Vicarious

Vicarious

My tired eyes awoke to the peeling paint on my bedroom wall being illuminated by the rising sun. The humid air dampened my lungs and provoked a coughing attack. I stumbled for my oxygen mask but couldn’t muster the strength. My mother barged in and frantically attempted to get the mask in position, most mornings were like this now. The worst part wasn’t the pain I felt, but rather the fear in my mother’s eyes. Her fear used to come and go but lately her panic didn’t seem to leave her. My coughing attack ended and I convinced my mother to leave, trying desperately to hold onto what little independence hadn’t been stripped away from me. Whatever hope my family had died last year when we found out the deductible to join an experimental treatment program in Texas was $20 000 American dollars, I don’t think my parents even had $20 000 pesos. My father worked twice as hard to make up for my mother being stuck at home babysitting me all day but that still left us living below the poverty line. It was hard enough as is to get ahead in Mexico, let alone with a liability for a daughter. My parents often thought of immigrating to America but with my condition, chances of us getting approved for residency was low and the taxpayers there can barely pay for their own medical treatment let alone the treatment for an immigrant. I’m sure the thought of illegally immigrating crossed their minds before but between my impairment and carrying an oxygen tank, I’m not sure how sneaky we could be.

I pulled myself from my deprecating thoughts to see a small, black notebook on my dresser. The worn leather suggesting it had quite the history behind it. I excitedly opened the first page and began to read about my brother, Ricardo’s adventures over the past few weeks. Ricardo was a good man despite my parent’s contempt towards him. While he wasn’t the traditional older brother, he did more for me than anyone else, he let me live, vicariously anyway. When I was diagnosed Ricardo was freshly 16 and dropped out of school to work, to my father’s chagrin, it wasn’t to help with the household bills but rather to fund the frivolous lifestyle he had adapted. Ricardo travelled, explored, partied, and made friends all around the world only to write about it in these black notebooks. After every new adventure Ricardo had, he would give me the notebook and let me read about it, this was his way of keeping in touch. I didn’t mind that Ricardo had become distant over the years, his stories would be a brief reprieve from my unpleasant life. This flippant lifestyle was out of character for Ricardo who, naturally, was a very frugal and introverted person, but for me he lived as hard as he could. My parents don’t know about the notebooks, nor do I intend for them to find out. There was an unspoken agreement between me and Ricardo that they were between us. Over the past three years, Ricardo and I might’ve said five words to each other, that goes for the rest of my family too, I think if it weren’t for me he would’ve ran away by now. Ricardo acts as if he doesn’t want anyone to get attached to him, but every month or so I wake up to a new journal, I don’t understand him.

I buried myself into the journal, smiling to myself about how uncharacteristically outgoing Ricardo was in his recent interactions. I finished the journal almost as soon as I opened it, my eyes glued to the paper until the last sentence. Tomorrow Ricardo turned 19 and I was sure he would have some interesting stories of his birthday and I was so excited to read about them. I was completely immersed in Ricardo’s life, I felt as if his friends were mine. I felt his heartbreak when he detailed the story of how his first love ended. I felt the beauty of the sunset on top of the Sierra Madre Mountains. I lived vicariously through him and at times it was the only thing keeping me going. It distracted me from the pain in my chest, the guilt I felt for burdening my parents, and the reality that my life would soon be over. I was so angry that my parents dug a hole so deep paying for my medications when they would lose me either way. My only hope would be the experimental treatment in Texas, which showed curative results but there were still many years and trials ahead before an approval was given, not that the trial was even an option anymore. I laughed to myself that my parents picked the wrong favorite child, Ricardo was as healthy as a horse but they couldn’t care less about him, all they cared about was their lost cause of a baby girl.

I spent the rest of my day sulking and resting, the usual. 12am came and I slowly hobbled to Ricardo’s room to wish him happy birthday only to find him not there. A pit grew in my stomach but I chalked his absence up to a long night at the bar and headed back to bed, we could celebrate tomorrow. My ears rang and my heart stopped when I woke up to my screaming mother. It was a scream I had only heard once before, when we received my all-but-terminal diagnoses. I stood and tried to run and comfort my mother but the realization flushed over me. My legs turned weak and tears pooled in my eyes. The scream could only mean one thing, Ricardo was dead. The ride to the hospital was silent. The doctors and police were talking but all I heard but mumbles. My body was numb, it was the first time in years I didn’t have any physical pain, but my heart ache was worse than anything I had ever felt. Ricardo crashed going down a steep hill on a road he drove thousands of times to and from home, not an ounce of liquor or drugs in his system. I couldn’t wrap my head around the explanation

“he must’ve lost control.”

Ricardo had done a lot of things in his lifetime, losing control was never one of them.

The ride home was even worse than the ride to the hospital, now there was no hope. Hopelessness was a familiar feeling in my family but it never felt this dire. When we got back home I headed straight for Ricardo’s room. It was tidy, but cluttered with his books and collectibles. I laid on his perfectly made bed and stared at the ceiling blankly, I was beyond tears. I was angry at my parents for treating Ricardo as poorly as they did yet they cried tears over his death, I was mad at myself for being so sick that within the next few years my parents would be rendered childless, and most of all I was mad at Ricardo. How did the most intelligent person I know make such an idiotic mistake? I buried my head in his pillow, smelling the remnants of his over gelled hair. Underneath his pillow I felt something familiar, a black leather notebook. I opened the cover hoping to read the last words he penned, to know his last thoughts.

Inscribed on the flyleaf was a brief message that made the room spin:

“Paloma, I am so sorry for the circumstances you are reading this under. I want you to know I was never living my life twice as hard for you to live through me vicariously, but rather so I could live my life fully in a short amount of time. I am grateful to you for showing me how to live, if it wasn’t for you, I would have never appreciated the value of life nor had the experiences I did. I love you but it is time for you to write about your own adventures now. -Ricardo.”

The rest of the pages were left blank. I sobbed so hard my lungs gave out and my mother had to tend to me. I did not understand, why would Ricardo kill himself? He was happy and never gave me any inclination he was hurting. I experienced his entire life. World felt as if it was crumbling beneath my feet.

It wasn’t until 4 weeks of grieving later that I finally understood Ricardo’s decision. My mother went to check the mail and there it was, a letter with my name. Ricardo had taken a life insurance policy out on himself and left me as his beneficiary. Within the letter was a detailed brochure on the policy, and a cheque. The policy clearly stated that a suicide of the insured would immediately nullify the policy. Ricardo didn’t lose control of the vehicle but drove off the cliff to simulate a horrible accident. My eyes became blurry with tears before I could read the rest, but my mother took the liberty of doing it herself, She let out a scream, but it wasn’t the broken one that I knew all too well, it was a shriek of joy. The check was made out to me in the amount of twenty thousand American dollars. Ricardo died so I could live.

A year passed and it has officially been 120 days since I needed supplemental oxygen. My parents came with me to Dallas for the treatment and we are living comfortably. My father had no problem finding work as a laborer and my mom ironically became a caretaker for the elderly. I spend my days in the hospital going through rehabilitation and treatment. I come home every night to a cozy apartment that is filled with the same smells as our home in Mexico. I feel guilty for leaving the home Ricardo grew up in, but take solace in knowing this is what he wanted. My heart still aches for my brother who gave up everything for me, but I feel proud for knowing a man as good as him. I lay in bed looking out the window, detailing every part of my day as vividly as it happened and writing it down in my own black, leather notebook as if someone would read it.With everyday that passes I become closer to being able to live freely as Ricardo did. To make friends, experience my first love, and one day watch the sunset from the Sierra Madre Mountain tops. My eyelids became heavy as the image of my freshly painted bedroom walls illuminated by the Dallas lights faded to black.