, less than a year apart, the perfect difference to spawn rivalry and violent competition. We started contesting each other as soon as we could walk – probably earlier, and continued until we split apart that day on the beach. I hated him. Or thought I did. He was a year older than me, stronger, faster, more agile and, in the jealous eyes of a child, more beloved by our parents. He was my opponent, my companion at all times, and I hated him. What made things worse was that he was a better person than I could ever be . He did not get jealous. He picked on me as a normal older brother does, but never with the bitter envy I inflicted upon him.

I don’t remember whose idea it was to swim out to the buoy. If it was me, it’d have no effect on my guilt; this extremity of emotion cannot be multiplied. I remember running into the surf, the shock of cold water and the sharp cuts of seashells underfoot. A few feet ahead of me and to the left, I saw Marcus dive into the water and I followed suit. I swam long enough for my legs to go numb with cold. The undertow wasn’t bad for the August sea, but small waves pushed at my face and I decided to turn back after I had swallowed a bellyful of salt water and my nose and throat clogged. I sputtered and choked. Deciding to turn back, I called to Marcus but my throat was too full of water, dry from the salt and I couldn’t pull in enough air to call to him, less than ten feet ahead of me.

And then, of course, there is regret. And regret. And regret. And regret. Those things we dwell on. Those things we can’t take back. You probably think you know regret. You might. Should have stuck with that first choice on the failed test? Should have treated that lost girl better? Should have gone with a 5 instead of a 9 on that lottery ticket? If it’s about that test – or that girl – or that lottery ticket, you don’t know regret.

I went further to shore and sat, making drip castles to diffuse a childish tantrum. I glanced up once, twice, and saw his figure smaller against the huge blue horizon each time. A third time (or maybe fourth?) I looked up again and saw nothing.

There was no body to bury. The absence inspired questions, too many questions. Too much hope. I still look for his face in passing strangers. My parents chose a different method of coping. A year after the ocean swallowed Marcus, the photos of him, his clothes, his finger-paintings on the refrigerator were gone. My family never talked about him. It was undeclared law. I asked my mother what happened to everything once and she said nothing and looked away. As her face turned from me I caught a painful glimpse of emotion, that look.

It should have been you.