“The phone doesn’t wake you up?”
“I have it programmed not to ring before seven a.m.”
“What if there’s an emergency?”
“If there’s an emergency, I’ll deal with it better on a full night’s sleep.” The logic seemed infallible to Patrick. And almost as if to prove his point, his father’s “stroke” turned out to be a mild case of Bell’s palsy.
Last night, however, the calls were warranted. After a valiant two-and-a-half-year battle, Sara had quietly slipped away. A loud roar rumbled then pierced the sky as a plane took off down the runway. Patrick rattled as the sidewalk vibrated, but he was otherwise numb. This wasn’t happening. Not a second time. Not after Joe. And this loss of Sara was coupled with guilt. He promised when they’d met that he would never let her go. And then life intervened. She went north and married his brother. He went west and found fame on TV. And slowly, over time, he did.
Let go.
Patrick glanced down at his suitcase, almost surprised to see it there. He had no memory of packing it. Here he was, about to board a plane for the first time in years, something he used to do all the time. Even the network’s private plane once or twice when they needed the cast in New York to appear together on Good Morning America or, god help him, The View. Now he was nervous, his stomach brittle. He told himself it was the occasion as much as the flight, not that it mattered. Patrick adjusted his aviators; he turned and walked inside the airport, letting the sliding glass doors open for him then close, reflecting the mountains behind him.
* * *
Baggage claim. Patrick’s eyes scanned right past Greg to a cluster of gossiping flight attendants before recognition set in. He was expecting his father to fetch him in Hartford and so was surprised to find his brother on the other side of the glass. Greg looked depleted, thin; even from fifty feet away Patrick could read his distress—the younger brother suddenly older, as if he’d passed through some weird vortex and aged a decade in the however many years it had been since he’d seen him last.
When Greg spotted him, Patrick’s carry-on slipped off his shoulder, the strap catching on his elbow, the bag stopping mere inches from the ground; he attempted a feeble wave. They stood there, two brothers, confused, a glass wall between them, like Patrick might bang on the glass and reenact the ending to The Graduate. But he didn’t. Patrick knew; he’d seen the movie dozens of times. It might feel good in the moment, but the harsh realities of life lay ahead.
Patrick made his way through the sliding doors, past the sign that said no reentry, straight for his younger brother, hugging him tight, holding the back of his head, his fingers buried deep in Greg’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Greg was trembling. He squeezed his brother until Greg fell limp, free of emotion, for a fleeting second at least. “I’m here.”
They waited for Patrick’s checked bag in silence; the parade of black luggage moved at a funereal pace along the conveyor belt, town cars full of mourners in procession. They would be in such a motorcade in a few days’ time. Neither brother said much on their way to the parking garage, not when Greg struggled to find the parking ticket at the prepay machine, except to usher those in line behind them to go ahead (he had absentmindedly tucked the ticket in his wallet), nor when he couldn’t remember on which level he had parked the car. Patrick stayed calm and even grabbed his brother’s hand when he started to turn like an animal, in rapid, panicked circles.
“Shhhh. We’ll find it,” he whispered.
“THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT!” The voice came from around a concrete pylon, some idiot, breaking their moment. Patrick reflexively waved as if that were the first time anyone was clever enough to shout that at him and not the eleventy millionth. That’s how you do it! was the catchphrase that made him a breakout character on his ABC sitcom in the back half of season two. He’d delivered it faithfully at least once an episode since, and the studio audience—usually shapeless Midwesterners in oversized clothing who couldn’t get into The Price Is Right—always went wild; the second banana, for a time at least, eclipsing in popularity the top. “You’re that guy, right? What happened to you?”
The question reverberated through the parking structure. The People Upstairs was the last sitcom that defined the era of network television; a special season three episode aired after the Super Bowl. The cast was on the cover of People magazine. Even a Golden Globe, for Patrick. Now people watched television in three-minute increments on their phones, if they watched anything at all. More often than not they preferred to watch themselves, making videos with filters that softened their ruddy complexions, or gave them whiskers and noses like cats.
“Yeah. I’m that guy,” Patrick agreed calmly.
“Hey, say it. Say your line.”
“Now is not the appropriate time.”
“C’mon! Do it,” the man urged.
“Okay, that’s ENOUGH!” Patrick let go of his rolling suitcase and charged three steps toward the stranger, angry enough to hit him. It was Greg who pulled him back, suddenly aware they were holding hands.
The man shook his head and fished his keys out of his pocket. “Dick.”
Patrick quickened their pace in the other direction, ushering Greg along before anyone overheard the altercation. It’s not like he knew where the car was parked, but the last thing he needed was to attract a crowd. He kicked open a stairwell door and, once they were safely through, put his hands on his knees while he collected his breath.
A guy in a UConn hoodie came bounding up the steps two at a time like it was an Olympic track-and-field event. Patrick moved to the left to let him pass. He listened as the man ascended two more flights and kept his ears perked until the footsteps faded entirely.
“She, she just . . .” Greg began.
“I know.” He wanted the safety of the car before they did this, but if it had to be in the stairwell, then so be it. “Mom told me.”
“Three weeks ago she told me she wanted Steely Dan’s ‘Reelin’ in the Years’ played at her memorial and I told her to shut up. I couldn’t believe the end was this close. But she knew.”
Patrick turned slightly so Greg wouldn’t see his own pain. “She knew everything.” He should have come earlier. He should have been there to say goodbye. But he reasoned she was no longer his and hadn’t been in years. Every moment he spent at her side stole a moment from Greg or the kids.
Greg shook his head. Patrick focused on the window in the stairwell; someone had etched their initials with their keys. Beyond, planes were taking off and coming in, lights in formation dotting the evening sky.
“The doctor said that after a—” A car screeched around the corner just outside the door. Greg looked at each raw concrete wall as if noticing this prison for the very first time. “I guess it doesn’t matter what the doctor said. I was there with her, but she was gone before the kids could arrive.” He retched three times before doubling over, bracing his hands on his knees. Patrick pushed his suitcase back, stepped forward, held his brother by the hood of his sweatshirt, and winced.