His muscular dystrophy has been slowly
killing him since the day he was born. The last two years in Minneapolis, I've been able to talk to him at all hours, see him nearly every day, have dinner, go to movies, spend time with all our friends as often as I wanted; and as close as we've been since we were little kids, now he's the most important thing in my life. I made myself forget he was sick. I knew, but I ignored it. I knew in the back of my mind I would lose him. I just didn't think I'd lose him so soon. Not yet. Not today.
We rush him to the hospital. His mother, father, and sister are there, and so are my mother and father. We race after the nurse who has cared for him when he's been hospitalized these past few months, who runs toward ICU, pushing Brian's gurney, Brian is howling in pain as his vital organs shut down, the nurse is crying and saying,
I promised him this would never happen,
and we finally reach the room and the nurse turns up the morphine and Brian's wails slow and then stop. He dies at 8:23 A . M .
His mother cries,
My child, my child.
I turn into Julian's chest and slide down him to the floor.
I delay tour for a few more days to stay with my family and our friends for the memorial. We planned the service this winter while Brian was in the hospital. He made us swear they wouldn't play "On Eagle's Wings." He made his mother promise there would be no Jesus. There were to be two eulogies: he ordered our old friend Chris to make everyone laugh, and me to make everyone cry. He gave us his credit card and told us to go out after the wake and blow his entire credit line on a party at a bar, since he wasn't going to have to pay anyway. He made me promise to wear a red dress. Furious, I wear a red dress.
The night of his memorial, we drink ourselves half to death at Benchwarmer Bob's, laughing and crying and telling stories until last call. Julian drives and I stare out the window at the freeway lights and passing cars as we head for home, feeling like my guts have been ripped out.
I shut down. The next day I get on a plane bound for London
to do what I'm supposed to, show up for the still-long list of radio, TV, and newspaper interviews, the panels and dinners and readings, another month on the road while it's taking everything I have not to scream. Shock. Grief. Jet lag. The booze I inhale on the plane. The pot of black tea I drink when I arrive. Enough to make anyone crazy. And more than enough for me.
I am triumphant. I have arrived. I am torn apart with grief. Brian is dead. BBC London loves me. The book critic loves me. I hold court at a publication party, pouring wine down my gullet like a pelican, the table littered with bottles, everyone laughs.
Then it hits me: they're laughing at me. They've found me out. They see what I actually am.
You can almost hear it: a little tiny
snap.
Here's my tiny scream as I go down.
I am sitting at a table in a hotel bar in London, wrapped in a black wool thing. I am watching my hand, in fascination, as it lies on the table and trembles like a paper napkin in the breeze. My hand absorbs me completely. The bar is enormous, then tiny. I am sitting in a brass-tacked, leather-upholstered chair. I myself am enormous, like Alice, my legs and arms everywhere. But then I am minute, tucked back into the corner of the overstuffed, regal, genteel chair. They are watching me. Especially the barmaid—she hates me. She speaks to me only in French. My ashtray is the size of Montana. My cigarette burns in it slowly. The sound of the paper spitting as the red cherry creeps down the cigarette is deafening. I look around the room. The barmaid turns her head away in a haughty gesture. I note that things have taken on a particularly tactile, vivid, saturated look. The leather chairs are oxblood. They are very, very fine. There is a businessman in the bar, leaning back in his chair, smoking his cigar and reading the London
Times.
I panic. I remember there is an article about me in
killing him since the day he was born. The last two years in Minneapolis, I've been able to talk to him at all hours, see him nearly every day, have dinner, go to movies, spend time with all our friends as often as I wanted; and as close as we've been since we were little kids, now he's the most important thing in my life. I made myself forget he was sick. I knew, but I ignored it. I knew in the back of my mind I would lose him. I just didn't think I'd lose him so soon. Not yet. Not today.
We rush him to the hospital. His mother, father, and sister are there, and so are my mother and father. We race after the nurse who has cared for him when he's been hospitalized these past few months, who runs toward ICU, pushing Brian's gurney, Brian is howling in pain as his vital organs shut down, the nurse is crying and saying,
I promised him this would never happen,
and we finally reach the room and the nurse turns up the morphine and Brian's wails slow and then stop. He dies at 8:23 A . M .
His mother cries,
My child, my child.
I turn into Julian's chest and slide down him to the floor.
I delay tour for a few more days to stay with my family and our friends for the memorial. We planned the service this winter while Brian was in the hospital. He made us swear they wouldn't play "On Eagle's Wings." He made his mother promise there would be no Jesus. There were to be two eulogies: he ordered our old friend Chris to make everyone laugh, and me to make everyone cry. He gave us his credit card and told us to go out after the wake and blow his entire credit line on a party at a bar, since he wasn't going to have to pay anyway. He made me promise to wear a red dress. Furious, I wear a red dress.
The night of his memorial, we drink ourselves half to death at Benchwarmer Bob's, laughing and crying and telling stories until last call. Julian drives and I stare out the window at the freeway lights and passing cars as we head for home, feeling like my guts have been ripped out.
I shut down. The next day I get on a plane bound for London
to do what I'm supposed to, show up for the still-long list of radio, TV, and newspaper interviews, the panels and dinners and readings, another month on the road while it's taking everything I have not to scream. Shock. Grief. Jet lag. The booze I inhale on the plane. The pot of black tea I drink when I arrive. Enough to make anyone crazy. And more than enough for me.
I am triumphant. I have arrived. I am torn apart with grief. Brian is dead. BBC London loves me. The book critic loves me. I hold court at a publication party, pouring wine down my gullet like a pelican, the table littered with bottles, everyone laughs.
Then it hits me: they're laughing at me. They've found me out. They see what I actually am.
You can almost hear it: a little tiny
snap.
Here's my tiny scream as I go down.
I am sitting at a table in a hotel bar in London, wrapped in a black wool thing. I am watching my hand, in fascination, as it lies on the table and trembles like a paper napkin in the breeze. My hand absorbs me completely. The bar is enormous, then tiny. I am sitting in a brass-tacked, leather-upholstered chair. I myself am enormous, like Alice, my legs and arms everywhere. But then I am minute, tucked back into the corner of the overstuffed, regal, genteel chair. They are watching me. Especially the barmaid—she hates me. She speaks to me only in French. My ashtray is the size of Montana. My cigarette burns in it slowly. The sound of the paper spitting as the red cherry creeps down the cigarette is deafening. I look around the room. The barmaid turns her head away in a haughty gesture. I note that things have taken on a particularly tactile, vivid, saturated look. The leather chairs are oxblood. They are very, very fine. There is a businessman in the bar, leaning back in his chair, smoking his cigar and reading the London
Times.
I panic. I remember there is an article about me in
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