Summer Island Page 10

Page 10

 

  Absurd, Mother had declared at first, but Eric had worked on her relentlessly, wearing her down. As a child, Eric had been every bit as formidable as their mother, and in the end, hed won. At the time, it had seemed a monumental victory; with age came wisdom, however. The truth was, Mother was so busy running Harcourt and Sons that she didnt care where her children were. Oh, occasionally she tried to do the “right” thing, as she called it-make them transfer to Choate-but in the end, she simply let them be.

  Dean closed his eyes, then opened them quickly, startled by the sound of laughter.

  But it was only an echo in his mind, an auditory memory. He hated what had brought him home at last, hated that it had taken a disease to bring him back to his brother. Even more, he hated the way he about Eric now; theyd grown so far apart. And all of it was Deans fault. He saw that, knew it, hated it, and couldnt seem to change it.

  It had happened on a seemingly ordinary Sunday. Dean had moved off of the island by then, gone to prep school; hed been a senior, nursing a heart so broken that sometimes hed forgotten to breathe. Eric had been at Princeton. They were still brothers then, separated only by miles, and theyd spoken on the phone every Sunday. One phone call had changed everything.

  “Ive fallen in love, . . . get ready a shock . . . ” name is Charlie and he . . . "

  Dean had never been able to remember more than that. Somehow, in that weird, disorienting moment, his mind had shut down. Hed felt suddenly betrayed, as if the brother hed known and loved was a stranger.

  Dean had said all the right things to Eric. Even in his shocked confusion, hed known what was expected of him, and hed complied. But theyd both heard the lie beneath the words. Dean didnt know how to be honest, what words he could mold into an acceptable truth. Hed felt-ridiculously-as if hed lost his brother that day.

  If theyd gotten together back then, talked it through, they might have been okay. But theyd been young men, both of them, poised at the start of their lives, each one faced in a different direction. It had been easy to drift apart. By the time Dean graduated from Stanford and went to work for the family business, too much time had passed to start again. Eric had moved to Seattle and begun teaching high-school English. Hed lived with Charlie for a long time; only a few years before, Dean had received a note from Eric about Charlies lost battle with AIDS.

  Dean had sent flowers and a nice little card. Hed meant to pick up the phone, but every time he reached for it, he wondered what in the world he could say.

  He turned away from the water and walked down the dock, then climbed the split-log stairs set into the sandy cliff. He was out of breath when he finally emerged on top of the bluff.

  The sprawling Victorian house was exactly as he remembered it-salmony pink siding, steeply pitched roof, elegant white cutwork trim. Clematis vines curled around the porch rails and hung in frothy loops from along the eaves. The lawn was still as flat and green as a patch of Christmas felt. Roses bloomed riotously, perfectly trimmed and fertilized from year to year.

  It was something his mother never forgot: home maintenance fees. Every house she owned was precisely cared for, but this one more than most. She knew, or imagined, which to her was the same as certainty--that Eric occasionally visited the summer house with that man. She didnt want to hear any complaints from them about the property.

  Dean headed toward the house, ducking beneath the outstretched branches of an old madrona tree. As he bent, a glint of silver caught his eye. He turned, realizing a moment too late what hed seen.

  The swing set, rusted now and forgotten. A whispery breeze tapped one of the red seats, made the chains jangle. The sight of it dragged out an unwelcome memory . . .

  Ruby. Shed been right there, leaning against the slanted metal support pole, with her arms crossed.

  It was the moment-the exact second-hed realized his best friend was a girl.

  Hed moved toward her.

  What? shed said, laughing. Am I drooling or something?

  All at once, hed realized that he loved her. Hed wanted to say the words to her, but it was the year his voice betrayed him. Hed been so afraid of sounding like a girl when he spoke, and so hed kissed her.

  It had been the first kiss for both of them, and to this day, when Dean kissed a woman, he longed for the smell of the sea.

  He spun away from the swing set and strode purposefully toward the house. At the front door, he paused, gathering courage and molding it into a smile. Then he knocked on the door.

  From inside came the pattering sound of footsteps.

  The door burst open and Lottie was there. His old nanny flung open her pudgy arms. “Dean!”

  He stepped over the threshold and walked into the arms that had held him in his youth. He breathed in her familiar scent-Ivory soap and lemons.

  He drew back, smiling. “Hey, Lottie. Its good to see you. ”

  She gave him “the look”-one thick gray eyebrow arched. “Im surprised you could still find your way here. ”

  Though he hadnt seen her in more than a decade, she had barely aged. Oh, her hair was grayer, but she still wore it drawn back into a cookie-size bun at the base of her skull. Her ruddy skin was still amazingly wrinkle-free, and her bright green eyes were those of a woman whod enjoyed her life.

  He realized suddenly how much hed missed her. Lottie had come into their family as a cook for the summer and gradually had become their full-time nanny. Shed never had any children of her own, and Eric and Dean had become her surrogate sons. Shed raised them for the ten years theyd lived on Lopez.

  “I wish I were here for an ordinary visit,” he said.

  She blinked up at him. “It seems like only yesterday I was wiping chocolate off his little-boy face. I cant believe it. Just cant believe it. ” She stepped back into the well-lit entryway, wringing her hands.

  Dean followed her into the living room, where a fire crackled in the huge hearth. The furniture he remembered from childhood still cluttered the big space. Cream-colored sofas on carved wooden legs faced each other. A large, oval-shaped rosewood coffee table stood between them, a beautiful Lalique bowl on its gleaming surface.

  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.

  “Dont bother; baby brother. Not for me. ”

  “Dont bother what?”

  “Pretending not to be shocked at the way I look. ” Eric reached for the small pink plastic cup on his bedside tray. His long, thin fingers trembled as he guided the straw to his mouth. He sipped slowly, swallowed. When he looked up at Dean, his rheumy eyes were filled with a terrible, harrowing honesty. “I didnt think youd come. ”

  “Of course I came. You should have told me . . . before. ”

  “Like when I told you I was gay? Believe me, I learned a long time ago that my family didnt handle bad news well. ”

  Dean fought to hold back tears, and then gave up,They were the kind of tears that hurt deep in your heart. He felt a stinging sense of shame.

  Remorse, regret, boredom, anticipation, ambition . . . these were the emotions that had taken Dean through life. Those, he knew how to handle, how to manipulate and compensate for. But this new emotion . . . this feeling in the pit of his stomach that hed been a bad person, that hed hurt his brother deeply and known it and never bothered to make it right . . .

  Eric smiled weakly. “Youre here now. Thats enough. ”

  “No. Youve been sick for a long time . . . by yourself. ”

  “It doesnt matter. ”

  Dean wanted to smooth the thin strands of hair from Erics damp forehead, to offer a comforting touch, but when he reached out, his hands were trembling, and he drew back.