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The room was gorgeously decorated in a timeless style. Not a thing was trendy or cheaply made. Every item reflected his mothers impeccable taste and boundless bank account.
The only thing missing from the room was life. No child had ever been allowed to sit on those perfect sofas, no drink had ever been spilled on that Aubusson carpet.
Dean glanced toward the stairway. “How is he?”
Lotties green eyes filled with sadness. “Not so good, Im sorry to say. The trip up here was hard on him. The hospice nurse was here today. She says that the new medication--something called a pain cocktail--will help him feel better. ”
Pain.
That was something Dean hadnt thought about, although he should have. “Jesus,” he said softly, running a hand through his hair. Hed thought he was ready. Hed been mentally preparing himself, and yet now that he was here, he saw what an idiot hed been. You couldnt prepare to watch your brother die. “Did Eric call our parents?”
“He did. Theyre in Greece. Athens. ”
“I know. Did he speak to Mother?”
Lottie glanced down at her hands; he braced himself. “Your mothers assistant spoke to him. It seems your mother was shopping when he called. ”
Deans voice was purposely soft. He was afraid that if he raised it, even a bit, hed be yelling. “Did Eric tell her about the cancer?”
"Of course. He wanted to tell your mother himself, but . . . he decided hed better just leave a message.
“And has she returned his call?”
"No.
Dean released his breath in a tired sigh.
Lottie moved toward him. “I remember how you boys used to be. Youd walk through fire for one another. ”
“Yeah. Im here for him now. ”
“Go on up. ” She smiled gently. “Hes a bit the worse
for wear, but hes still our boy. ”
Dean nodded stiffly, resettled the garment bag over his shoulder, and headed upstairs. The oak steps creaked beneath his feet. His hand slid up the oak banister; polished to sleek perfection by the comings and goings of three generations.
At the top of the stairs, the landing forked into two separate hallways. On the right was his parents" old wing; his-and-hers bedrooms that hadnt been occupied in more than fourteen years.
To the left were two doors, one closed, one partially open. The closed door led to Deans old room. He didnt need to enter the room to picture it clearly: blue wool carpeting, maple bed with a plaid flannel bedspread, a dusty poster of Farrah Fawcett in her famous red bathing suit. Hed dreamed a million dreams in that room, imagined his unfolding life in a thousand ways . . . and none had presaged a moment like this.
Tired suddenly, he rounded the corner; passed his old bedroom, and came to Erics door.
There he paused and drew in a deep breath, as if more air in his lungs would somehow make things better.
Then he walked into his brothers room.
The first thing he noticed was the hospital bed. It had replaced the bunk bed that once had hugged the wall. The new bed--big and metal-railed and tilted up like a lounging chair dominated the small room. Lottie had positioned it to look out the window.
Eric was asleep.
Dean seemed to see everything at once--the way Erics black hair had thinned to show patches of Skin . . . the yellowed pallor of his sunken cheeks . . . the smudged black circles beneath his eyes . . . the veiny thinness of the arm that lay atop the stark white sheets. His lips were pale and slack, a colorless imitation of the mouth that had once smiled almost continually. Only the palest shadow of his brother lay here . . .
Dean grabbed the bed rail for support; the metal rattled beneath his grasp.
Erics eyes slowly opened.
And there he was. The boy hed known and loved. “Eric,” he said, wishing his voice werent so thick. He struggled to find a smile.
