The Night I Didn't Call 911

Synopsis

If you were nine, and the power went out, your six-year-old brother was burning up, and your mom didn't answer her phone, would you call 911 first, or would you check the instructions on the medicine bottle? I didn't call 911 right away. It wasn't because I wasn't worried about my brother, Ollie. I was afraid that when the ambulance came, someone would ask, "Where are your parents?" That night, I clutched the children's fever medicine, staring at the crowded text on the bottle. I could only make out "6 years old" and "do not". I poured Ollie half a spoonful because it seemed like the safer dosage. My mom, Rachel, always said she was just thirty. When she said that, she was usually standing in front of the bathroom mirror, biting down on a lipstick, her hair half-curled, and the zipper of her black dress wouldn't go up. Ollie would sit by the door, hug his blue backpack, and ask if she'd be back tonight. Mom didn't hear him. She only smiled at the mirror, as if the person reflected wasn't the mother of two kids, but a girl getting ready for a party. She said, "Carter, take care of your brother. You're nine now." That year, I really thought nine-year-olds were supposed to know how to do a lot of things, like heating up pizza, reading the labels on medicine bottles, and comforting Ollie when he had nightmares. And when my mom came home late at night, leaning against the wall and throwing up, I'd put a glass of water by her bed. I never told her I was afraid of the dark too because if I admitted it, Ollie would have no idea what to do.