64

The telephone had barely stopped ringing all day. It stood to reason that an announcement was made at church, the prayer list altered so that everyone would know about Mike. We’d stayed home that morning, and I was glad for it. The last thing I could have handled was a hundred pairs of eyes watching to see if I’d crack.

Undoubtedly, I would have.

As soon as Aunt Rose arrived, she played secretary, answering the calls and writing down messages on slips of scrap paper from our junk drawer. It was a wonder, watching her work, hearing her insist that we were not able to come to the phone at the moment.

Never in my life did I think I’d find myself so thankful for her.

“You got a few calls already,” she said, handing me little pieces of paper. She pointed to the top one. “He had a nice voice.”

I nodded. “Next time he calls, I’ll talk to him.”

She made a note of it on a tablet. “Annie wants to talk to David. Got it.”

“And if Jocelyn Falck calls,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“Thanks.” I stepped back half an inch, unsure of what to make of her term of endearment. If anything, Aunt Rose wasn’t known for her affection.

“Your brother’s been on the porch for nearly an hour,” she said, nodding toward the front window. “I don’t think he has a coat on.”

“I’ll check on him.”

“Annie,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I really am sorry. Mike was a good boy. I know how much you loved him.”

I nodded and turned from her, feeling as if she’d stuck a hot poker into my chest. The burning radiated through my torso and into my arms, legs, neck. Gasping, I tried to breathe deeply enough to expel the heat, but it only seemed to make it worse.

I know how much you loved him.

I did. She was right.

You loved him.

But not in the past tense.

Loved.

My love for my brother hadn’t ended. It wasn’t over. It wouldn’t stop.

“Do you know how much I love him still?” I wanted to scream. But there was no fight in me.

“Annie?”

Oma was at my elbow, her arm wrapped around my waist. Concern lined her face. Lack of sleep circled red around her eyes.

She muttered something in Dutch that I only understood partially. The few words I picked out had to do with that woman and no good.

I knew she meant Aunt Rose.

Oma took me into Mom’s room and closed the door, even going so far as to turn the lock so no one could come in.

“What did she say to you?” she insisted.

“That she knows how much I loved Mike,” I answered.

“And?”

“That was all.”

She sat on the edge of Mom’s unmade bed and patted the mattress for me to sit beside her.

“Is it wrong if I still love him?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t think so.” She took my hand. “Are we not made for eternity?”

I nodded.

“Then Mike still is,” she said. “Even if he isn’t here in this house or riding a helicopter over the jungle or doing who knows what, he still is.”

My shoulders curled down but Oma caught me, her arms stronger than I ever expected them to be.

“You can love him,” she whispered through my crying. “It’s right to.”

I let her hold me, her words stuck in my head.

Mike still is.