I said.
Alex exhaled. ‘Here we go.’
‘It was terrible,’ I said. When I was six or seven, our parents had taken us to the Black Bear campground in upstate New York. We’d gotten a late start, as our mother hadn’t been able to leave the hospital until afternoon. By the time we reached Big Bear, it was the dead of night, and the only campsite left was a fifteen-minute walk through the woods. Our father was angry but couldn’t say anything – after all, our mother was the only one with a paying job. This was a common strain, exacerbated by our mother’s drinking wine on the drive up, and our father smoking in the car, which we all hated. We were silent during the hike to the campsite, nursing our disgruntlements.
When we reached the site, my parents began to argue. I can’t remember what the fight was about, but it dragged on. Alex and I set up the tent and crawled inside with flashlights and books.
My father’s voice rose in volume. I pushed the nylon tent flap aside and peeked out. I saw my father shove my mother. She fell hard and cried for a while. My father stormed off in the direction of the car. A long time passed, and then my mother said, ‘Alex?’
‘Mom?’
‘I think my ankle’s broken.’
We crept out of the tent and found our mother, her face tear-streaked. ‘I’ll carry you, Mom,’ said Alex.
‘Sweetheart,’ she said, ‘just go get your dad. Little One will stay with me.’ I remember feeling nervous as Alex went down the path, but also happy that my mother had chosen me for company. I told her a long story about my new friend Julie and Julie’s pet snake, both to keep her mind off her ankle and because I had a captive audience. She stroked my hair. Leaves whispered in the trees above us, and the air smelled fresh and damp, like moss.
My mother must have been in terrible pain, but she said, ‘Do you want a snake?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I want a turtle.’
‘A turtle! Really? I’ll have to remember that on your next birthday, Little One.’ She looked at me with such love that I felt like a pet myself. Maybe what I wanted, I remember thinking, was not to have a pet but to be a pet. Alex returned with our father, who carried our mother to the car. All the anger was gone, and he waited on her for weeks while she healed.
‘It was terrible,’ Alex agreed now.
‘I know he didn’t mean to break her ankle,’ I said. Alex took a sip of his whiskey, watching the ground. ‘I know,’ I went on. ‘There’s a big difference between pushing someone and . . .’
He raised his chin to meet my gaze.
‘What does he say?’ I asked. ‘In the letters, what does he say?’
‘Why don’t you read one,’ said Alex. He drank again. ‘He says he loves us.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘What? The prison?’
I nodded.
‘All of a sudden you want to talk about this?’ asked Alex. I had refused to discuss my father for years. As Alex investigated every avenue, trying to find a way to prove our father’s innocence, I grew more and more resistant to discussion. The past was over. I wanted to hope for something better and felt only anxiety at the prospect of sifting through old memories. I loved my father. I hated my father. I was scared of my father and what he had done.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘It’s really cold. He’s in solitary, he’s got lots of books. A mattress, a toilet . . . you can imagine what a cell looks like.’ We were quiet, and then Alex said, ‘Can I talk about him? There’s more.’ His voice was drowned out by the sound of my blood pumping in my ears. I gasped for air. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’ said Alex.
‘I can’t breathe,’ I managed.
‘It’s another panic attack,’ said Alex. ‘Put your head down.’ He touched my hair with his fingers. ‘It’s okay,’ he said.
‘I really don’t feel well,’ I said. ‘Maybe there is something wrong, Alex!’
‘Shhhh,’ said Alex.
‘Okay,’ I said. When I rested my head on my knees, I could breathe more easily.
‘I met someone,’ said Alex after a few minutes. ‘Her name is Suzy.’
‘Hey, that’s great,’ I said. Alex was right: if I focused on something other than my body, the terror receded and my heart stopped its wild thudding.
‘We’ve been together a few weeks,’ said Alex. ‘But last night she told me it was over. The whole Iraq thing – she’s just not up for it.’
‘Alex . . .’
‘What if I never find her?’ said Alex. ‘Listen to me: Mr. Melodramatic. But really, what if I don’t? I’m tired of watching Without a Trace by myself.’
‘That is pathetic.’
‘On Halloween,’ said Alex, ‘I was biking through Hyde Park, and there were all these parents pushing strollers. All these kids in costume, monkeys and bumblebees. And the light was so nice. Dusk, whatever you call it.’
‘Hey.’ I took his hand. ‘You’ll find her. You will.’ I tried to figure out how to ask my brother why he was going to Iraq. A suicide mission? Some misplaced sense that he should sacrifice himself? I said, ‘Alex . . .’
‘I want my life to mean something,’ said Alex. ‘That’s why. I didn’t ask for Iraq, but I did ask Doctors Without Borders for something to . . . to do with myself. I don’t know how to explain it.’
‘No, I mean . . . that does make sense, I guess.’
‘I know you don’t feel the same way,’ said Alex. ‘Maybe nobody does. Suzy, she . . . she didn’t understand why I can’t stop thinking about . . . what the point is. Why I’m here. And normal people, I guess, they don’t think this way. But I don’t want to stop being myself. I’m proud of wanting to do something amazing, something important with my life.’
‘So what I’m doing—’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. And while we’re on the subject—’
‘What?’ I said sharply.
‘Don’t you love Gerry?’ asked Alex.
‘We’re not talking about me,’ I said.
‘Maybe we should,’ said Alex.
‘No, thanks,’ I said.
We sat quietly then, which was something I never did with Gerry, feeling that we should be communicating at all times lest we become one of those couples who never speak. Frankly, it was a pleasure to be with my brother. I didn’t have to worry about him falling out of love with me or loving me so much it could lead to misery. Alex was the only person who understood exactly how I felt, what it was like to grow up without parents.
We never even got our own room at Mort and Merilee’s – the guest room (furnished with mahogany furniture and tasseled curtains) was where we’d sleep whenever we came back to Houston on school vacations. Alex and I never had a place that belonged to us, not after Ocean Avenue.
‘Lauren,’ said Alex. ‘I just want you to know some things.’
‘Look at these stars,’ I said.
‘The night of the murder—’
‘What a night sky,’ I said.
‘It’s different this time. Lauren, if you look in the files—’
‘Oh my God!’ I cried, standing up. For years, my brother had been looking through the case files, trying to solve a mystery