Chapter Twelve

Jackson

No amount of time, whether it be twenty minutes, two hours, two days, two weeks, or even two years, can prepare you for coming face to face with your brother, someone who has always been your equal or exactly like you in so many ways, only to find him now to be a shell of the person that you always knew.
I know the look of someone who has been hooked on meth, heroine, or cocaine. They look emaciated, their skin barely clinging to their protruding bones. Their eyes and hair are dull, and that’s if they still have any hair left at all, as the drugs and lack of nutrients fueling them have literally caused their body to use every last bit that it has, taking what it needs from anywhere that it can get it in order to keep going. They will often be covered in scabs or unhealed sores from picking, because the effects of withdrawal as they come down from their high make their skin feel as though it is crawling with bugs. It eats away at their teeth, their bones, their minds.
Literally destroying everything about them.
As Dad and I walk into the living room, I find Dal instantly. He’s sitting in the window seat, staring out the window into the back yard. 
Body-wise, he seems to have gained back the majority of the weight that he more than likely lost during his incarceration and the months following his return back home. His muscle tone is lacking, but it’s nothing that dedication and time lifting weights can’t fix.
But as I take him in, a drawing pad sitting untouched in his lap and a pencil being flipped back and forth between his fingers, his leg bouncing up and down as if he can’t control it, it’s the lost look on his face that has me taking a hesitant step in his direction and his name falling like a question from my lips, “Dal?”
He turns his head toward me at the sound of my voice, his hollow blue eyes meeting mine as if it’s the very first time.
“I lost it,” he mutters, his voice sounding as though he’s barely holding on. I close the distance between us, then drop down to my knees next to him, our gazes not breaking once.
“You lost what?” I ask, so much emotion clogging up my throat that the question barely comes out as more than a whisper.
Dal turns his attention to the untouched paper in front of him, his eyes dry but his voice brittle as he says, “I can’t draw anymore. It’s gone.”
Understanding dawns on me then. We each had our outlets for our emotions or how we expressed ourselves.
For me, it was doing physical things, which is why I did so well in both wrestling and boxing.
Bos and Linc, football was their thing, and all the off-season training was a damn good outlet for them when they needed to work out some of their frustrations, too.
But Dal was different. He would work out with the three of us to keep in shape for ball, but his outlet was art.
There were times, especially after what Lexi did to him, that he would hole up in his room for hours, days even, only coming out to eat-and he barely did that, drink, and use the bathroom.
I snuck in one day to check on him in his room, only to find that every inch of each wall had been painted over-each scene blended seamlessly into the next and although the pain that he was going through was more than evident, and made my heart break for him, as well as made me determined to figure out a way to help him through that time in his life, it was also breathtakingly beautiful.
And along with his walls, the rest of his room was much the same; his desk and floor had been littered with half-drawn, discarded drawings. His TV stand had drawings taped all over it. Pen, pencil, crayon, charcoal, paint. You name a material you can draw with, and he could do it.
And just like it had done all those years ago, the overwhelming need to help him overcame me in that very moment.
Reaching out, I placed my hand on his bouncing knee, stilling him, even if just for a moment, and said, “Then let me help you find it again.”
I spent the latter part of the morning researching art courses at the college where I’m currently enrolled-thinking that maybe he can just slide right into my palace once my assignment is over.
I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, but for Dal, I’d do anything to help him, even suffer through art classes until we could make the switch.
I also shot Morris a text asking if the department could use another sketch artist. I know that having a felony on his record is going to keep him from being able to get many jobs, but with knowing the right people, I’m hoping that maybe there just might be a chance.
I’m also hoping that if he feels like he has a purpose in life, that maybe it will help with his sobriety. 
Most people who struggle with addiction look at it like, *Why stay sober when I already feel like I’m nothing but a disappointment to everyone in my life and I have nothing to live for? So what’s even the point?*
My goal is to change that perspective for him and *give* him something that he *wants* to live for-more than just family, more than just sobriety. His *reason* behind his sobriety, and right now, it seems like it’s his art, so I’m going to lean into that. If down the road that reason changes, I’ll be here to pivot with him.
“What is that?” Dal asks, coming up behind me and looking over my shoulder at the drawing that I was trying to do. And the keyword is *trying*. “Is that supposed to be a man or something?” he asks with wide eyes.
He barks a laugh and then points at the paper in front of me, “Dude, it looks like some sort of disfigured bear holding-I don’t even know what that’s supposed to be.” He laughs throughout the entire thing, and I’d probably feel irritated, mortified even by his description of my drawing of a man reading a newspaper, but he knows my drawing sucks just as much as I know that my drawing sucks.
His words and criticism aren’t why I did it, knowing it would suck.
This is. “Oh yeah,” I ask, mocking offense. “I don’t see *you* doing any better.” Dal casts a glare at me before glancing at the extra piece of paper and pencil in front of me.
“Let's see you do better, hotshot,” I say, taunting him as I grab up the paper and pencil and hold them out to him.
“What do I get when I win?” He asks, still eyeing the items as if they might bite him if he touches them.
“Other than bragging rights?” I joke with a raised brow. “Twenty bucks,” I tell him, thinking he’s worth the money if it gets him out of his head and putting pencil to paper again.
He thinks about it for the briefest of moments before reaching out and taking the items from me and moving to sit opposite me at the table. Once he’s seated, he lays the paper down and just looks at the paper for a moment, as if letting the drawing form itself on the blank page. Then, like he’s done so many times in the past, he leans over the piece of paper, picks up the pencil with his left hand, and gets to work.
A half an hour later, Dal is putting the finishing touches on a piece of art that, honestly, I have no clue how it *only* took him thirty minutes to create.
It looks incredible.
He’s drawn a man, weathered from age, sitting in a chair playing a game of checkers with an unseen opponent. His coat is ripped in places, having seen better days, and his big toe is peeking out of the front of his right shoe; the thing obviously wore out, just like the man himself.
But his face, weather worn and wrinkled with age, is full of so much *life* and *happiness* as he plays such a simple game. I can even imagine the feel of the early spring sun as it warms his balding head, the afternoon breeze picking up a few wisps of what hair he does have left, as the wind carries the scent of hot dogs through the air.
The image is so detailed and just so *alive* that I don’t even have words as I look at Dal, in awe of this amazing ability that he doesn’t even see that he still wholly possesses. 
“Wow,” Dad says, stepping into the room, taking in Dal’s masterpiece. I notice his lips twitching when his eyes move over to my catastrophe, but he just turns his attention back to Dal. “That looks amazing, Son.”
“Jax said he’d pay me twenty bucks,” he responds, sidestepping the compliment altogether. 
“Guess you better pay up then, Bud,” Dad says with a knock to the table's surface. “I gotta head back to the office. Have a meeting with a client at one o’clock.”
I glance at the watch on my wrist, just now realizing that it’s already after twelve.
Shit.
“Yeah, I better go too,” I say, pulling out my wallet and handing Dal the twenty that he earned. “I have a uh…meeting, too,” I say, scrambling for what to tell them. I’m sure as hell not telling them that I have an appointment to get testing done for STIs. 
Hard pass on that one, thank you very much.
“Dal, I’ll be in touch,” I tell him as I move around the table and pull him into a hug. He wraps both of his arms around me, giving me the same kind of bear hug that he’s always given, and a little part of me relaxes at knowing that part of him hasn’t changed.
“Call me if you need *anything.* I don’t care what it is, or the hour, you call. You hear?” I ask, pointing a finger at him, letting him know that I mean what I’m saying.
He nods but doesn’t say anything.
I pull him into another hug just as I hear Dad walk out of the room. “I love you, bro, and I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
When we pull apart, he won’t make eye contact with me, but I don’t expect him to. I get it, but he does say, “I love you and I’m sorry too. I fucked up and I’m so damn sorry.”
“Hey,” I say, figuring that was what was eating at him. “None of that. Own it and then move on. Don’t let it control you or define your worth.”
Again, he nods, but I can tell that he actually heard me, and right now, I couldn’t and wouldn’t ask for more.