Three

I awoke to a persistent knocking and let out a moan. “Yeah?”

The door swung open. Mom poked her head in. “You’re still asleep?”

I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to answer that question or if she was making a statement, so I rubbed my eyes and sat up. My shoulders protested.

“Hadley. You have thirty minutes.”

My mind, slow from sleep, tried to play catch-up.

My struggle must’ve shown on my face because she added, “It’s the fifth. Of April.”

“Oh!” Eric’s day. Crap. I hopped out of bed, tripping over the sheet that had tried to follow me. I’d seen my dad charging the car battery the day before. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t connected the two. “I’ll be ready.”

She gave me the look that showed she was hurt. I had forgotten and she was hurt. I was a horrible daughter. “I’m sorry.” I kissed her cheek and ran for the bathroom. To make up for oversleeping, I’d have to skip the shower. My shoulders weren’t happy about that plan. They needed some heat therapy. I hoped gross lake hair wouldn’t be doubly offensive to my mom. I brushed my teeth, pulled on some clothes, and ran to the corner mart near our house. I searched the aisles until I found Eric’s favorite candy: Hot Tamales. I paid and made it back to the house just in time to see my dad stepping down from the porch.

He smiled. “You ready?”

I wondered if my mom had told him I’d forgotten. I clutched the bag with candy. “Of course.”

“Then let’s do this.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s coming.” He led me the fifty steps to the truck that sat on a raised platform under our big eucalyptus tree in the front yard. The place it had sat for the entire sixteen years of my life—a monument to my brother who died before I was born. Our front yard was big, but the truck seemed larger than life today.

My dad patted the hood. I could see the emotion in his eyes. I felt nothing. I mean, I felt bad, of course, because I hated seeing my parents so sad. As for my brother, his dying so young was tragic. But I hadn’t known him. I knew about him. The things my mother had told me over the years. The things my parents said on this day every year. But still, I didn’t know him. My dry eyes seemed to taunt me. Why couldn’t I just conjure up some tears for my parents this year? The tears that had come naturally when I was younger. I knew I didn’t care less now, so what had changed?

I stared at the cab of the truck—the keys dangling in the ignition. My dad must’ve come out earlier to make sure everything was in place.

“Do you want to start her up this year?” my dad asked, probably noticing where my gaze lingered.

My heart jumped. “What? No. That’s your job.”

“This year you actually have your license. Maybe it should be yours from now on.” He put an arm around my neck. “In fact, maybe this year we should sell her and get you your own car.”

The beating of my heart doubled. My own car. “Really?”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

I bit my lip, trying to contain the smile, but then my heart rate slowed as his eyes ran the length of the 1955 light green Chevy truck, taking in each perfectly restored part. It really was a beautiful truck. Probably the only reason our neighbors tolerated it sitting on our lawn for so long—it was like a piece of art. My heart knew it was an empty promise. My parents wouldn’t sell the truck even though we only started it once a year. And I wouldn’t want them to.

“You think what’s a good idea?” my mom asked, carrying a box and joining us.

“I was just telling Hadley that we need to get her a car of her own. Maybe it’s time to sell the truck.”

“You’re going to sell your truck? Then what would you drive?”

“No. Not my truck,” he said softly.

It took her a long moment, but her eyes widened when she finally realized what he was implying. “Eric’s?”

“We’re not selling it,” I said quickly. “It was just a passing thought. We’d never sell it. I’m fine.”

My mom’s face relaxed, but my dad let out a heavy sigh.

I nudged him with my elbow and forced a smile. “Well, go on. See if she starts.”

He gave me a sad half smile, then climbed onto the platform and into the cab. He looked at his watch. Without needing to check the time, I knew it was now exactly 8:23. The time my brother had taken his last breath. Dad held up crossed fingers and turned the key. It rumbled to life, just like it did every single year.

My mom opened the cardboard box she held as my dad climbed down. The purring engine became the background noise for our mini memorial service. “Eighteen years ago Eric lost his battle with leukemia. Today I brought a few things to remember him by.” She reached into the box and pulled out a movie. “This was his favorite.”

I squinted to read the title. The Hunt for Red October. I’d never seen it before.

“He loved spy movies,” Mom said.

It surprised me that year after year she could come up with new things about him. I didn’t think she’d ever repeated herself. Never used the same memory twice. My palm started to sweat where it gripped the shopping bag. The Hot Tamales seemed so stupid now. My mom had brought the candy just last year.

The next thing she pulled out of the box was a water gun. “He was a jokester. He loved to hide out sometimes and surprise me when I rounded the corner.” She laughed a little. It was an odd thought—my mom getting pelted with a water gun. I couldn’t even imagine her reaction. Then again my brother had gotten the younger version of my parents. Now they were in their late fifties, graying hair and wrinkles in place. I wondered if they’d been more laid-back then. Either way, I wouldn’t dream of squirting any version of my mom with a water gun. I, apparently, was not a jokester.

“And last, I brought a picture of Eric with Julie at his junior prom. Do you remember this, Daniel?” She showed my dad first and he smiled.

“The funny thing about it was that just thirty minutes before this picture he was covered head to toe in grease from working on his truck all day. He cleaned up nice.” My dad showed me the picture.

I could see a little of myself in my brother. We had the same auburn hair and the same freckled skin. But he got my mom’s green eyes where I got my dad’s brown. I stared at the picture, wanting to know the stranger looking back at me. Wanting to know what it would have felt like to have an older brother. But again, I felt nothing.

My mom replaced the picture in the box and shut the lid, then walked to the truck. She removed the box from last year, tucking it under her arm, and reverently set the new one in the passenger seat, where it would sit for a year. I wondered what my mom would put in a box like that for me. What things she would choose to highlight in my life. I wasn’t sure she knew me as well as she knew my brother.

To end our ceremony, she exited the truck and placed a single hand on the hood. “You will forever be remembered and forever be missed.”

My dad nodded his head toward the bag I clutched. “Did you have something to add, Hadley?”

“Oh. No. I’m good.” I quickly touched the hood, then took two steps back.