Last night, unlike in real life, he asked me a question, I responded and the clearest picture I have of him was with him sitting across the table from me, speaking softly, his hands emphasizing his points, and unlike most of our time together, not once did he refer to me as "Fat Shit" or any other derogatory term. I can almost hear his voice and it was not the voice he usually used on me.
Don't get me wrong. He was cruel. He did put me down a lot. But he loved me. That I know. As a matter-of-fact, he may have loved me too much.
When we were toddlers, our parents left us in the Philippines with our unmarried aunt and our mother's stern parents. Not only were Ron and I "Irish twins," we were only 11 months apart, after being abandoned our relationship was cemented. As my older brother, he always had my back.
We would spend our lives trying to deal with our parents' choice to leave us behind. I went to therapy, but being male, he didn't explore his anger, his hurt, his pain. He lived it.
To Ron, life wasn't fair. Even though we had a much better life in the US because our father took the offer to finish his residency in America. But that year apart caused such heartbreak for our parents and us. I don't remember the weekend we spent in Niagera Falls as a newly reunited family but there are pictures where Ron and our dad were at odds, where he vies for our mother's affections and rejects our father's. Their relationship our entire lives were antagonistic. Ron always wanting paternal approval while constantly pushing our father away. Trust had been broken; at an early age, we learned that love was caustic.Our dad, a pathologist, was reminded daily how fragile life truly was. Making good use of his time with us, he grilled us about our day during dinner. My sister and I happily played along, thrilled with the attention, and for the most part, approval. But our brother would have none of it. He wouldn't "perform" for the old man, he said to me. And he resented that I kissed up to him. In Ron's mind, it was me and him against the world. By placating our dad, I was betraying him.
Yup, Ron and I had a special bond. As we grew up, he taught me to drive, intervened with my boyfriends, and basically told me what to do. At times, I spoke up or according to him, talked back. A particular issue he had was my weight. He was right to be critical, I ate to please my parents. As the middle child and a girl fearful of being left behind again, I ended up eating my words, my feelings, keeping myself overweight, making food my crutch. He was mad at me for showing my weakness. An unspoken rule with abandoned children, never give "them" reason to not love you.
As we got older, after I married Peter, things changed. Maybe he didn't feel the need to be responsible for me any longer. Maybe he liked where my life was headed. Maybe he actually liked me, not just the obligatory, loved me. In any case, we vacationed together, hung out, and genuinely and openly loved each other.
Peter and he were good friends, and not just because they had to be. Peter, who does not tolerate most people, really liked Ron, and vice versa. They went skiing together and complimented each other's style. Peter got to hang out with Ron when none of us siblings were around and Peter claims to know a Ron we never did. With Peter, Ron was fun and funny, joking with waitresses, making clever jabs at his friends, and laughing readily. Nope. That's not the Ron I knew. I was glad to hear that guy existed.
Towards the end of his life, he worried a lot. He was very serious; that's the guy I knew. Married, with a toddler son, a new home, he had more and more responsibility and more to care about. He and our dad were still adversaries. They both just knew what buttons to press. Rightfully so, after all, they were the oldest sons of the oldest son, which made them "Gods" in the Philippines. They not only had their wives and children to take care of, but also their siblings and extended family. As good sons, they took their responsibilities seriously.
That's why my father bought a 7-11 for his brother to run. But when our uncle decided to move to California, the burden of running the business fell on my brother. Our parents had put a lot of money in the franchise, my brother quit his job with an investment company where he had to commute to NYC to stay close to home and run the convenient store.
When I got a call from my aunt, who never calls me, I knew something terrible happened. "Is it dad?" I asked. He had high-blood pressure, did he have a stroke? "Just come home, Cecile," my aunt pleaded. "Your father said to come home. We will tell you when you get here." So, it wasn't dad."Is it Ron? Something happened to Ron?" silence.
And that's when I knew.
On Ron's last night, our parents got a call from the police that there was a fire at the 7-11.
It was a slow night. The roads were bad, so not many people were out. Ron had sent his employees home to be safe. He was alone for a short time.
There was a sign on the window. The police wanted to know if this was his handwriting. They asked if he was depressed. They questioned whether or not he may have taken his own life.
That last night, even though I was eight months pregnant, I was out late with Peter and his brother seeing someone we knew perform at LaMaMa. As my brother struggled, was shot, died, the vault burgled, and the storefront set on fire, I was out at a late night dinner with friends in the East Village. Only after our parents had been notified and the fire put out did anyone call me. They waited until the morning even though they all panicked and were frantically trying to tell the firemen to keep looking, Ron was in the building; he could be hurt; he may need help; but they said no. There was no one there. He was already dead. He was under debris. It would be hours after the fire was put out before they found his body. Hours, while my parents and his wife prayed for the best.
Ron and I have a special bond. Why didn't I know? How could I go about my life, chatting with people, clapping at performances, making dinner conversation, and then going home, falling peacefully asleep until the phone rang at six or seven am? How could I not know that this was my brother's last night?
Logic has little to do with feelings, though, right? And once again, I had been abandoned. And this time, I was abandoned by the only person in my life that I ever truly trusted. I was all alone in the world. With him gone, how do I go on living?
Macallan came early. My body went into survival mode and was rejecting the pregnancy. My organs began failing. The baby had to come out.
As is Filipino tradition, you give the initials of someone you admire to your children to honor them. With our daughter, we gave her Ron's initials, Ria Macallan Durkin, RMD. Our son was named after him, Ronald Markham Durkin. And even though Ron died 25 years ago, they know him, they love him, they will never forget him.
There was a time after he died when his presence was felt by his wife, his son, our mother, aunt, and me. We all have unexplained instances where Ron came to us. A picture of him on his son's nightstand was filled with water. When the frame was picked up, the water poured out but left the picture unharmed. Our aunt had someone playfully tap her on the shoulder but no one was in the room...to mention a few.
For me, at a meditation group I attended, Ron appeared to everyone there. To this day, I believe the friend who brought me to this mediation was only my friend because her brother needed to show my brother how to cross over. After that day, I rarely felt his presence, but of course, I thought of him and missed him. Still do.
So, last night, when I was sitting at a table across from my brother, I could feel him with me once again. He was wearing a cotton striped shirt that I must have a picture of him wearing somewhere in a photo album. He was good humored and caring, I recall. We had a back and forth interchange, something that didn't happen often when he was still alive. I usually just nodded or said, "Yeah. OK."
Last night, I knew he was dead. As I spoke to him, I knew he had passed away a long time ago. I looked into his eyes. I watched his hands and made note of his hand gestures. I studied his expressions. I knew I'd awake and he wouldn't be with me any longer. I knew once I woke up, I'd again be alone.
I am remembering the "dream" and I am crying. I want to hug him. I want to tell him all of the things I was never able to tell him. How I felt safe knowing he was watching out for me. That I was sorry that he retained the hurt of being abandoned his entire life. If only he knew how proud our father really was of him and that he always loved him. He had always love him.
But as I recall last night, I think he knew that. I believe the calm, gentle, caring brother I saw last night knew these things I only started to put words to as I write this blog. Yes. I think that' s true. I think he now knows.
It has taken me until this year to realize that I wasn't really abandoned. That our parents never rejected us, that we were not unloved nor are we unloveable. After all, isn't my memoir about taking those feelings of abandonment and now living with abandon?And that is what the guy sitting across from me at the table was saying to me last night. He is at peace. He understands his relationship with our father. He appreciates our time together. And he doesn't feel like a victim. And I think that's what he wanted me to know.
On his 25th death anniversary, now, I do too.
