Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,11

in the awkwardness that invariably stretched between us.

We might have had the same parents and been raised under the same roof, but Mark and I shared no similar experiences until now.

Now, we shared our grief.

I pulled my knees to my chin. “He’d love you to have those, don’t you think?” I forced a bright tone into my voice as I looked away from the jackets, trying hard not to focus on the fact dad would never wear them again.

When I glanced back at my brother, I realized the hint of gray that had once peeked only from Mark’s sideburns now covered his entire head, mixing generously with his short, dark brown waves.

I’d never mastered the air of confidence my brother seemed to effortlessly exude. I’d envied him for that as long as I could remember, but today he looked defeated, broken.

His profile hadn’t changed, but the heartache plastered across his face mirrored my own.

He reached for a navy blue jacket, letting his hand linger against the lapel.

“Did you know that was his favorite?” My overly-cheery tone bordered on used-car salesman slick.

Why was I so determined to foist one of our father’s jackets on my brother? Did I need to prove Mark needed Dad as much as I had? That he felt as awash in loss as I did?

Yes.

Mark pulled the hanger off the rack and held the jacket in front of him, his arms outstretched as if the sleeves might strangle him at any moment.

“Surreal.” He uttered the word flatly and looked at me.

I met his sad gaze and forced a tight smile. “Surreal.” My heart gave a squeeze.

Mark’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “He wasn’t even sick.”

I shook my head. “Not sick.”

He hung the hanger back on the rack and crossed the room in a few, quick strides.

I scrambled to my feet. “Where are you going? Aren’t you going to pick something?”

“Not now.”

Mark didn’t stop to look back. Didn’t stop to say goodbye. He rounded the upstairs railing and took the steps two at a time on his way down.

“I’ll call you later, Mom,” he hollered a split second before the front door slammed.

I sank back onto the worn carpet of my parent’s bedroom, staring at my father’s jackets. Alone. Unwanted. Soon-to-be forgotten.

“Come get something to eat,” mom called out from downstairs.

I crawled across the floor until I could reach the closet door and push it shut. Sometimes it was easier not to see the realities you weren’t quite prepared to face.

After I inhaled cheese, crackers and a fistful of grapes, I contemplated the small piles of paperwork mom had organized on her kitchen table.

The funeral home had dropped off ten copies of my father’s death certificate and all that remained now was the task of wiping Dad’s life out of existence--at least that’s how it felt to me.

There were insurance papers to be filed, retirement accounts to be notified, banks to be called. As I scribbled each item onto a yellow tablet, I began to think the list would never end, but finally it did.

“Why won’t Mark pick a jacket?” I asked.

Mom frowned, apparently displeased with the shift in topic. “Everyone grieves differently, Bernie.”

I shook my head, unwilling to let her dismiss my question that quickly. She countered before I had a chance to deliver my follow up.

“He calls every night to see how I am.”

Hurray for Mark. Through some deep-seeded logic I’m sure went back to my childhood, I took this statement as criticism of the fact I, on the other hand, had not called my mother every night.

I dropped my focus to the yellow tablet, my eyes seeing none of the words, my brain concentrating on the fact I should have called her every night. She’d just lost her soul mate, for crying out loud. Why hadn’t I called her every night?

“How’s Ryan?”she asked.

Boy, the woman sure knew how to push the buttons, didn’t she?

My feelings of inadequacy morphed into feelings of abandonment.

How was Ryan? Deceitful. Despicable. Worthy of cold-blooded revenge.

I didn’t see the need to fill her in on either Ryan’s departure or the recent change in my employment status. As far as she knew, I was still on bereavement leave.

The woman had enough on her plate.

“He’s fine, Mom. He sends his love.”

“He’s working hard?” Her voice climbed a few octaves, and I realized she wasn’t one hundred percent sold on my response.

I forced a bright smile. “Absolutely.”

“Everything all right?” Her dark brown eyes narrowed.

I’d seen the look a million times. The woman could see