picked up the remote and muted the sound on his cartoon.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘I’m watching this!’
‘But I want to talk to you.’
‘Leave it on, though.’
‘I can’t think and talk to you with all that noise.’
‘Leave it on quiet.’
‘But then you’ll listen to Bugs Bunny and not me.’
‘No. I’ll listen.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yeah. Promise.’
I de-muted the sound and turned it down to barely audible. I watched Ben lean in a little closer to try to hear. But then the cartoon ended, and a commercial came on, and I muted the sound again, and he turned his head toward me. But still with his gaze off at an angle toward the rug.
‘I don’t think you know what it means when somebody dies,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘It means you don’t see them again.’
No answer from Ben.
‘Like Sandy. Remember Sandy?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Our dog. Our collie dog. Remember?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Too bad. I thought you might remember Sandy.’
‘I don’t, though.’
‘Let me see if I can find a picture. Maybe that’ll help.’
I leapt to my feet and hurried into the living room, hoping the old photo album was right where it had always used to be. In the compartment under the end table next to the living room couch.
I opened the little compartment door with the brass handle, reached in, and there it was. I felt it immediately. It was huge, an ancient antique wooden scrapbook with leather hinges. It had lived in our family much longer than I had.
I heard the volume come up to blasting again on the TV. Sylvester and Tweety Bird.
I rummaged through photo after photo of my mom and dad, doing my best not to get distracted by emotion. I could always do that later. Right at that moment I had an important brotherly role to perform.
And then, there she was. Sandy. A perfect Lassie lookalike. A beautiful dog. It stretched my heart painfully to look at her photo. She’d been there when I was born. Sometimes I think she was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. Sometimes I think I mistook myself for a puppy at first. I’d loved her abjectly, completely. I’d been devastated by her death. I’d been maybe six when she died. And I hadn’t understood. I’d wanted to see her again, and I couldn’t understand why no one would help.
In the photo, I was there with her. I was not even two. Leaning on her, holding her fur in a way that must have hurt her, while she smiled. Patient. Proud. I’d learned to walk by holding her that way.
I took the album back into the TV room.
I turned the TV volume down to almost nothing again.
‘Hey!’ Ben said. ‘I’m watching this!’
‘This was Sandy.’
I set the album on his lap.
His eyes came away from the TV for the first time I could remember.
He touched the photo.
‘Oh!’ he said. Hushed. Reverent. ‘She’s a good dog! She’s a nice dog!’
Bingo. Oh, snap. I’d done it.
‘See? You remember.’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you know she’s a good dog?’
‘Well. Just look. Just look at her.’
Nice try, I thought. Next time I wouldn’t be so quick to congratulate myself.
‘Hey. Ben. Wait a minute. If you don’t remember her, how did you know she was a she?’
I hadn’t used any gender-specific pronouns.
Ben didn’t answer for a long time.
Then he said, ‘That’s a hard question.’
He closed the wooden scrapbook and dropped it on the rug, and his eyes returned to the TV.
I sighed.
‘Let’s try this a different way. Maybe instead of expecting to see Mom the old way, the way you’re used to, maybe you could be open to something new.’
I was pretty sure he wasn’t listening.
Until he said, ‘What?’
‘Like, maybe you won’t
see
her again. But maybe you can
feel
her here.’
‘Why wouldn’t I see her?’ He sounded agitated. Suddenly alarmed.
‘I just meant, maybe you’ll feel her looking over your shoulder. You know. Still with you.’
‘But why wouldn’t I
see
her?’
Ben struggled to his feet and began to
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘I’m watching this!’
‘But I want to talk to you.’
‘Leave it on, though.’
‘I can’t think and talk to you with all that noise.’
‘Leave it on quiet.’
‘But then you’ll listen to Bugs Bunny and not me.’
‘No. I’ll listen.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yeah. Promise.’
I de-muted the sound and turned it down to barely audible. I watched Ben lean in a little closer to try to hear. But then the cartoon ended, and a commercial came on, and I muted the sound again, and he turned his head toward me. But still with his gaze off at an angle toward the rug.
‘I don’t think you know what it means when somebody dies,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘It means you don’t see them again.’
No answer from Ben.
‘Like Sandy. Remember Sandy?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Our dog. Our collie dog. Remember?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Too bad. I thought you might remember Sandy.’
‘I don’t, though.’
‘Let me see if I can find a picture. Maybe that’ll help.’
I leapt to my feet and hurried into the living room, hoping the old photo album was right where it had always used to be. In the compartment under the end table next to the living room couch.
I opened the little compartment door with the brass handle, reached in, and there it was. I felt it immediately. It was huge, an ancient antique wooden scrapbook with leather hinges. It had lived in our family much longer than I had.
I heard the volume come up to blasting again on the TV. Sylvester and Tweety Bird.
I rummaged through photo after photo of my mom and dad, doing my best not to get distracted by emotion. I could always do that later. Right at that moment I had an important brotherly role to perform.
And then, there she was. Sandy. A perfect Lassie lookalike. A beautiful dog. It stretched my heart painfully to look at her photo. She’d been there when I was born. Sometimes I think she was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. Sometimes I think I mistook myself for a puppy at first. I’d loved her abjectly, completely. I’d been devastated by her death. I’d been maybe six when she died. And I hadn’t understood. I’d wanted to see her again, and I couldn’t understand why no one would help.
In the photo, I was there with her. I was not even two. Leaning on her, holding her fur in a way that must have hurt her, while she smiled. Patient. Proud. I’d learned to walk by holding her that way.
I took the album back into the TV room.
I turned the TV volume down to almost nothing again.
‘Hey!’ Ben said. ‘I’m watching this!’
‘This was Sandy.’
I set the album on his lap.
His eyes came away from the TV for the first time I could remember.
He touched the photo.
‘Oh!’ he said. Hushed. Reverent. ‘She’s a good dog! She’s a nice dog!’
Bingo. Oh, snap. I’d done it.
‘See? You remember.’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you know she’s a good dog?’
‘Well. Just look. Just look at her.’
Nice try, I thought. Next time I wouldn’t be so quick to congratulate myself.
‘Hey. Ben. Wait a minute. If you don’t remember her, how did you know she was a she?’
I hadn’t used any gender-specific pronouns.
Ben didn’t answer for a long time.
Then he said, ‘That’s a hard question.’
He closed the wooden scrapbook and dropped it on the rug, and his eyes returned to the TV.
I sighed.
‘Let’s try this a different way. Maybe instead of expecting to see Mom the old way, the way you’re used to, maybe you could be open to something new.’
I was pretty sure he wasn’t listening.
Until he said, ‘What?’
‘Like, maybe you won’t
see
her again. But maybe you can
feel
her here.’
‘Why wouldn’t I see her?’ He sounded agitated. Suddenly alarmed.
‘I just meant, maybe you’ll feel her looking over your shoulder. You know. Still with you.’
‘But why wouldn’t I
see
her?’
Ben struggled to his feet and began to
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