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The Line
By Kayla Small
Last year the cops knocked on the door when my mother was asleep. My sixteen year-old brother, a bottle of Captain Morgan’s, street corner, hospital. I wasn’t there to see it but I’m sure she screamed like the mothers in the movies: guttural, animal. When we spoke on the phone the next day, it was all there in her voice, raw fear not yet smoothened by time or therapy or religious pursuits. Our conversation was infused with the aftertaste left by deep-searing change. My brother would be fine, his experience with IVs and oxygen limited to a single night, his crisis neatly bracketed when he walked out of the hospital the following day. He was home by the time my mother told me the story. As I sat in my dorm room, the New York City light just beginning to fade, I mentally mapped the events that she had just been through. They began with the first pound upon the door then rushed their way through the drive to the hospital, slowing maddeningly as she waited by his bedside. At that first sound of hand against wood, I could see where things had changed. I could draw the line. And I was jealous.
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