3. Beth

I haven't moved from my chair. It's been twenty minutes since Mom passed. Maybe only two. Time stops when death makes a visit. I'm in shock, not only from losing her but also from hearing those final words. What did they mean? What was she trying to tell me, and why did she wait until the very end to say it? Why? My eyes flick between her and the swirl of colors on the television screen in the corner of the room. It's a rerun of Wheel of Fortune, the sound still muted. Three letters are displayed, and the phrase consists of two words. The category is Thing. Mom would have solved it already. She loved puzzles.

Your father. He didn't disappear. Don't trust...

Don't trust who or what?Or did she just mean "Don't trust" in general... like anyone? My eyes go back to her. She's staring at me or at least it seems that way. Her jaw is relaxed; mouth open as though she's about to say something. But I know she won't. Because she's gone. And I'm left with a body and a puzzle.

He didn't disappear.But he did, seven years ago, leaving behind a handwritten note addressed to my mother. They had been married thirty-seven years, and when he left, all he offered were five parting words: Laura, I'm sorry. Love, Brian.

His truck was caught on a gas station surveillance camera seven miles south of our home and once more at a tollway crossing the Illinois border, and then he was never seen again. He vanished into thin air, like a puddle of water evaporating on a hot day. None of us saw it coming. Well, except Mom. She said they'd been having problems and that Dad had struggled on and off with depression for many years. It was surprising to me because they never fought, and I didn't even know that Dad was unhappy. Mom told us she'd tried to get him help but he refused, telling her he was fine. The police investigated his disappearance for a short time. At first, they zeroed in on Mom, thinking she had something to do with it. It's always the spouse, at least, almost always. That theory fell to the wayside when his truck was found two weeks later, abandoned in the town of McAllen, Texas—eleven miles from the Mexico border. The authorities kept the investigation open after that, but no one was really looking for him.

"Where is he, Mom? Where's Dad?" I cry, wishing she'd wake up to answer me just one more time.

The front door creaks open, sucking the stale air out of the house. I quickly cover Mom with a blanket, wipe my eyes, and get to my feet.

"Hello," Michael calls out.

I haven't heard his voice in years, seven to be exact, but it sounds the same—deep, with an air of confidence. I turn to find him standing in the living room entryway, dressed in khakis and a gray tee. He almost looks the same too. His dark hair is cut short and speckled with gray now. His shoulders are broader, as though he's been hitting the gym regularly. His skin is tan because the sun shines a little longer and a little brighter in California. There's a thin scar a few inches in length running down his right cheek, one I don't recognize. It's new, and he probably did something stupid to get it. Although Michael is nearly thirty-six, a few years younger than me, and towers over me, I still see him as my annoying little brother.

"Hi, Beth," he says.

"Hi, Michael."

Neither of us say anything for a moment. We just stand there, worlds apart, glancing at one another. He's my family but he's also a stranger. A familiar stranger, what an odd thing to be.

"Is Mom...?" He swallows hard, unable to finish his question but I know what he's asking. He looks over my shoulder, trying to get a glimpse, but she's hidden under the covers and out of sight.

I nod. "Yeah."

He rubs his brow and sharply exhales. "How long?"

"Not long." My answer is vague because I've lost all sense of time.

Michael shakes his head and glances down at his loafers. "The damn plane sat on the tarmac for a half hour after we landed. I might have made it in time."

I'm not sure if he's looking for comfort, but I don't have any to give so I say nothing. Just like Dad, he chose to stay away.

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting mine. "Did she say anything before she passed?"

I chew on my bottom lip and consider telling him Mom's final words. But that message was for me, not him. And I'm not sure what it even means... at least not yet.

"No, she couldn't really speak," I say.

He folds in his lips and nods, squinting as though he doesn't believe me. I don't blame him. I'm not the best liar, and he's not the most trusting person.

"Where's Nicole?"

I shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Is she using again?"

"She never stopped."

He shakes his head. "Geez, so much wasted potential."

I'm sure he's talking about me too. We all had things going for us at one point, like locomotives on a set of tracks with no end in sight. But my train stopped, Nicole's train derailed, and Michael's... well, his went full steam ahead. And I can't help but resent him for it. I've felt indifferent toward him for years. It was easy to feel that way when he was gone, but now that he's here, I feel otherwise. There's a rage festering inside of me, and I'm sure it's been there all along—simmering, waiting to boil over.

"When was the last time you talked to her?" I ask.

He rubs his chin as though he's pondering his answer. "I sent her a text on her birthday."

"A whole text?"

Michael furrows his brow. He's not used to being called out. And maybe this isn't the right time for it, but I don't care. This whole house could collapse into itself and get swallowed up by the earth, and I don't think I would even scream.

"I deserve that," he says with a nod.

His response disappoints me. I wanted a fight, someone to blame, someone to be mad at. But little brother has outmatured me. I guess you can only grow so much when you're stuck in the same place—like a house plant that's never been repotted.

I shuffle my feet, glancing down at the scratched and worn hardwood floor. I should apologize, but I'm not sorry.

His gaze glides around me. "Can I see Mom?" he asks.

I move to the side and pull the covers from her face so Michael can get a glimpse. It's not Mom though. It's just a body. If it were Mom, she'd be smiling, but instead her jaw is slack. Her eyes would be bright and animated, but they're clouded and still. She doesn't look peaceful in death.

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. I'm the oldest. I'm supposed to be the strongest. "Do you want a moment?"

I see his eyes go to her but he has a blank expression. I wonder if he's trying to be strong too. Then again, he was never one to cry. None of us were. Dad raised us to be strong and stoic. I remember his words, If you can control your emotions, you can control anything. He made it seem like it was some sort of superpower. But really it was just a terrible coping mechanism—one that left us unprepared when he disappeared.

Michael's steps are slow and cautious as he walks toward me. I don't know what to do or how to act. When he reaches his hand out, I nearly flinch. He rests it on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. "I'm sorry I wasn't here, Beth."

I stare back at him, chewing on several sentences before I finally spit one out. "I'm sorry you weren't too," I say, stepping away from him. His hand slides from my shoulder, returning to his side. You know how they say there are some relationships you can slip in and out of, that even if a lot of time has gone by, you just pick up where you left off? This isn't one of them.

"I'll be in the kitchen. I'm gonna try to get ahold of Marissa to let her know what happened," I add.

Michael simply nods. He doesn't ask about my daughter, his only niece. Instead, he turns from me and takes a seat beside the bed. Leaning forward, he props his elbows on the mattress. Mom's small hand disappears in his as he lowers his head and buries his face into what's left of her. There are murmured whispers, but I can't make out what he's saying. It's like he's a child again, asking for forgiveness after he'd done something wrong—but Mom's gone, and she can't forgive him... She can't forgive any of us anymore.