My brother Nate always did the weirdest stuff.
The first time I recalled his unique perspective on life was at Gammy’s house in Florida. Every July, Mum would send us down to stay with our 86 ‘years young’ Gammy who would half-heartedly care for us while mum worked across the school break. Gammy’s house was packed with decades worth of hoarded junk and mould. The air was thick and humid from the salt-water river that kissed the edges of the Gammy’s backyard. As much as I now bask and adore this kind of nature, for a 14 year old girl with no phone signal, it was hell.
Each morning, right as the sun would rise on those hot, sticky summer days, Gammy's lawn would be dotted with dozens of turtles: snapping turtles, softshell turtles, loggerheads and leatherbacks, all basking in the morning rays. The miniature mob would stare into the house, opening and closing their mouths menacingly, barely moving.
That did not sit well with Nate. Not. one. bit!
Nate took their presence as a threat. An invasion. Problem was, and still is to this day, Nate is a bit of a wuss. Even when sporting his best make-shift armour - duct taped pillows and a colander helmet - the slightest sign of danger would psych him out.
Should a turtle turn its head, croak or just breathe too loud, that was too much for fair Nate and he’d come running back to the kitchen to glare out the window and plan his next attempt. One poor day his finger made contact with the mouth of a snapper. That reallyyyyy messed with him.
Nate became so fixated on his reptilian enemies, even Gammy had to weigh in.
“Now, now,” she started, wiggling her finger as Nate refused to tuck into his morning boiled eggs. “We don’t let things like this bother us. You can’t let anything, big or small, scare you Nate.”
The pep talks would usually give Nate the courage to march back out to try again…for five or so minutes, after which he’d of course run right back in crying.
“Oh, come on Nate. You know what I say - If they bark, you bite!” I watched from the table as moments later a light shone from young Nate’s eyes. He glared thankfully up at Gammy. Her wise words had struck a cord in his head and the cogs inside had began mustering up a brilliant plan.
This was not the face of enlightenment. It was the face of war.
I awoke the next morning to see the bed beside me where little Nate usually slumbered well into mid-morning was empty. His missions had be bumped to pre-dawn priority. I ran down to see what escapade the little soldier had planned but to my surprise he was in the kitchen, fixing some morning eggs all alone.
“Nate, what are you doing? What about the turtles?”
“I’ll get ‘em. Just a bite for breakfast,” he whispered. “Exactly as Gammy said to do.” He nodded, eerily staring down at the eggs, spiralling in the bubbles of the boiling water. Nate’s energy had gone from mindless foot soldier to eerie warlord. “I’ll show them,” he said, with no sense of how non threatening he appeared perched on his cooking stool, barely 4ft tall.
For days, Nate was up before any of us. Even when I set alarms to try and beat him, catch sight of what he was doing, he'd already be up and in the kitchen. The best I managed to see of his mysterious morning routine now was him returning from the battlefield, his eyes narrow. What had he seen out there? What was he doing? The fear that had once run through his entire body had been replaced by something more tranquil and stern. Whenever I asked him what was happening, he replied with the same monotone answer, “Just like Gammy said, biting back, biting back”.
It was a few weeks later that I came to understand what little Nate had meant by this, and how Gammy word’s might have been taken a little too seriously. One morning, long after I’d given up trying to track of Nate’s attack plans, I’d woken up particularly hungry. Half asleep, I plodded downstairs in search of something, anything, to eat. My stomach must have gurgled as even Nate made comment as he returned in from his morning assault.
“You’re hungry,” he stated.
“Starving, and Gammy is all out of milk for cereal," I yawned.
“Would you like some eggs?” Nate kindly asked, placing his stool preemptively before the stove. It had been a few weeks of his culinary independence so I figured I could safely make use of his offer.
“Sure,” I replied.
Having a brother was finally paying off. Or so I thought.
I headed upstairs for a morning shower, washing the night sweats off my salty skin and quickly returned down to check in with my chef. Gammy was in her summer nightie, smoking her ‘one-a-day’ cigarette out the lounge window as I came down.
“Ah, she’s up - HUHHH, HUHHH!” she heaved, coughing into my face and hugging me. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Nate has it sorted. He’s making me eggs.”
“Eggs? No dear, we’ve been out since Tuesday.”
“But...I saw him. He had three this morning.”
Gammy looked at me unsure, stubbing her cigarette out on the window and pacing to the pantry. “No, no, look--” she said, pulling out an empty egg carton, “all out honey bum.”
I stared in confusion, until the smoke from Gammy’s cigarette drew my gaze to the window and, to my horror, the realisation of what my brother had been doing all these mornings.
You see, turtles come to land for a variety of reasons but over the more recent weeks that summer Nate had discovered a good number of them had been using Gammy’s garden as a place to nest. The loose soil and proximity to the river made it perfect territory for them to climb up each morning, bury their babies and skuttle back to the water knowing the next generation were safe and sound.
Or so they thought.
Gammy and I ran to the kitchen where Nate hovered at eye level by the stove. He chuckled to himself, glaring at the flames beneath the red hot pan.
“Nate,” I gasped, “where did you get these eggs?”
Nate smiled back, looking up to gammy proudly, “I did just as you told me Gammy to those stupid turtle. Bite back.”
Gammy and I exchanged a horrified look, as Nate’s timer went off. In the pan, now brought to a perfect boil, were three fresh turtle eggs. In the horror of the moment, I felt a mix of emotions and concerns for my little brother in that moment; the signs had all been there, perhaps I could have stopped him. But no matter how much I tried, there was one emotion I couldn't hush away, “Fuck me, I’m hungry.”
Bon Appetit!