I figured that after what I’d done to Eli’s room, I’d be lucky to ever see the light of day again, or maybe I’d only see it from the barred windows of some juvenile detention facility in Saskatchewan.

But the morning afterward, when I came downstairs, my mom was already there, doing stuff with frying pans. So instead of a baloney-and-mustard sandwich, like I usually made myself for breakfast, I had cinnamon French toast. She had big purple circles under her eyes, and her hands were a little shaky, but her hair was all combed, and she had this list she’d made with a lot of names and phone numbers on a pad. And she didn’t seem to blame me for going raving berserk.

“I’m so sorry, Danny,” she said. “I’m so very sorry.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry, not you,” I said. “I’m the one that made the mess.”

My mom shook her head.

“No, honey,” she said. “It wasn’t you.”

She put a pitcher of maple syrup on the table, next to my plate of French toast.

“I used to dream about him all the time,” she said. “About how he was when he was a little boy. I could see him just as clear. Then he just seemed to get further and further away, and I couldn’t let him go, Danny. I just couldn’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

My mom’s voice got a little stronger, and suddenly she sounded more like I remembered my mom.

“And last night I could hear him,” she said. “I swear, Danny, I could hear his voice. And you know what he said?”

“What?” I said.

My mom gave a sort of rueful little smile.

“He said, ‘Come on, Mom, get a grip.’”

That day she called a bunch of doctors and found one that could see her right away. She was diagnosed with prolonged grief disorder, which is sort of like post-traumatic stress syndrome for the bereaved. Then she got some pills, and a while after that she joined a survivors’ therapy group.

She must have talked to my dad too, because he never said one word to me about trashing Eli’s room, which wasn’t like my dad. After I finished cleaning up, he helped me carry stuff downstairs, and we took Eli’s clothes to the church poor box, except for his Catamount football shirt and his lucky fishing hat, which I kept. My dad thinks that maybe he’ll make an office in that room, or maybe a den with a TV.

When that was all done, he took me over to Bev’s Caf for a milk shake, and he didn’t talk about my grades. Though you could tell he was pretty messed up about how to begin.

“Danny, we never meant . . .” he said, and then, “I wouldn’t want you to think . . .” and then I said, “What?”

And he said, “We love you just as much as we loved Eli, Dan. We always have. It’s just . . . after him going like that . . .”

And I said, “Yeah, I know.” Because I really did know.

“You know I was raised on a farm,” my dad said after he blew his nose. “It didn’t suit me, but my dad and his — well, you come from a long line of farmers. Looks like maybe it’s in your blood.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said.

Then we talked about the blue-potato farm and how in a couple of years I might like to go to the state agricultural college. Then Bev came over and said we looked like men who might like another round of milk shakes, and we said sure. It wasn’t a total father-son breakthrough, but it was a start.

“You still keep that dead book?” my dad asked as we walked out the door. “Or is that all done?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

There’s an -ology for practically anything anybody is interested in. If you don’t believe me, just ask Walter. Xenobiology is the study of aliens. Nidology is the study of birds’ nests. Fromology is the study of cheese.

Thanatology is the study of death.

What I thought about right off when I first heard that was ninjas, but with academic degrees. Death-expert ninjas who could leap thirty feet in the air and take people out with a shuriken, like in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. There could be T-shirts, I thought. DON’T MESS WITH ME. I’M A THANATOLOGIST.

But it turns out that thanatology isn’t about making people die. It’s more about coping with it when they do. It’s about closure.

Here are what Walter says are the Five Stages of Coping with Death:

Denial

Anger

Bargaining

Depression

Acceptance

The Victorians, when somebody died, wore black clothes and weeping veils for a year. They blew their noses on black-bordered handkerchiefs and they wrote their letters on black-bordered stationery. They wore jewelry made of dead people’s hair. Isabelle thought that was creepy, especially the hair.

But Walter said it was a healthy transitional thing to do. “It helps people move from denial to acceptance,” Walter said.

He turned to me.

“You know, Dan. Like you’re doing with your Book of the Dead.”

“What?” I said.

“Well, what do you think that’s all about?” Walter said. “It’s a book of dead people, Danny. What do you think you’re doing that for?”

“It’s just a hobby,” I said.

“Yeah, right,” Walter said. “It’s a coping mechanism. It’s desensitization therapy.”

“You mean you think if I write enough about dead people, Eli being dead won’t bother me anymore?” I said. Kind of angry.

Walter shrugged up his bony shoulders.

“You’re coming to terms with it, Dan,” he said. “That’s a good thing. What you’re doing with that book, you’re finding closure.”

“That’s crap,” I said.

Even Walter doesn’t know everything, I thought.

But that was before I found Eli’s last words.

Walter and Isabelle and I once had a talk about famous last words.

“What would your last words be?” Isabelle said. “Pretend it’s your last chance to leave a message for posterity.”

She flopped back dramatically on the grass and raised one hand to her brow.

“There you are in your canopy bed, pale and wan, under a red velvet cover with gold tassels. Your loved ones are weeping all around you, and you — slowly — lift your head from the pillow for the very last time. What would you say?”

Walter said uncooperatively that in his opinion you should have delivered your message to posterity well before you flopped over on your red velvet deathbed.

“Napoleon’s last word was ‘Josephine,’” Isabelle said. “He died with the name of the woman he truly loved on his lips. ‘Josephine.’ I think that’s beautiful.”

I thought how my last word might be “Isabelle.”

Walter said, “Kit Carson’s last words were ‘I wish I had another bowl of chili.’”

Journey said, “When Jasper’s goldfish died, he wanted to freeze it in an ice-cube tray. But instead we put it in the trash compactor.”

Nobody wanted to talk about Jasper’s goldfish.

“All right, would you rather fade out gracefully?” said Isabelle. “Or would you rather ‘rage against the dying of the light’?”

Isabelle chose fading gracefully, Jasper and Journey picked rage, and Walter picked immortality, due to planning to have his brain circuitry copied into a computer. He says this technology will be available to everybody, possibly within the next fifty years.

I kind of sided with the twins there, because the thought of dying pisses me off. I mean, you spend a whole lifetime learning stuff and educating yourself and having ideas, and then it’s all gone — pfft! — just like that. What kind of sense does that make?

Then I thought how Eli probably didn’t have time for any last words. It’s not like running over a bomb gives you much time.

But it turned out he had last words after all. I found them when I cleaned up the rest of the wreck I’d made of his room.

Way in the back of his closet, he had a stash of these really hot magazines full of naked girls. There was some other stuff back there too, like a box of condoms and a pack of Camel cigarettes and some stuff in a plastic bag that looked like oregano but wasn’t. And next to all that was my old pink dragon, which did look sort of like an anteater, which goes to show that 3-D visual arts aren’t going to be my thing. Under the dragon was a letter in an envelope. DANNY, it said in Eli’s writing, which was really more like printing, but he could do it really fast. So I sat down on the floor of the closet and opened it.

Dear Danny,

If you find this, you must be snooping through these magazines, you little turd. At least I hope it’s you that finds this stuff and not Mom.

And I guess the thing is, if you’re reading this at all, I’m probably not around anymore.

I really believe I’ll make it through fine and that this time next year I’ll be back in the US of A. I hope you’ll never read this.

But if things don’t work out, I hope you’ll understand. Sometimes, when things go wrong, you just have to do the best you can to try to fix them. I’m not sure this war is right, Dan. But I don’t want people to die who don’t have to. You know how I felt when the towers went down. I wanted to be there, helping, and I wasn’t. Maybe I feel like this is my second chance.

Anyway, kid, just in case, here’s what I’d never tell you to your face: you’re the best little brother a guy could ever have. If I’m not around to watch you grow up, I’ll be really pissed.

I feel like I should give you all this advice, but now that I’m sitting here, I don’t know what the hell to say.

Read Catcher in the Rye. It’s a really good book.

Don’t let any of your dumb runt friends talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do.

Don’t ever buy a used car from Bernie Underwood.

If I’m out of the picture, get Jim Pilcher to take you out for that first beer when you turn twenty-one. He owes me big-time for that thing with the raccoon.

Shit. I’m no good at this.

The radio’s playing Sinatra. Some oldie about “All my bright tomorrows belong to you.” Hell, maybe it’s a sign. Well, if I don’t come back, they’re all yours, Dan, along with my lucky fishing hat.

I love you.

Eli

And suddenly I was crying like the little kid I’d never be again because I knew that Eli was dead, that this was the last I’d ever in this world hear from Eli.

Those were Eli’s last words.