Undersold(47)

And then he was gone. It was the longest train ride of my life, and every recent memory of my father ran through my mind, especially the proud look on his face on the night of my party celebrating the app’s sale.

At the station, my brother John picked me up in his old Chevy pickup. He liked beat up classic trucks, even though everyone knew he could afford something better. He wrapped me in his arms and we hugged for a while.

“How you doin’, Amy?”

“Not great. I can’t really process it.”

He nodded. His eyes were red and puffy, but he was doing his best to remain strong for me. “I know, neither can I.”

We climbed into his truck and drove back toward our childhood home.

“I know this isn’t something you want to deal with, but we have a bunch of stuff to do. Funeral arrangements and estate stuff. I’m taking care of as much of it as possible, but I need some help.”

“Of course, absolutely.” There was a pause. “Have you talked to Derek?”

John looked solemn. “Yeah, I called him.”

“And?”

“And, he’s in rehab right now. Which is good, I guess. He said he’d try to make it out for the funeral. Who knows what’ll happen with that asshole.”

“Not the time, John. They had their issues, but he loves Dad, just like we do.”

John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. I know we could use his help, but he’s unavailable, dealing with his problems. Like usual.”

I nodded. It was an old story for us. Derek was too busy getting high or going through rehab or spending time in jail to pitch in with anything. After Mom died, Derek and Dad’s relationship crumbled. I never understood why. Dad had to work long hours to provide for the three of us, and Derek always felt neglected. He was the youngest, and took Mom’s death the hardest, after me. Him and I took opposite paths in response to tragedy. Where I buckled down and studied hard, maybe withdrew from people and the world, Derek partied hard and started taking drugs pretty early on. Him and John would fight about it all the time, and when Derek turned nineteen, instead of going to college, he ran away from home and lived with some musician friends of his out in California. A few years later, Derek came back to Philly, but he was a different person completely. He was in and out of rehabs, usually paid for by John, who was the oldest and most rock-solid of the three of us. He stayed away from Dad, and they didn’t speak for years, as far as I knew.

John and I used to spend hours talking about Derek and his drug addiction, but lately we had stopped trying. At a certain point, Derek had to want to help himself. I was hopeful about this new stay in rehab, but realistic. Addiction was serious and difficult and draining on everyone involved, and I was too busy grieving for Dad to deal with another round of Derek’s problems.

We finally pulled into my childhood home’s driveway. It looked the same as always: two stories, Cape Cod-ish style, blue shutters on white vinyl siding. It was small, but it was cozy and comfortable. Every house in Levittown looked the same; it was originally built as cheap housing for GIs coming back from World War II. The community used to be vibrant and thriving, though in recent years it had gotten a reputation for being the poor, unruly side of town. The truth was, Levittown was a good neighborhood. I had really fond memories of a childhood spent riding my bike between the sections with other local kids, going to the local pool, and playing in the local park.

John and I climbed out of his truck and walked up the front path. We opened the door, and the silence punched me in the nose. Normally, Dad would be sitting upright in his hospital bed, watching sports or crime shows at high volume. Jasmine would be busying herself around the house, doing some small cleaning, checking Dad’s medications, and whatever else she did. Dad never complained about Jasmine, which was a small miracle, and we were all thankful for her. Now, her absence was powerful.

“Weird, isn’t it?” John walked into the living room. Green shag carpet, straight out of the 70s and wood paneling dominated the house. There were pictures of us as kids, and of Mom as a young woman, smiling from the shelves and walls. The old TV was quiet on its stand, and Dad’s hospital bed was gone.

“Really weird. Makes it feel more real, though,” I said.

John nodded. “That’s how I felt, too. Jasmine has been a huge help in all this. She contacted me immediately, and I told her I’d take care of getting in touch with you guys. I called you right away. Apparently, she called the funeral home, took care of the hospital equipment we had, and put me in touch with an estate lawyer.”

“She’s absolutely fantastic, I’ll have to make sure I thank her.”