Most mornings when it’s still dark, I get out of bed and go to the living room to read for an hour or so in my old reading chair. Without looking, I turn on the lamp that’s off to my right side. Its yellow light is easy on my eyes — bright white light gives me a headache. At some point I’ll set the book in my lap and listen to the sounds of the house, like wood creaking in the attic, the central air quietly breathing, the water heater that we need to replace shuddering in the corner of the garage. After a minute or two, I’ll start reading again.
I woke up this morning as usual, without an alarm and feeling almost fully awake when I opened my eyes, like I hadn’t gone to sleep. I heard Daisy, our labrador, bump her nose against the patio door because she had to pee. But when I got to the door at the back of the house, she wasn’t there. She was moving around in the utility room or maybe the home office. I couldn’t really place her by ear.
I made a cup of instant coffee and went to the living room.
Within a few minutes, I heard Daisy pad into the room and ease herself onto the old rug just outside of the circle of light. I was aware of her curling up, but only dimly. She was like a blurry black ball on the edge of my field of vision, or a hole that had been punched in the room and was letting in darkness.
I was reading Bleak House. This morning I got to the spontaneous combustion of Mr. Krook and imagined the look on the old drunk’s face just before the fire in his body broke into the open. And then I saw my brother again in the back seat of the Buick I drove at college. His face was a crash site of shock, fear, and sadness. The moment he died, his eyes looked like he was on the verge of crying. It was 2 in the morning, and I’d lost track of him at the party. He’d been drinking a lot and gobbling drugs. I couldn’t make myself read the toxicology report that arrived by courier months later, so I don’t know what he took. The official cause of death was a coronary. His heart exploded.
Brian struggled with everything — school, making friends, not getting in trouble. He was three years older than me, but it was like I was the older brother. My anger at him for dying has deepened over the last 30 years, to the point I’m not aware of it anymore. It infests every memory I have of him.
I was still thinking about Brian when Daisy stirred a little and grunted, strangely and low. I looked over at her. She slowly stood up on her hind legs and stretched, her front legs reaching toward the ceiling. But they were hands I saw in the dim light, not paws. And it was black jeans and a black jacket, not the shiny coat I was so proud of. The clothes — what Brian was wearing that night.
The figure turned to face me. It was him.
Brian’s face was still that death mask of despair and panic, but only for a second or two. It melted into a tight, ironic smile.
He spoke to me in a quiet tone.
“You didn’t lose track of me. You pretended that I wasn’t there.”
