Mike.

My brother, Mike, died four days before Christmas 2011. I got the call from our brother Rick, his voice hard to hear, his words not making sense.

Mike was always a happy boy, one who loved telling stories. Stories that drew you in to his exuberance of reliving the facts, even if somewhat exaggerated. You smiled not only at the tale unfolding, but the shine in his eyes.
Mike was a very intelligent boy. He was always the banker at Monopoly, his two older siblings never challenging him. He moved his token, always the race car, to the appropriate square without even counting them. He yelled out, "You owe me $90.00 for landing on Marvin Gardens," before we could add the dice. Nobody wanted to play chess with him and he'd beat mom at cribbage all the time.
He talked about scientific things that made you scrunch up your eyebrows and shake your head, but he kept talking because it was super exciting to him. But if you asked him if he wanted to go play kick ball or go sledding he'd say, "Sure!" and he'd be a regular kid again.
Mike was gentle, didn't fight, didn't swear, just shrugged off things that weren't right. I wasn't so good at that. There was this kid at the bus stop, isn't there always a moron at the bus stop that looks for the quiet kid? Anyway, this guys name was Beaver. And he was mean. He scared me, but when he pushed Mike around it pushed my buttons. I always wore these big clunky "waffle stompers" and that day that Beaver had gone too far with my brother, Beaver had fallen to the ground grabbing his shins and covering his stomach. I got a red slip from the bus driver so Mom gave me and Mike a ride to school and she never scolded me once.
Mike and I were very close. Literally. Seven months apart. I was adopted and while the adoption was finalizing Mom got pregnant with Mike. They called us calico twins. We did everything together up to the sixth grade. That's when I started to think more like a preteen and Mike stayed just Mike. Then I went on to middle school and Mike had one more year of grade school.
In high school, hung out with my own friends as teenagers do. I grew impatient with Mike because he didn't do things like every one else. He wasn't bad or totally weird, just different. After school I left for college, came back home, met a guy, got married, had kids...One by one we left the nest to do our own thing. Except Mike. He stayed around, enjoying living with his parents. He never married. He liked being home.
And then, one day, he just left. Not just the house he was raised in, he left the town. He left the state. He left! We were obviously concerned, Mike hadn't ever done anything on his own like this. He was vulnerable, easily taken advantage of. But, he did it. He found work. He found a place to live. He found his way in the world. Then he came back home.
He was there while our mom was dying of cancer. This was very hard on Mike. I think he left town again after she passed away. Then he came back again. About ten years later, Dad had a stroke. Mike lived at home, helping to care for him. Dad's illness and eventually death, was painfully debilitating for Mike. Life was more challenging as he dealt with depression and anxiety. Our sister, Amber, and Rick looked after Mike, eventually helping him get his own place to live. Then, without telling anyone, he sold his trailer and moved. Again.
He called one day to check in and let us know everything was fine. And it appeared to be so. He was happy. He was living in Nevada. He was working on an invention. A top secret invention. As crazy as it may sound, it was good news. He was excited to be working on something. He was creative and focused. This went on for over a year. Life was good!
Then he bought a car and he and a friend moved to Arizona. He talked with Rick and told him about all this. He sounded good. Three days later, Mike called 911 from a gas station parking lot. He said he had a knife. He said he was going to hurt someone or kill himself if, IF, the police didn't get there fast. When asked why, he said he was tired of being schizophrenic. The police showed up. They claim he "charged" at them. Mike was shot three times.
He told them he suffered from a mental illness. He told them he only had a knife.
I sit. And I think. I ask, "How....?" I ask, "Why....?" I don't understand.