At last, the house was empty, leaving only Mom, my sister Stacy and myself and a great emptiness where, I hoped, my father's spirit lingered.
He was only fifty-eight. He didn't smoke, rarely took liquor, exercised regularly with tennis and swimming. But he went into cardiac arrest a week ago on the commuter train from Boston, the victim of a defective heart valve no one knew about.
Most of his genes favored me, and I heard it all day at the funeral from long lost (or in the case of a couple, discarded) relatives: "You look just like Warren." "You have your mother's eyes, but everything else looks like your Dad." "Just cut your hair a little closer, no one could tell the difference."
It was true. Dad and I had the same wavy brown hair, square jaw, broad shoulders (I swim and play tennis, too), and stood at 5'10". They were right about the eyes; Dad's were a deep, stark blue, like little sapphire chips. But it was my mother's soft, mossy green that blinked away the tears in the mirror. The sight was suddenly painful, and I turned away.
"Could you do some of the picking up, dear?" my mother asked. Her eyes, red and wet, glistened with grief. "It's been an exhausting day."
"Of course, Mom." Though her body was drained with grief, she was still a striking woman, ten years younger than Dad, with high sculpted cheekbones, long, elegant neck, sharply defined features and smooth white skin; contrasted with her black pearls and simple black funeral dress, she evoked a graceful bird, perhaps an egret. Today, an egret with its wing down.
I doffed my suit at last, and spent the next hour and a half washing and drying dishes, straightening up the living room, even cleaning the bathroom. I did not run the vacuum cleaner, due to the late hour, but didn't think a shower would make too much noise. Donning my dark blue terrycloth bathrobe, I made my upstairs to the guest room, and saw light streaming under the door to Stacy's room.
I had forgotten all about her; I hadn't seen her in at least three hours. Dad's death hit Stacy the hardest, but that would make sense because not only was she the youngest, she still lived at home.
I noticed the sobbing then, the gasps for breath, then the tears, as if she had just heard the news. I lingered, not knowing what to do. Finally, I gently opened the door and stepped in, startling her.
"Oh! Oh. Charles. It's you. I'm sorry."
Stacy sat up, pulled another tissue from the dispenser on her night table, blew her nose, and tried to fake a smile. She wore a bathrobe over a white satin nightdress. She pulled the soft garment closed, covering the outline of her firm, slightly conical breasts, as if cleavage would somehow be on my mind at that moment. Her light brown hair, soft, short and fine, danced around her red and vulnerable face. Again, Mom's eyes took me in, but Stacy got a little more from Dad than I got from Mom.
Stacy patted the spot next to her on the bed. I sat next to her, my hands in my lap, still not knowing what to do.
"It's hitting you harder than I thought it would," I said.
"I'm sorry," Stacy replied. "You have no idea what we meant to each other."
"No one could see this coming, Stacy."
"I know, but …" She plucked another tissue and started crying again. I gathered her in my arms and let her tears flow onto my shoulder.
"Who will love me now?" she asked. "Who can I tell everything to?"
"I love you. I'm here, Stacy. I'm here," I said, and kissed some of her tears away.
Stacy crushed my body to hers, and I caressed her hair as the storm passed. She drew away and looked into my eyes, into my face, searching for something, I didn't know what. I had only the most urgent desire to comfort my sad, vulnerable sister and see her smile once more.
A slim white hand now lay against my cheek, and began caressing it. Stacy's expression changed. Her face grew a little stern, as if she were making a decision.
"You look so like him, Charles," she said tenderly, bringing up her other hand and laying it on my neck. "Do you love me?"
"You know I do."
