problem at all. Forever wouldn’t even be long enough with him.
“No lies.”
Oh.
“I don’t think that will work, Brando. My mother is—”
He stood but kept our hands linked. “Pack your things.”
“You’re being serious?”
“I don’t have much of a sense of humor.”
He did, for the most part. But even that couldn’t detract me from what he had presented.
“All right,” I said, my heart beating overtime. “But first, I have a gift.”
It was hard to read Brando’s thoughts as he took in Elliott’s room. At first, he kept my hand in his, not letting go. After the moments ticked, though, he started to explore on his own.
He needed time on his own to reconnect.
I watched him from the bed. My heart was of dual feelings—swelling with half sadness and another half a sense of comfort. We were bonded by the grief we shared, and by that night and our connection.
Brando pressed a button on Elliott’s stereo and the last song he had felt the beat to started to play. “Stand By Me.” Most people were dumfounded by my brother’s love of music; even though he couldn’t hear it, he could feel the beat of it. He’d close his eyes, put his hand to the speaker, and lose himself.
Brando went to turn it off, but I lifted my hand to stop him. “Leave it,” I whispered. “I listen to it sometimes. Just…just to feel close.”
He stood as still as calm water until he nodded, and I could see his eyes had glossed over. “It all looks the same.” His voice had roughened, almost to the point of straining.
“I couldn’t bear for them to change one thing. I asked that they keep it, just the way he had it.”
Standing on shaking legs, I went to Elliott’s closet and retrieved the wrapped package. I held it out for Brando.
“For you.” I pushed the package even closer when he made no move to take it. “Please. Take it.”
He seemed almost unsure, no doubt hesitant. Overwhelmed. Finally, he did.
He slid a slow-moving finger under the wrapper on three sides. The paper fell with a soft whoosh to the floor. When he saw the gift, a war seemed to break out—the heartbreak he felt versus the euphoria at the memories.
I had spent countless hours in Elliott’s room after he died. Violet had been right—you could tell so much from someone’s private room, from all of their things. I found myself learning more and more about my brother during those times. I could feel his presence there with me, as though he tried to communicate, but my heart never felt he was close enough.
I’d stare at all of the pictures he collected and listen to all of his music. Certain things he had placed around his room allowed me to connect the pieces to the memories.
Every memory I found with Brando in it, I compiled into a framed memory board for him to keep. He only had the one picture in his room.
Two fishing hooks that they had used when they went fishing at my father’s cabin I had placed next to the picture. Ray-Bans had been on their faces. Brando ran his finger over the area, traced the shape of the metal, like he could still remember the feel of the snare in his hand.
“We caught so many fish. We called those our lucky hooks.” He tapped the glass. His eyes jumped from one picture to another, one tangible memory to the next, only to go over the board more slowly the next time around.
I set my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.” I swallowed down the sadness. “I’m sorry that my mother didn’t give you these things. I’m sorry that she kept you away. Can you tell me…how did you and Elliott meet? Why can’t I remember you? Why did my mother stop you from coming around?”
His eyes were fixed on the gift in his hands. “We met at the playground,” he said quietly. “Elliott wasn’t playing. Some of the other kids were laughing at him. I wouldn’t allow it. He seemed bright, a good kid. I was determined to get him to stick with me. We were inseparable after that. Your mother taught me sign language. We were brothers.”
He stretched his shoulders as though the suit was suddenly too tight.
“Elliott told me all about your dancing and that it had taken you from home. You were a little kid filled with all of these adult obligations.” He hesitated for a moment, a light crossing his face for