Chapter 10: The Space Between Brothers
Jake called Carol Briggs that afternoon.
I know because Carol called me afterward to confirm.
"He was cooperative," she said.
"More than I expected.
He's agreed to the repayment terms and the dissolution of the company.
I'll have the documents drafted by end of week."
"And the power of attorney?"
"He's already signed the transfer.
Your father is the named agent again as of this morning."
I thanked her and stood in the backyard for a while after I hung up.
The rain had stopped.
The grass was wet and the air smelled like it had been cleaned.
Dad found me out there.
He came and stood beside me without saying anything for a moment.
We watched a robin work at the edge of the lawn, pulling something from the wet soil.
"Carol called me too," Dad said.
"To confirm the POA transfer."
"Good."
"Jake is packing some things.
He's going to stay with a friend for a while.
Give everyone some space."
I nodded.
"He asked me to tell you—" Dad stopped.
Started again.
"He said he knows he doesn't have the right to ask for anything.
But he hopes, eventually, that you'll be willing to talk."
I didn't respond to that right away.
"Your mother wants to come outside," Dad said.
"She hasn't been in the backyard in two months.
She asked if you'd sit with her."
"Of course."
Dad went inside.
A few minutes later he came back out with Mom, moving slowly, one hand on his arm.
She was wearing her old green cardigan, the one she'd had for as long as I could remember.
She looked at the yard like she was seeing it after a long time away.
"Oh," she said softly.
"The roses are still going."
Along the back fence, her rose bushes were holding their last blooms of the season.
Deep red, a little ragged from the rain, but still there.
She sat in the patio chair Dad set out for her.
I sat beside her.
For a while we just looked at the garden.
"I want to ask you something," she said.
"And I want you to be honest with me."
"Okay."
"Are you angry at me?
For not calling you.
For letting ten years go by."
I thought about that.
The real answer, not the easy one.
"I was," I said.
"For a long time.
I used to think about it — whether you chose him over me.
Whether the silence was a choice."
"It wasn't a choice," she said.
"It was fear.
I was afraid you'd say you didn't want to hear from me.
And then I'd know for certain.
The not-knowing felt safer."
"I know."
"That was cowardly of me."
"It was human," I said.
"I wasn't exactly reaching out either."
She looked at her hands in her lap.
"I have those letters.
The ones I wrote and never sent.
I'd like you to read them, if you're willing.
Not now.
When you're ready."
"I'm ready whenever you are."
She nodded.
Then she looked at me sideways, with something that was almost a smile.
"Your father tells me you're very good at what you do."
"He told you that?"
"He told me last year.
He'd looked you up online.
He didn't tell me he'd done it, but I found the browser history." She paused.
"He was proud of you.
He just didn't know how to say it."
I looked at Dad, who was pretending to examine the rose bushes with great concentration.
"Dad," I said.
He turned around.
His ears were red.
"She found the browser history," I said.
He cleared his throat.
"I was just — I was curious.
That's all."
"You watched four of my videos," Mom said.
"I counted."
Dad made a sound that wasn't quite a word and turned back to the roses.
Mom laughed.
It was a small laugh, careful, like she was testing whether it still worked.
But it was real.
May you like
I hadn't heard her laugh in ten years.
It sounded exactly the same.
