Eden - the musician's sister

September, 2015

            After one week in the hospital and ten days in rehab, her brother came home. She awaited his arrival with pained chagrin. Because she had missed him, she really had, but just because she had mourned his absence did not mean that she wanted him back.

Life was peaceful without him. At least, as peaceful as it could be when Seven was absent but never quite gone. His solemn face and slicked-back hair glared at her under cover of music magazines in the supermarket. He had ruined her record-store experiences because his music dependably flanked entrances, hung like victory banners over the alternative sections. The wordy band name and capricious other members had propelled him close enough to her dream to reach out and take it. And take it he had.

Now, in sole possession of everything she wanted but did not have, he was going to discard it. Just. Like. That. Eden didn't appreciate people who dream-chased only to dream-drop. She intended to tell him such, right up until the moment he walked through the front door.

He looked terrible. Her heart cringed but she steeled it. Told herself, look at all he has taken from you. So she looked. And, to her abject dismay, she did not see it. The glow of fame and good health had long been departed from him. He opened the door with one hand because his other was in a sling after a much-publicized fall from a civilian balcony. Hair bound back into a ponytail, wearing a black sweater with stretched-out sleeves and red hollows under his eyes, he gave off the impression of a druggie emerging from rehab.

Which, she supposed, was what had happened. Even though it wasn't addiction. The doctor had called the other day and told their father it was something else - a phobic disorder. At any rate, it sounded nasty. And it appeared nasty.

The family hadn't exactly congregated to welcome him back; their father was in the living room tuning a water logged piano, Eden herself was hiding at the top of the stairs. Twenty years old, she berated herself, and I curl up like a teenager out of sight. Making no move to get up, she watched as Joanna - their mother - clopped into the entryway wearing her insufferably loud denim clogs. She patted Seven on the shoulder, then drew him nearer. Both seemed skittish and unused to the contact.

"You're late," she said. "Did you get stopped at the airport? Paparazzi?"

He gave her a look, the look he had given Eden countless times before he left for tour: the idiotic one, as if he was trying to get her to see the ridiculousness of her suggestion.

 "No. I drove back."

"In a car? What car did you -" His mother leaned around his shoulder to check the driveway. "Seven? There isn't a car outside."

"No," he said, measured and platonic as before. "I drove with Taegan. He's taking the van back to Chicago."

"Taegan?" Eden cursed. She had revealed herself. Now both Seven and their mother stood staring up the stairs, waiting for her to come down. Standing, she shook the draped sleeves of her blouse over her hands and rubbed her birthmark - swollen purple-blue on her upper lip - for some sort of luck.

At the bottom, still lingering back, she smiled over the spike of bitterness in her stomach.

"Hey, young one. That was a pretty short tour."

He studied her insinuation. "Instrumental's the way forward for the next twenty shows."

"What a death sentence."

"Taegan doesn't think so."

 "Well," Eden said, "the eternal optimist -"

"He's not coming in, if you were wondering, and right now -" Seven glanced over his shoulder. There was a hollowness to him when he looked back, as if a vital life essence had escaped with his bandmate. He carried to distinct aurora of having been stolen from; the bits and pieces of his personality collected up like loose change and deposited beyond his reach.  "Right now, he's going back to Chicago."

"He could have come in," their mother said. "I made cookies, didn't I Eden? Enough for Corrin, but it would have been enough for Taegan. Why didn't you tell him to come in?"

Both stared in opposite directions. Eden at the doorframe, Seven at the bottom step. The silence was charged with an accusation that none but they would understand. On Seven's part, it was a loathing, a wondering on interruptions and nuisances and older sisters. On Eden's part, it was a longing, a childish unfulfilled wish, a dream of princes and charmings and boy with soft-edged smiles. Each knew what neither acknowledged.

When the empty spaces between their words rose and bubbled between them, as convicting as any pointed finger, their mother frowned. "He could have come in," she said. "At least that."

Eden turned again for the stairs. Her feet were fleeing but her mind was stuck, lodged on a telescope of stormy nights and basement band practices, watching from afar, waiting for turning points she wasn't certain of, couldn't define. Embarrassment was flush on her cheeks. She had made herself look foolish so many times. The desperate selfish elder, the rift-driver, the dream-killjoy.

Behind her, she heard Seven - easier tone breaking into a voice of liquidated patience, unrelenting in its implications.

"No," her brother said, "He can't."

***

           In the morning she rose for work, moving herself through a familiar routine now disrupted and attuned to minor disturbances - the sound of the basement toilet flushing, the melancholy zing of guitar strings, the very presence of Seven which seemed to inhabit a sound of its own. Frustrated at this acute awareness and how petty it made her feel, Eden rushed through her shower. Secured her hair atop her head, yanked a men's J. Crew sweater overtop a colorful owl-printed skirt, made a grab for her car keys before her coffee.

Anxious to be out of the house, she skipped her morning rummage through the refrigerator in favor of the security of her car and the comforting tuning of her morning radio station. She started down the road optimistic. Thrumming her fingers against the wheel, she imagined a someday where her own voice would ring out through the static speakers.

Every drive, every weekday. That thought remained by her side. It refused to leave, no matter how many times she flung her hands up in frustration and tried to listen, simply listen, to the pure melodic hum of a drumbeat. But how could she vanquish it? How could she let it go, after eight years of tucking it beside her heart, sewing it like a patch on her sleeves?  

Eden did not release her dreams easily. She captured them, pinned them down, made them into glories she thought would carry her through life's difficulties. Yet dreams failed, inevitably, or younger brothers reached them first. Skimming her fingers out the open window, she sunk from morning cheer to ever-present bitterness.

He had stolen from her. He had seen her dream. How hard she worked to achieve it. When he was old enough he had jumped for it, held it tight in his fist and refused to share it with her. After three years of touring and two successful albums he still wouldn't acknowledge the fact that Eden had been seeing music through starry-eyes longer. That he had wronged her.

It should be her face on the posters. Her name on the concert bill, her footnotes inside the CD. All of it should be hers. Hadn't she worked for it? Hadn't she dedicated countless hours to learning, perfecting, teaching herself? Didn't she have the broken instruments and overflowing notebooks to prove it? And even Seven's first single was pirated: the idea had been hers, he had heard it and hoarded it away over the dinner table, brought it out when it was time.

Clenching the side of the steering wheel, Eden dialed down the radio. For three months after that single she had been forced to abandon her favorite station because it was all they would play. Over and over and over, and endless loop of her idea, a bashing grunge-rock mimicry of her weaknesses.  

How dare he, she thought, teeth clenching, how dare -

The Foo Fighter's Everlong punched through her ruminations. From the console beside her seat her phone vibrated frantically, screen filling with a snapshot taken from the back of a crowd at an off-kilter show, the figure mere pixelated lines and shaggy edges.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Eden, what's up?"

Her throat contracted. The aftertaste of coffee lingered beside her poisonous thoughts. Because hadn't Taegan been in on it, too? The dream-stealing business? Shouldn't she direct some of the anger at him, instead of all upon her younger brother?

But: the butterflies halted her. Those traitorous butterflies, wings that beat against the wall of her stomach and drew blood. A wretched inconvenience; a chance accident of attraction and oblivion.

"Aren't you in Chicago?"

"Yeah, well, not to Chicago yet." Laughter lingered in his voice. "I was stopped by, um, the side of a semi."

"You drove into a semi." Eden blinked at the road. The yellow lines were swerving; even traffic was betraying her today. "Shouldn't you be in the hospital?"

"Well, the back side of the van hit the truck, not the front, so I'm still intact. The back tires were a minor casualty."

"So go get new back tires - why are you calling me?"

No sound, just gentle breathing on the other end of the line, a slight sniffling. Taegan released a weighted sigh. "Is Seven okay?"

Eden turned into the parking lot of the dentist's office. She backed into an empty slot, turned off the car, and just sat for a moment. One hand was cupped around the phone, holding the back upright as if it were a fragile and disconnected entity; if she pressed on it too hard, the call might break, or Taegan turn back to the distant and untouchable creature he usually was.

"Well, is he? Crap. I should've come in. But he made it to the front door. I saw him make it to the front door."

"No no no." The words rushed out of her. "He's fine. I think. I'm not sure. But he is in the basement, doing whatever he does down there, so he hasn't run yet. Mom isn't bothering him - I'm not bothering him - he looks like a junkie. Was he on something? Was that why he went to rehab?"

"No." Taegan stopped, let out another sigh. "His phobia isn't good. He isn't in a good place, Eden, and I called to ask how he was but I also called because I know, he's told me, that you two aren't on good terms. Right now he can't -"

"Yeah, we got the ominous mental health call. I'm not starting trouble. Thanks so much for checking, although I guess I shouldn't be surprised as you're well-acquainted with my track record."

 "Eden." He said her name again - why did he keep saying her name - and it sounded rough, somehow, like he was forcing himself to even be civil to her. It wasn't beautiful, and it certainly didn't restart the butterflies. She sunk down. Folded her arms, because it felt like if she didn't keep the badness inside it would leak out and remind her - as it was now - exactly how much she was disliked by Seven's bandmates.

"Eden," he was trying to get her attention, "I know this sucks."

"Taegan," she said, "I'm a twenty year-old secretary living in my parent's house. My life sucks. So Seven returning is just a very small unwanted contribution to that."

Taegan mumbled something in the foreground - just replace both tires, danggit - and then spoke directly. "I'll call you again."

"Call Seven instead."

His laugh wasn't even forced, at that. "You offer a unique perspective."

"On the situation? Or on life itself?"

"The situation," he said, "and maybe on life. Be nice to my bandmate."

"Right."

Eden disconnected the call. For a minute of shocked, half-gleeful silence that she had survived an entire conversation, that Taegan was aware of the brighter side of her existence, she stared through the window shield without comprehending a thing.

And then she thought of his closing line. Strangely protective, a shy, understated direction that only carried weight because he knew how she regarded him. No more promises, she said under her breath, and dropped her phone back onto the console.

***

            The bass pulsated beneath the kitchen floor. Sitting at the table, Styrofoam cup of fast food coffee in her hand, Eden watched the outspread sheaf of documents vibrate. The noise reverberated up her chair legs and across the wooden surface. Even the vase of flowers sitting across from her was affected - the water jiggled, the petals sneezed out orange pollen.

Three hours into outlining the business model for her new venture - it was going to involve an Etsy shop and hobbies she had cultivated out of boredom - she was still far from a creative solution to her problems. She needed a new job. She needed a new version of life, an upgrade on whatever model she was operating in. Eden, 2.0, highly functioning, about five inches taller, and, most importantly, freed from the chains of affection.

While her new venture promised to provide answers, it was not a wide or sweeping enough plan to propel her forward. Music had failed her. Yet entrepreneurship was not going to be any easier of an undertaking, complex and mind-boggling as it was.

One dog-eared paper scotched over the edge of the table. When she reached to pick it up the chaos sent shocks up her fingertips. "Seven!" She was on her feet, now, prepared to fight for quiet.

Down the tight hardwood steps and into the darkness of the basement, around the dividing wall - a glorified sheet, printed and hanging from crimson cord - she strained to adjust her eyes. Picking out two shapes on the bedroom side of the room, Seven's side, she advanced.

It was like moving into a riptide of music; he was playing a gentle riff on his old, beat-up Yamaha. Esau's eleven year-old brother Corrin, who in lieu of Seven's absence had practically been living in the basement, was situated behind the drums. His limp blonde curls rattled as his arms thrashed frantically, a terrific out-of-tempo assault that made Eden want to clamp her hands over her ears.

Groping out for the first amplifier within reach, she turned the volume down. Wasn't Seven supposed to be having a nervous breakdown? Didn't music trigger spastic fits? Hadn't they all been instructed to limit their conversations, their interactions with the topic of his band and career?

 Yet there he was: head bowed, fiddling with the fretboard. A mason jar of iced tea sat next to his calf, he was barefoot, and a stack of signed magazine posters sat near Corrin's puddled jacket.

Eden rubbed her birthmark. It was all so confusing. She wondered if the panic attack commotion had been a cop-out - if being a musician was too much work for him, if he hadn't realized that commitment he would have to make towards his dreams, and towards securing a future of longevity.

"Can you guys stop, uh, bashing around?" Looking over her brother, she addressed her plea to Corrin. He had become almost familial in a way that was immediate rather than extended; like another little brother, except less conniving, less ambitious. And also far more obsessed with video games and Green Day.

"What are you talking about?" Corrin pointed one drumstick at her, mouth half-open. "Bashing. This isn't bashing. This is -"

"Rock and roll, I understand." Eden said. "But all's fair in the business of love and broken eardrums. So turn down the bass, will you?"

Whatever discordant melody Seven had been playing slowed. He finally glanced up from his guitar. The red circle were gone, but his face was haunted, dreamless, as if in his mind he were entering a dimension entirely separate from the one where he was facing her, his resentful older sister.  "He's still learning," he said.

"I suppose this is an impromptu lesson?"

"Well," Corrin said, "yeah. I mean, I've been over here trying to figure things out on my own, but now that Seven's back..."

Eden stiffened. "Not back for good." Turning to her brother, she said: "You aren't, aren't you."

"No," Seven said.

"You see?"

Rolling his eyes, Corrin tapped his drumstick on one skinny knee. He was shaking his head again. "That means you take time when you have it, which would be now. Which means you are cutting into my future."

"Future hobby? Future aggravation?"

"Future, future." He turned to Seven. His look said it all, chase off your sister, dude, which Eden almost resented because she had been the one bringing him cookies and Gatorade for the past three months while he bashed and crashed and thrashed his merry way through the basement walls.  

But - she was about to rant, say something cutting and not terribly witty, when she saw the look on Seven's face. His cheeks were flushed red. The fingers resting so carefully, with such precision, upon his Yamaha were now rattling, the rings on his thumb and pinkie clanking. He wasn't focused on Seven; he wasn't focused on her. Gaze glued to the ceiling, his chest heaved up and down, lips parting. He was departing - the gateway had been opened, the trigger had been pulled, and now Eden, again, was responsible.

Stepping back from the two she turned the volume of the bass back up. Placing a hand on his shoulder or casting a smile in his direction seemed volatile and somehow dangerous, so instead of trying to understand why he had suddenly become bottled lightening, she backed around the divider.

"Have fun," she said.

The resounding rattle of Corrin's foot upon the pedal followed her exit. But no guitar. Still no guitar. Concerned, and confused at her concern - she was supposed to be angry, vengeful, slighted - Eden sank down on the seventh basement step. She listened for the Yamaha. Crashing, thrashing, bashing, disruptive bass. As her heartbeat quickened, she tried to trace back through her conversation. What had she said? Should she have done something - should Corrin have done something? Been more concerned?

No, she realized, listening as the familiar melancholy strum wound up the stairs. Because whatever mental mess Seven was in, he could sort himself out. He was strong. If he wasn't, if traveling had worn him down, he could rebuild himself.

That was one of the things Eden had always envied: it took her months to recover from even the slightest of grievances. Seven, however, simply shrugged it off his shoulders, remained impassibly unmovable, and kept climbing. He climbed and he climbed and he climbed, and now he had reached the stars.

And she was standing with her hands on the rungs, torn between the safety of falling backward and the implication of moving forward. Stuck. Stagnated into her docile, secretarial life. The facts remained; it came down to a matter of bravery, when courage was her foil, never her strong point.

***

Picture above is Eden, played by Taylor Jardine of We Are the In Crowd