Eyes Wide Shut

I used to believe that forgetting about something was as simple as not thinking about it. I didn’t only believe it, I lived by it. And for the longest time I had myself fooled, but it wouldn’t last forever. It couldn’t.

My parents tried to blame it on Samuel, because it was simply easier to blame everything on him, but he was not the core to their logic. For once, it was not Samuel’s fault and everyone knew so, except for Samuel himself.

California was completely against my Father’s ethics. That’s just how it has always been for us. He use to tell us that California ruined everything, but he was wrong. I like to believe that California had once tested him and he failed miserably. I could only figure that my parents’ marriage was at the end of its long, drawn out demise for him to insist on going back to such a place.

Samuel quickly took it upon himself to make a scene. Something inside him could not leave Portugal peacefully. He didn’t want the tabloids to scream “Samuel Kendrick”; he needed it. He could not leave whatever shred of respect the world had left for our family alone. And when he went down, so did I. Again.

“I don’t understand why you have to encourage his behavior, Blair!” My father David shouted as he ran his hands across his ageless face, furrowing his blonde eyebrows together. “You are not his keeper! I don’t understand why you keep getting involved in his bad decisions!”

He made it sound so simple, as if Samuel was a stranger or a bad boyfriend. What he refused to admit was that Samuel was their scapegoat and I his unconditional keeper. They always told me that it wasn’t my job; that he wasn’t my job. They’d never tell you so but he was actually their job, he had always been their job. Somehow they had long stopped being his parents, quick to become his accusers.

Samuel wasn’t perfect. He made a grand spectacle of himself more than any person really ever should, but what was he suppose to do? They didn’t raise him right. They didn’t raise me right either, Samuel did. Really, he had been raising me since I was seven and I didn’t know so until I turned twelve. So when my Father asked me why I was constantly tangling myself into his problems? When he asked why I never minded my own business? So when my Father questioned why I couldn’t just let Samuel drown, the answer was simple.

“He’s my brother.”

“Yes, but you’re a Kendrick. Things aren’t nearly as simple as you make them out to be.”

Everything about being a Kendrick had been overcomplicated. No one really knew where it had started, but on most days it was just easier to split the blame between the media and Samuel. It’s a terrible concept, but it’s true. And it works, on the outside.

“Blair, you know I hate having these talks with you.” He sighed, so obviously defeated. “Just stay out of trouble. The last thing we need is even more attention, especially with all the extra press nipping at us as production wraps in Portugal. We’ve got three whole weeks before another premiere. Everything will be fine.”

He ran a tired hand over his perfectly structured face and as I watched him I saw a flicker of David Kendrick in the weak smile that he gave me. His blue eyes were tired and if rings were to ever form around his eyes this would’ve been the moment, but structurally Kendrick’s were flawless and David Kendrick took the cake.

“Blair, I’m-”

“It’s okay. Just get some sleep.” I kept my eyes on the worn copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” that was in my hands.

“No point. We’ll be touching down in 45 minutes.” He shrugged and glanced at Samuel who was sprawled out on the leather couch in the corner.

“Wake up your Brother. And tell him to put some clothes on.”

I could see the disappointment that frequently became evident in my Father’s disposition when he was dealing with Samuel. He disappeared into the bathroom and I listened as the hiss of the shower went on. I ran my fingers through my hair and dropped my book on the round marble table that was in front of me.

“Samuel!”

He moaned and turned his head away from me. The sheet that was on him slipped off and all he had on was boxer briefs. He was beginning to hate clothing itself more and more, but all of that could easily be explained by the way that Calvin Klein had begun to pursue him for modeling and the harsh way in which my father had said no. Actually, he had said more than no, but that’s an issue in itself and this was just Samuel being himself.

“Get up.” I shook a bottle of Advil and held a bottle of water in my other hand.

“Shhh!” He put a finger to his lips. “Stop talking.” He rubbed his eyes and squinted up at me.

“Your head hurt?” I took out two small pills and uncapped the water.

I don’t know why I asked when I so obviously knew the answer. On any given morning you could assume that his head hurt. You could assume that he was suffering from a hangover.

“Yeah.” He nodded and slouched as he sat up, rubbing his stomach.

“How was your night?” I handed him the water and the pills.

“It was alright. Why? Dad’s pissed?”

He knew the answer, but he still asked. It was such a Samuel question. It was obvious he got some sort of self satisfaction out of the whole thing, but it wasn’t like I could blame him. It made things easier for him. It was just easy for him to exploit his body to get what he wanted.

“No. He’s just stressed.” I shrugged.

“Right.” He didn’t believe me. Honestly? I didn’t even believe me. “Hey. Where’s my clothes?” He was sort of satisfied with himself and the smirk smeared across his face was a tell tale sign that he didn’t care at all.

“Before or after I bailed you out at three in the morning?”

“Really?” He laughed, running a hand through his bed head.

“It’s not funny Samuel! I had to go to the grimiest places in Portugal! And do you know how hard it is to bail someone out of jail when I don’t even speak Portuguese? I’m a minor! I’m not even aloud to post bail for you!” I watched as he guzzled down the bottle of water and shoved him.

“So how’d you do it?” He cocked an eyebrow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, obviously amused.

“A shameful amount of flirting, two grand, and an old picture of Mom. And then I go to see you and you’re like this!” I motion towards him. “What the hell did you do with yourself last night? Do you know how hard it is to get into an airport in boxer briefs? Put some clothes on, Marky Mark.”

“I love you.” He muffled laughter as best he could, but his snorting wasn’t helping.

“Yeah? Well, you should! He asked me to see my boobs, Samuel! My boobs!” I pointed at my chest.

“What did you do?” He smiled as if it were all some daytime soap opera. He laughed as if I was making it up and I knew that it was funny, but I wasn’t in the mood to laugh just yet.

“Of course you have to get caught up in the most perverted police station in Portugal. Do you honestly believe I flashed him?” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Obviously not, but I still want to know what the hell you did.”

“You remember the signed picture of mom that she gave me so I wouldn’t be sad when she went away?” Giving away the picture hurt more than it should have. I didn’t really believe I still cared for it.

“Oh. That sucks. Well you know I’d do it for you.” He folded his hands behind his head and his face dropped, only for a second.

“Yeah. I know, but you’d rather run around naked anyway.” I smiled forgivingly.

“That’s true, but still- I’m sorry.” He began to fish around for clothes.

“It’s okay.”

He always was sorry, but he never did change his ways. I knew that, but it didn’t make him sound any less sincere to me. The real Samuel had been lost in the battle, this much was obvious. I began to accept what he had become, even if he was my own personal Holden Caulfield.

You see, even Holden Caulfield was saved, but no one ever wonders what happened to Phoebe.