The anniversary of our father’s death hit hard for all his kids, but BJ—who was there when it happened—always took it the hardest. Because his emotions flip flopped over the years, I never knew what to expect until I heard his voice.
It was full of sadness.
“I gotta get back to work.”
“You didn’t go to work. I already called. And before you try to come up with another lie, I know you’re home…and your car’soutside…and the blinds in the living room are up. You can see right into your house.”
“Who’d you send over here?”
He started listing off our siblings one by one. I cackled.
“How you know I didn’t pull up myself?”
“You ain’t gonna come all the way home just to ride by. You would’ve stopped.”
He was right. He would’ve been my first stop.
A long bout of silence prompted me to ask again, “How’re you doing, BJ?” This time, with more concern. “Really?”
“I’m getting through it, Sage.”
Something in the atmosphere told me my brother needed me. I was supposed to be prepping for surgery but stepped to the side to place the call.
“What can I do?” I wanted to help in any way I could, even from hundreds of miles away.
“Stop talking about it. I don’t want to think about what this day represents. I need a distraction.”
“I’m about to remove some bladder stones,” I blurted out. “Wanna watch?”
“Sounds disgusting.”
“Wait until I pull the bladder out and you see how many stones come out.”
The door to my hideout opened. “Sage, we’re ready for you,” Sandera said.
“Here I come,” I replied. “Actually, can you do me a favor?”
Sandera nodded. “Of course.”
“Will you set my phone up while I scrub in?” She nodded again while I sent a request to add video to the call. BJ appeared, sitting on his porch. “Give me like five minutes, okay?”
I gave Sandera my phone. “Oh…” She smiled. “This ain’t the police officer. Sage, who’s this?”
“Her brother,” BJ answered for me. “What police officer?”
“The one that’s none of your business,” I said as Sandera walked off.
Faintly, I heard BJ ask about the police officer again.
The overwhelming need torelieve myself prevented me from going on. Halfway into my drive home, I pulled over at a gas station. I used the bathroom before grabbing a drink and some candy, then walked through the door someone held open for me.
“Thank you,” I told the man, following the walkway to the side where I parked.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” someone said behind me when I reached for my door.
I turned around, seeing the wheelchair first, a cast on an arm and the opposite leg, followed by a cardboard sign requesting monetary compensation for a disabled vet. Then, when his eyes got big, I was drawn to the man’s face, immediately remembering our last encounter.
Tez.
