A short time ago I posted here the story of two children and their lives. I described how they were born into a disadvantaged background, being addicted to heroin through their mother before they were born. They were twins, a boy and a girl. I told how their chances in life were equal - or appeared to be - and severely limited. The story revealed how the girl overcame her disadvantages to gain an education and a normal life. The boy, on the other hand, couldn't escape the spiral of misery. The story ended where the girl - now in her twenties - was crossing a bridge in the city when she spotted a figure sitting hunched in a sleeping bag, with a plastic cup in front of him for coins. It was her brother, who had been separated from her years before.
Now here is the update of the story - what happened next. The girl considered her options. She knew that if she stopped and spoke to him she would be as good as going back into the womb again. She would have to spend the rest of her life fighting to free him from his addictions. The other option was to walk on and retain her self-made life. She realized that in her mind she had buried her brother - put him away from her because the pain was too great to bear. But the pain was also too great not to bear. They had shared one womb and were like one soul. What happened to one happened to the other. She stooped down, spoke his name and gazed into dull and lifeless eyes.
Well, this young woman took her brother home, introduced him to her horrified husband and disbelieving children, and she embarked on a life's work of rehabilitation. She made it her business to find out everything she could about his problems, which had been hers too but which in another sense had not been hers. And everything she learned she practised on him - to no effect. He drifted in and out of the house, he stayed away for long periods; she collected him from police cells, pubs and hospitals. She tried every therapy she could think of on him and nothing worked. He promised and promised but never changed. But she wouldn't give up. Her husband lost faith with her and left; eventually her children went to live with their father although they came back later.
After twelve years had passed the brother contracted acute hepatitis of a type he hadn't had before and was admitted to hospital. His sister visited every day. He looked like a man thirty years older; his eyes were grey and dead. In a short time the doctors told her the end was near. She sat by his bed, held his hand and talked to him about the few bright moments they had shared as children. He made no answer. Then at last she broke down.
"I've failed," she wept. "I did everything, tried everything. You were my life but I couldn't make a difference."
Suddenly the brother's face filled with light. He lifted his head and stared as if at something standing in front of him. He turned and looked at his sister. His eyes were shining.
"You loved me," he said.
He looked away again with an infinite longing which had been answered. Then he breathed out for the last time.
Jay
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