I think I can, I think I can
32
I tell Dave first. I need his body, his surety, his gravity. For as long as I can remember, I’m more stable in the world when I’m physically attached, flesh-on-flesh, to another life form. As a kid, mom and dad were my hosts, arm or hip pressed parasitically into them. In junior high, when I learned this behavior wasn’t cool or even acceptable, I became a psychic barnacle, orbiting the space of anyone or anything safe and solid. With the roots of a giant Doug Fir, Dave is my lightening rod, my earthing system, my infinite sink for excess charge.
I sit next to him on the bed until he stirs. His lids are heavy with sleep but they register my presence. I roll over on top of him (I’m going to need full-body grounding circuitry this time) and wait until he’s alert enough to comprehend me. I don’t want to have to say it twice.
“Eric is my half-brother.” I say it calmly. Dead pan. I’m a terrible actress. When I feel overwhelmed, I go flat. Or worse, emotionally inappropriate, as if my brain blows a circuit, signals all criss-cross-applesauce. The corners of my mouth sneak up, ready to crack. My rib cage vibrates, tamping down uncontrollable laughter.
Dave doesn’t say anything. What is there to say? In his head, lights are going on. Puzzle pieces are flying into place. His gut always sensed “something off” about my place in the Warner clan. He pulls me close. I want to stay in his arms forever. As long as my head is pressed against his chest, I don’t need to do anything with this news. But even with the slow rhythm of his heartbeat, my thoughts travel in a thousand unfinished directions. Did dad know…how could I not know…what do I call dad now…what do I call Charlie?
I don’t know whether to laugh or hide when I realize a bad, made-for-tv detail. Dave—partner Dave—obviously has the same first name as dad—Dave Warner, Dave. Care to guess Dave’s—partner Dave’s—middle name? That’s right. Charles—same name as bio-dad Charles. I might as well tattoo DADDY ISSUES across my forehead.
I look in the mirror and study my face; I brush my teeth; make a fried egg on toast; feed Kitty Pang—everyday routines but now someone else is doing them. I don’t know how to integrate the results so I don’t. By that evening, survival strategies take over and I convince myself it’s a mistake. Denial, alongside magical-thinking—my sweet, anesthetizing friends.
I reach out to 23andMe for clarification. Corroboration.
Dear 23andMe, please interpret my DNA data. I share 22% DNA with my brother. Is this on a sliding scale? Could it still indicate a full sibling relationship? Could we have the same parents but just share a little less DNA than other siblings? What if my DNA was contaminated? How accurate is your data? Was my sample accidentally dropped? Did 38% of my DNA land on the floor, the other half of my half-sibling relationship forever lost in a biohazard dumpster somewhere? Can I get it back?
I fall asleep tallying, grasping, clinging.
Eric and I are both tall. We’re both ashy blond. I’m hairy, he’s harrier. We both like poetry.
But Eric likes action films. I like psychological horror. I throw things away. He holds on. I like the company of one. He likes the company of many.
I open a reply from 23andMe the next morning. 22% is not enough shared DNA to be full-blooded siblings. I screen grab the original result—Eric Warner: Half Sibling—and text it to mom and Eric.
They reply but to a phone now owned by another person. She reads their responses. She answers when they call. She registers their shock and concern. She hears reassurances of steadfast love. But I’m too far away to get the message.
Pathways for dissociation are already primed. One lane whispers, “This is scary. Proceed slowly. Find your feet, find your feelings.” The other shouts, “I think I can, I think I can.” The latter is bold, impulsive and ready to forge ahead with this new information. Brave positivity with glitter-sprinkled-on-top is how I learned to be loved, and I need acceptance and love more than ever now. I need to spin the story until its only outcome is expansive and beautiful so I’m not banished from my proverbial clan.
But in the dark den of cellular oblivion, someone else stirs—a lioness twitches her paws in a fitful, apocalyptic dream. Sensing a truth far more dangerous than pretty, she stays in hiding. I try to convince myself it’s no big deal. Nothing has changed. And the truth is, nothing has changed. But my insides don’t agree and logic can’t talk them out of it.
My body goes silent. Cell metabolism slows, preparing itself for a long winter. My nervous system responds in the only way it knows how—freeze. Outwardly, I share the story with manic excitement. People encourage me to share, write the story down, turn it into a film. It’s wild! It’s beautiful! It’s meaningful! I think I can, I think I can! My stomach says rest but I don’t. My nerves say slow down, but I can’t. I compulsively share the story with everyone, trying it on like a new pair of hard denim and each time, wishing them relaxed and full of holes.
It’s unnerving to discover they’re the best fit I’ve ever owned.
Wow…and double WOW! I feel humbled by your expressive writing (must be a gift from your Brauer genes, certainly not Larson/Warner!). I look forward every Sunday to a new expression of how you navigate & integrate this strange, scintillating, real-life episode in your existence! (And I give thanks for current-Dave’s grounding presence in your life!)
"I became a psychic barnacle, orbiting the space of anyone or anything safe and solid."
Beyond the moving, honest and open expression of what you feel through all of this, this piece is full of simply incredible writing, Kimberly, including the quote above which made me smile. I love that term, psychic barnacle.