Three Weeks With My Brother

"Hey," my sister answered quietly. It was no longer her voice; her words sounded different now, like someone mumbling in her sleep.

Micah slipped his arm around her. "Do you understand what the doctor was saying?"

Dana looked at him, moving her head slowly. It seemed to be everything she could do to remember.

"No . . . more . . . meds?" she finally asked. The words were soft, almost too low to hear.

"Yeah, sweetie, that's right. No more medicine. You're done with all that."

My sister stared at him, trying to follow his words. Her expression saddened, half of her mouth forming a frown.

"So that's it?"

Micah's eyes immediately welled with tears. It was her way of asking Micah if she was really going to die.

"Yeah, sweetie, that's it," he whispered.

He pulled her close, kissed the top of her head, and Dana leaned into his chest.

And for the first time since she'd been diagnosed with the tumor, my little sister began to cry.

By late March, even without the chemo, my sister's sleep continued to lengthen, and on my visits I'd sit alone in the kitchen for long periods at a stretch, waiting for her to get up from her nap. In those hours, my mind would whirl with thousands of images; how she'd looked as a child, the things we'd done together, the long talks we used to have. We were running out of time and I wanted to wake her. I wanted to spend time with her, I wanted to talk to her, but I never disturbed her rest. Instead, I would go into her bedroom and lie on the bed beside her. I'd run my hand gently through her hair and whisper stories of our childhood or tell her about Landon, but my sister never stirred. Her breath was heavy and labored, like that of someone far older. In time, I would go back to the kitchen and look out the window, seeing nothing at all as I waited for her to wake, while the hours dragged on and on.

In the evenings, after dinner, we'd sit in the living room and I'd stare at Dana, concentrating on how she looked, wanting to remember her face forever. Time had dimmed the image of my mother; it was already dimming the image of my father, and I didn't want it to happen with my sister. I stared at her, noting the curve of her jaw, her gold-rimmed hazel eyes, the patch of freckles on her cheeks. I concentrated. I forced myself to see everything, to make it real forever.

Members of Bob's family would sometimes visit with me in the hours after dinner. One night toward the end of April, Bob's stepmother, Carolyn, and I were talking with Dana, when Dana finally announced she was going to bed. She'd grown steadily worse--for the most part, all she could do was mumble--but she'd smile that half-paralyzed smile of hers, and I was struck by the thought it might be the last normal conversation we'd ever have. As soon as she was behind closed doors, I broke down and cried in Carolyn's arms, sobbing uncontrollably for nearly twenty minutes.

In May, the horrible progression seemed to intensify. Dana could no longer hold a fork, so I'd feed her; a week later, she couldn't walk or talk at all. A week after that, she'd been hooked up to a catheter and could ingest only liquids; she'd have to be carried from her room.

During my last visit, in mid-May, my family came with me to say good-bye.

On our last day in town, I remember bringing Landon into her bedroom. Her eyes were the only feature that had remained immune to the ravages of the tumor, and they shone as I held the baby against her cheek. I held Dana's hand against the baby's skin; she seemed to revel in the sensation. When we were finally alone again, I knelt by the bed, taking my sister's hand in my own. I didn't want to leave her; in my heart, I knew this was the last time I'd ever speak to her.

"I love you," I finally whispered. "You're the best person I've ever known," I said, and my sister's eyes softened. With effort, she raised a finger, and pointed to me.

"You are," she mouthed.

Cody and Cole celebrated their sixth birthday the following day; my sister was carried outside and sat in a chair to watch them. That night, she slipped into a coma and never woke again. She died three days later.

Dana was thirty-three years old.

Dana was buried next to my parents, and the funeral was packed. Again, I saw the same faces in the crowd, faces that had witnessed my mom's and dad's burials. The funerals were the only time I'd seen some of these people in the last eleven years.

In the eulogy by the graveside, I told everyone how my sister and I used to sing to each other on our birthday. I told them that when I thought of my sister, I could still hear her laughter, sense her optimism, and feel her faith. I told them that my sister was the kindest person I've ever known, and that the world was a sadder place without her in it. And finally, I told them to remember my sister with a smile, like I did, for even though she was being buried near my parents, the best parts of her would always stay alive, deep within our hearts.

Micah had only been to three funerals in his life. When the service was over, we stood near the graveside, staring at the flowers covering the coffin.

Micah put his arm around me in silence. There was nothing left to say. Nor could we cry. At that moment, neither of us had any tears remaining.

I could feel the stares of others, I could sense their despair. We were too young to have lost them all, I imagined them thinking, and they were right.

It was lonely by the grave. I should have had the rest of my family to lean on in a moment like this, but they were the reason we were here. Standing beside Micah, it dawned on me that we were the only ones left in our family. It was just the two of us now.

Brothers.

CHAPTER 17

Tromso, Norway

February 13-14

We arrived in Tromso, Norway, a picturesque coastal town located three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, the following afternoon. Because of the latitude, the sky was already a darkening blue, but the temperature struck me as merely chilly, not cold. Though only a thousand miles from the North Pole, the coastal waters are warmed by the Gulf Stream, making the winters far milder than other Norwegian cities farther to the south.

Boarding the bus, we wound through the town. Tromso is set amid the mountains and a layer of snow coated the ground, making the city resemble a

Christmas card. The sky was completely black by the time we arrived at our hotel. My watch showed that it wasn't quite four o'clock.

Immediately after checking in, I went to the hotel computer to e-mail Cat. I'd been e-mailing her regularly. Because of the time differences, it was often easier to reach her that way, and I typed out a letter, filling her in on what I'd been up to. Then, despite the mountains and cloud cover that would probably limit the use of the phone I'd brought, I attempted to call her, and found her at home. In the past three weeks, I'd been on the phone with her less than a dozen times, and we seldom spoke more than a few minutes. Though Cat had known it would be hard for her while I was gone, I don't think either of us knew exactly how hard it was actually going to be. I could hear the exhaustion in her voice; she sounded completely spent.

When I got back to the room, Micah was lying in bed reading when he looked up at me.

"You were gone a long time."

"Oh," I said, "I just talked to Cat."

"How's she doing? Looking forward to having you home?"

"You can say that. It's been horrible while I've been gone."

"How so?"

"She's been sick and the kids have been sick. Pretty much since the moment I left."

"Really?"

"Between the five kids and her, she's had to deal with seven colds, five flus, and three sinus infections. At any given moment over the last three weeks, there were three sick kids, all of them whining and crying. And get this--despite all that, she took them all on a ski trip. And they had to drive seven hours to get there, too."

He winced. "Seven hours? In the car with sick kids?"

"Unbelievable."

"I can't even imagine it." He was silent for a moment. "I'll bet she wasn't in the best of moods, huh?"

"Actually, she seemed to be in pretty good spirits."

"Your wife is nuts. In a good way, of course. But she's definitely nuts. I hate it when the kids whine. It's like fingernails against a chalkboard." Micah shook his head before grinning. "Gee, it's just a shame that you were traveling the world and weren't around to help her out."

"Oh, definitely a shame."

"If only you'd known, right?"