Three Weeks With My Brother

"No," I admitted. "I'm just talking to hear my head rattle."

"Good," he said. "I've had more than enough philosophy for one day."

We walked a little farther.

"Do you miss Christine?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "The kids, too. How about you?"

I nodded. "I've been missing them since I left."

Cat and I married in Manchester, New Hampshire, Cathy's hometown. In the previous six months, she'd had to make the arrangements from across the country. She'd gone home only twice; my bride-to-be, I was beginning to understand, was quite efficient when she needed to be.

We were married on July 22, 1989, in the Catholic church she'd grown up attending, and as she was led to the aisle by her father, I couldn't look away. Her eyes were luminous beneath her veil, and her hands were shaking slightly when I took them in my own. I barely remember the ceremony. The only moment that stands out in my mind was when I slipped the ring on her finger. The reception was also a blur, and we were both exhausted by the time we arrived in Hawaii for our honeymoon. The honeymoon had been a gift from Billy and Pat Mills, who had come to love Cathy as much as I did. Lisa, who'd long since found someone new in her life, jokingly began referring to me as "the ex-boyfriend that never went away."

Because the ceremony and reception had been held on the other side of the country, only a few of my friends had been able to make it. My mom, however, decided to throw a party in Sacramento in our honor. She decorated the backyard, made a cake, set out beer and food, and everyone I knew from childhood stopped by to congratulate us. The party went on for hours, and in some ways was more fun than the original reception. I had returned from honeymooning in Maui, owned two rental properties with Micah, had finished my second--albeit unpublished--novel. I was excited about a new business I was starting, and was deeply in love with my new wife. It was, I still think, one of the best evenings, and summers, I'd ever spent.

If possible, my mom was even more excited than we were. In the course of the evening, she'd mentioned that she was thinking about quitting her job in the near future. Now that we were out of college--and with my dad earning more than he ever had--there was no reason for her to keep heading into the office every day. She'd worked long enough, she said, and she wanted to spend her time enjoying the family and riding horses with my dad.

"In fact," she said, her eyes shining with excitement, "we're going riding again next weekend."

On the following Friday night--only six weeks after we'd been married--Cathy and I went to a barbecue at my parents' house. We were the only kids there. Micah was in Cancun--he'd be arriving back home on Saturday--and Dana was in Los Angeles with her boyfriend. It was a quiet evening. We cooked and ate dinner; afterward, we settled in the living room to watch a movie. When the hour grew late, I mentioned that Cathy and I should head on home, and kissed my mom on the cheek as she sat in her chair.

"Maybe we'll drop by tomorrow night," I said.

"Okay," she said. "We'd love to have you. Drive safe, you two."

"'Bye, Mom," I waved.

By noon, my mom and dad were riding horses on the trails that run alongside the American River. Like most August days in the Sacramento Valley, the temperature hovered in the nineties and the dry air was still. Only a few clouds dotted the horizon, and my mom and dad shared a picnic lunch in one of the many shady areas that line the parkway. A little while later, they were riding again; because of the heat, however, the horses neither trotted nor galloped. Instead, my parents rode them at a slow walk, taking in the scenery between bits of conversation.

As the river rounded a bend, the trail narrowed and my father led Napoleon into the front, Chinook and my mom close behind. According to my dad, nothing extraordinary happened next; there were no sudden noises, no snakes, nothing to startle either horse at all. The gravel pathway was strewn with rocks, he noted; at times, there was a slight angle to it, but again, nothing that either horse should have had trouble navigating at all. Indeed, both horses--and thousands of other horses over the years--had passed over that same stretch of trail dozens of times.

Yet that day for whatever reason, Chinook stumbled.

I was in the kitchen of my apartment as the phone rang. When I answered, my father sounded breathless, on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Your mom's been in an accident . . ." he started. "She fell off the horse . . . They took her to UC Davis Medical Center . . ."

"Is she okay?"

"I don't know. I don't know." His voice was simultaneously panicked and robotic. "I had to bring the horses back. I haven't talked to the doctor . . . I've got to get down there . . ."

"I'm on my way."

Cathy and I drove to the hospital, terrified, and trying to convince ourselves that it wasn't serious. As soon as we rushed into the emergency room, we asked the nurse in charge what was going on.

After checking her notes and heading back to talk to someone, she rejoined us.

"Your mother's in surgery," she said. "They think she ruptured her spleen. And her arm might be broken."

I sighed with relief; I knew that though the injuries were serious, they weren't necessarily life-threatening. A moment later, Mike Marotte, an old friend from high school who was on the cross-country team with me, hurried through the door.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I was running on the trail when I saw a group of people and recognized your dad. I helped him get the horses back, and came straight to the hospital from there. What's happening with your mom?"

Mike, like all my friends, loved my mom and seemed as frightened as I was.

"I don't know," I said. "They said she ruptured her spleen, but no one's come out to talk to me. You were there though? Was it serious? How was she?"

"She wasn't conscious," he said. "That's all I know. The helicopter got there just a couple of minutes after I did."

The world seemed to be whirling in slow motion.

"Is there anything you need me to do? Can I call anyone?"

"Yeah," I said. I gave him the phone numbers of relatives on both my mom's and dad's sides. "Tell them what happened, and tell them to call everyone else."

He jotted down the numbers.

"And find Micah," I said. "He's supposed to be flying in from Cancun this afternoon. He's coming into San Francisco."

"What airline?"

"I don't know."

"What time is he coming in?"

"I don't know. Do what you can . . . And find Dana, too. She's in Los Angeles with Mike Lee."

Mike nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'll take care of it."

My dad arrived a few minutes later, pale and shaking. I told him what I knew, and he burst into tears. I held him as he cried, and a moment later he was mumbling, "I'm okay, now. I'm okay," trying to stop the tears.

We took a seat, and minutes passed without a word. Ten. Twenty. I tri

ed to look through a magazine, but couldn't concentrate on the words. Cathy sat beside me, her hand on my leg, then she moved closer to my father. He sat and rose and paced, then sat again. He rose and paced, then sat again.

By then, forty minutes had gone by, and no one knew what was going on.

Micah had just stepped off the plane when he heard his name being paged over the public-address system at San Francisco International Airport, requesting him to answer the courtesy phone.

"Please go directly to UC Davis Medical Center," the voice on the other end told him.

"What's going on?"

"That's all the message says."

Suddenly panicked, he jumped into a limousine--no cabs were available--to take him to a friend's house, where he'd left his car for the week.

He was two hours from Sacramento.

After an hour, a soft-spoken man wearing a suit came out to greet us.

"Mr. Sparks?"

We all rose, wondering if he was the doctor. He said that he wasn't.

"I work with the hospital as a counselor," he said. "I know this is hard, but please come with me."

We followed him into a small waiting room; we were the only family in the room. It seemed it had been set aside for us. It was oppressive; I felt my chest constrict, even before he said the words:

"Your wife has suffered a cerebral hemorrhage," he said to my father. His voice was gentle and ached with obvious sympathy.

Tears welled again in my father's eyes. "Is she going to be okay?" my dad whispered. His voice began growing softer; I could hear the plea contained within it. "Please . . . please . . . tell me she's going to be okay . . ."

"I'm so sorry," the man said, "but it doesn't look good."

The room began to spin; all I could do was stare at him.

"She's not going to die, is she?" I croaked out.

"I'm so sorry," he said again, and though he stayed with us, I don't remember him saying anything else. All I remember is suddenly reaching for Cathy and my dad. I drew them tight against me, crying as I'd never cried before.

Dana had gotten the call; she was boarding the next plane to Sacramento. I called a couple of relatives and told them what was happening; one by one, I heard them burst into tears and promise to be there as fast as they could.

Minutes crawled by, as if we were inhabiting a time warp. The three of us broke down and tried to recover again and again. An hour passed before we were able to see my mom. When we went into the room to see her, oxygen was being administered and she was receiving fluids; I could hear the heart machine beeping steadily.