My Brother
A few months after my older brother left for college, I began seeing copies of him everywhere. Standing in line in front of me at the drugstore, walking a dog when I went out to get the paper, waiting to cross the street as I walked to school. I saw them at the pier in Santa Monica, the mall in Chatsworth, and the Van Nuys Department of Motor Vehicles.
“It’s just because you miss him,” my mother said. But I knew that wasn’t it. The truth was, I didn’t miss my brother. He was always the popular one; his friends filled the house while I hid in my room and played solitaire. He took advantage of my awkwardness, pretending his buddy had a crush on me, then cracking up when I tried to strike up a conversation. He knew I was afraid of diseases, so he used to make up outbreaks — after I got bit by a mosquito, he made up an epidemic of dengue at the high school. And then, about once every two weeks, he was sweet and quiet and took me to the drugstore for ice cream.
My brother’s many copies looked like nice people. I saw one pick up litter from the sidewalk, another hold the door for an old lady. So when one started working at the Wienerschnitzel across the street from school, I struck up a conversation. The Wienerschnitzel copy was friendly. He asked me questions about myself and listen to the answers. I started coming by every day — he would give me free fries, and if no one else was around we would chat. He was like my brother on his best days, the way I wished my brother would be all the time. I started telling him my secrets and fears. I considered him my best friend.
After I’d been going to Wienerschnitzel for a month, things changed. The copy started pretending to sneeze into my hot dogs. Then he started introducing me to strangers and telling us we should date. He laughed when I blushed. Now than he knew me well, he was playing on my flaws just as my brother had. I stopped going to Wienerschnitzel.
The bus stop copy was even nicer. He carried my books for me back to my house. He helped me build a tire swing in our front yard. Then one day he told me that if my hand was bigger than my face I had cancer. Three more times I tried making friends with my brother’s copies. Each time they turned bad as soon as they got to know me. I decided I had discovered their true natures, nice at first, but cruel when you scratched the surface.
Soon my real brother came home for Thanksgiving. He brought a girlfriend, sweet-faced and easy-going. All weekend he helped my mother with the dishes and my father with the vacuuming, and his girlfriend confided to me that he was the kindest person she had ever met. I thought perhaps I have learned the wrong lessons from the copies — maybe I should’ve realized that people can change quickly, for better or for worse. Then my brother took me aside.
“I’m a carrier for Epstein-Barr virus,” he said. “It’s very serious in young girls.”
He paused, put his hand on my shoulder.
“I haven’t told anyone else,” he whispered. Then he left to take my mother shopping and wash my father’s car.