Your weekly Karmic sibling blowout

You know when you do something really stupid and potentially dangerous, your parents tell you that they were "so scared" something awful had happened to you, and they're really angry at you, not because you did something stupid and potentially dangerous, but because they were so scared?

They're telling the truth, y'all.

Back in October, I was late on a project for English. I thought it might be a good idea to, instead of showing up at school that day, spend my time in the college library across the street finishing my project. I thought, "lots of parents know their teenagers skip school. If the school does call, which I doubt it will, they'll get mad at me for skipping and that will be the end of it."

Laughable. They called the cops. I thought I was going to die of embarassment, and I didn't believe them when they said they had just been worried about me.

So I now know that karma does exist, and it is out to get all of us who have done bad, bad things to other people like make them worry themselves into an anyeurism.

Yesterday afternoon, after I got home from school, I sat down in front of the computer to wait for my brother to get home and clean the kitchen. Both my parents were flying back into town that day, so I had to make sure he not only got his chores done, but got into his baseball uniform and got to his game on time.

I was waiting, and waiting, and waiting some more, when I got a call from my dad, who was at the airport. He asked me if my brother had come in from school yet. It was now 4:00, and he usually gets home from school at 3:30. I had to tell my dad no, he hasn't come in, and I was just about to call the junior high to see if he got on the bus. Dad told me to check across the street with his friend, who rides the same bus. I did. Bob was, in fact, on the bus, although he got off at a different stop.

Great. At this point, I was a little annoyed, because those chores really needed to get done before Bob's baseball game. I got in the car and drove to all the kids' houses that I knew Bob hung out at. Nobody had seen him, knew where he was, or knew where he was going.

Then mom called. I had to tell her that Bob had pulled a vanishing act. Now it's somewhere around 4:30, and mom is a little worried. "Bob hasn't done something like this in a year," she said. "This isn't like him anymore."

"Oh, don't worry," I said. "He's probably going to show up fifteen minutes before his game so he won't have to do his chores."

And so it went, for another half an hour; mom and dad would call and ask if I had found him, I would say no, we would discuss for a few minutes what a little brat he was being, and then I would go back to staring out the window and waiting for him to come in.

5:30. His game was in half an hour. He wasn't home yet.

Dad told me to start calling all of his friends whose numbers I could find. He was very, very angry at this point. Mom was very, very worried, and I was starting to think maybe - maybe - he wasn't ditching chores at all. Maybe something had happened. I got ahold of a couple friends, neither of which knew where he was, and left messages on the answering machines of three more.

6:00. My brother has never missed a baseball game in his life for any other reason than injury or illness. I was now bordering on panic mode. Something happened to him, I was sure of it, because if there's one thing this boy cares about, it's baseball. He might not care about most other things (including school), but man, he cares about baseball. I called gramma, the old neighbors, the new neighbors, and told mom that if he didn't get home by 7:00, I was calling the police. Dad was already in the air somewhere over Pennsylvania from New York, so I couldn't reach him anymore. I was pacing, going down the list of people I had called, calling other people, worrying his poor friends, sending my gramma almost into histrionics, and pacing some more.

At 6:30, in the middle of a phone call with my best friend's mom (who incidentally used to skip school and pull disappearing acts all the time), I got a call on the other line. I answer; "Hello?"

"Hey Emma." Bob sounded completely unconcerned. Completely fine. Completely casual.

He was completely dead.

Over ten phone calls and many relieved persons later, Bob walked through the door, wide-eyed and innocent, rolling his eyes at the prospect that I was worried completely sick about him. He was, true to form, upset that he had missed his baseball game (which he thought was at 7:00, not 6:00, which would be why he called me at 6:30. Of course). He had to make the extremely unpleasant phone call to mom, and leave an equally unpleasant message with dad. He had to go with mom to rehersal, apologize to the director, the cast and the crew for my mother's lateness, and sit in the second row of the theater without talking to anyone for the duration of rehersal.

I'm sure that some part of my brain, tucked away in the very back between "humor" and "irony," was laughing itself sick at how worked up I was getting over my idiot brother. But even if I can make light of it now... the feeling of vague, undefined fear, creeping up my spine every time someone hinted that things might not be all right? The clench of my stomach, the almost nauseous sensation whenever another of his friends would tell me they had no idea where he was? The way I clutched my phone, trembling, clawing for the caller ID every time it rang?

That was real. That was honest. That's not made up.

That's not a guilt trip.

I don't think there could possibly have been a better way to make sure I would never disappear without calling someone again.

And, well, I guess that karmic wheel is good for something.