Three Weeks With My Brother (29 page)

Meanwhile, Cat and I began the process of getting ready for a new life on the other side of the country.

In early November, less than a week after Micah accepted the job, I was at home and beginning the slow process of packing up our things when I got a frantic call from my father.

“You’ve got to get to the hospital right now,” my father suddenly said. He was breathless and scattered, a reprise of that fateful call three years ago. “She’s at Methodist. Do you know where that is? Bob just brought her in a couple of minutes ago.”

Bob, I knew, was Dana’s boyfriend, but my dad’s garbled message didn’t make sense.

“Who? Are you talking about Dana? Is she okay?”

“Dana . . . she’s in the hospital . . .”

“Is she okay?” I repeated.

“I don’t know . . . I’ve got to get down there . . .”

My head suddenly began spinning with a sense of déjà vu.

“Do you know what happened? Was she in an accident?”

“I don’t know . . . I don’t think so . . . Bob said she had a seizure of some sort . . . I don’t know anything else . . . Micah’s on his way . . . I’m heading there now.”

At the hospital, Bob told us what had happened. Bob lived on a ranch in Elk Grove and worked as a local trucker delivering feed for horses and cattle. Taller and heavier than Micah or me, he wore cowboy boots and had competed in bareback rodeo riding. I’d never seem him look as frightened as he did at that moment.

“She woke up and she couldn’t talk right,” he said. “Her words were all mixed up, and she didn’t make any sense. So I loaded her in the car, and we started for the hospital. On the way, her eyes rolled back, and she started to convulse. She was still having the seizure when we got here. They took her back, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Though a different hospital, it was eerily reminiscent of the one where my mother had died. So were our feelings as we paced the small corridor, waiting to hear what was going on. And so was the room where we eventually saw my sister.

Dana was tired when we saw her; she’d been given medication for the seizure, and her eyes drooped. She, like us, was frightened, and she knew no more of what had happened to her than we did. But other than exhaustion, she seemed fine. She could tap the tips of her fingers against her thumb, she could remember everything from the night before. And she remembered realizing that something was wrong when she woke up earlier that morning.

“I remember trying to talk,” she said, somewhat groggily. “I can even remember hearing the words coming out, but they were the wrong words. So I’d try to repeat myself, and the same thing happened again. And the smell. I kept smelling something really bad. That’s when Bob put me in the car. I don’t remember anything after that, though.”

Later, the doctor said she had had a grand mal seizure, though when pressed, he wouldn’t speculate as to the reason until further tests came in. He did suggest that it was probably best if she rested for a while.

I was the last one to get up to leave; once the others had left the room, Dana asked me to stay.

“Nick,” she said, “tell me the truth. I want to know what’s going on. Why did I have a seizure?”

“There are lots of possible causes,” I said. “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“Like what?”

She searched my face, trusting me, wanting to know. My sister knew that I would always tell her the truth.

“Anything, really. A sudden allergy. Stress. Maybe you’re epileptic, but the seizures hadn’t been triggered until now. Brain tumor. Maybe you ate something bad. Dehydration. Something just made your body go haywire for a little while. Lots of people have seizures. Seizures are actually quite common.”

She looked at me, zeroing in on the one cause I’d hoped she would overlook.

“Brain tumor?” she asked quietly.

I shrugged. “It can cause seizures, but believe me—it’s not all that likely that you have one. I’d say it’s the least likely of everything I mentioned.”

She glanced toward her lap. “I don’t want a brain tumor,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her, hoping to hide my fears. “Like I said, that’s probably not the reason.”

Over the next few weeks, Dana underwent a number of tests. The doctors couldn’t find what was wrong with her. CAT scans were inconclusive, but since she had no more seizures, it seemed to us that the worst had passed. Still, the uncertainty weighed heavily on us; we still had no idea what had caused the seizure in the first place.

It had also come time for me to move to North Carolina.

Cat and I had talked about it numerous times since Dana had gone to the hospital; she suggested that we might consider staying, even though I’d have to find another job. Dana might need us, she said. We can put our dreams on hold for a while. At least until we know what’s going on.

It was one of those choices in life without any ideal option.

“Let me talk to Micah,” I finally said. “Let me see what he thinks.”

That night, when I explained the guilt I felt about moving away, he put his hand on my shoulder.

“There’s nothing you can do for Dana,” he said. “We don’t even know what’s wrong yet. But you’ve got to think about your family. You have a baby now. You’ve got to do what you think is best for him.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t know . . .”

“I’ll watch out for Dana. I’m still here, and so is dad. And you’re only a flight away if we need you.”

“It doesn’t feel right to just leave, though.”

“I don’t want you to go either,” he said. Then, with a smile, he added, “But remember, Nick—what you want and what you get are usually two entirely different things.”

A few days before Christmas 1992, Cathy flew out with the baby to North Carolina to meet the moving van; I stayed behind to finish showing my brother around his new territory and introduce him to various doctors. Because our apartment had been emptied, I slept in my old room at my dad’s house the night before my departure.

Micah came over to help me pack my remaining items in the car: I would drive it cross-country. I noticed that he was wearing a pair of shorts of mine; because we were the same size, we had borrowed each other’s clothes for years.

Micah had worked a couple of summers loading trucks for Consolidated Freightways and knew how to load the items to prevent them from being damaged. With the exception of the driver’s seat, the car was completely filled. We were standing just inside the door when the time came to say good-bye; I’d already said my good-byes to Dana and my dad. But it was time to go, and both Micah and I knew it.

In the house were a thousand memories; in my mind, I could hear mom’s laughter from the kitchen, and see my brother and sister at the table. For the second time in my life, I was leaving my family, but this time was different. The last time I’d left, I’d been a teenager; now I had a family of my own; I knew I’d never be moving back.

“It looks like when we loaded the Volkswagen to move here, doesn’t it?” I cracked.

“It’s pretty full. But at least it’s level this time. How long will it take you to get there?”

“Four days or so.”

“Drive safe.”

“I will.”

We hugged. “I’m going to miss you,” I said.

“I’ll miss you, too.”

“I love you, Micah.”

He squeezed harder. “I love you, too, little brother.”

When we separated, I could feel the tears coming, but tried to hold them back. We’d come to depend heavily on each other in the last three years, but I tried to diminish the significance of what was happening. I told myself that we were simply moving; it wasn’t as if we wouldn’t see each other again. I’d come to visit him and he’d come to see me. We’d talk on the phone.

“You’re wearing my shorts,” I said randomly.

“I’ll give them to you tomorrow,” he said without thinking. “No,” he added quickly. “I won’t. You’ll be gone tomorrow. I can’t give them to you.”

At that, Micah began to cry and he leaned into me again.

“It’s okay, Micah,” I whispered, beginning to cry as well. “It’s going to be all right.”

And a few minutes later, through my own blurry tears, I saw his image in the rearview mirror grow smaller. He was standing on the lawn, forcing a smile and slowly waving good-bye.

C
HAPTER
14

Jaipur and Agra, India

February 7–8

W
e landed in Jaipur, a city of two and a half million people in northern India, and the capital of the state of Rajasthan. Famous for its forts, palaces, and colorful culture, Jaipur is frequently called “The Pink City,” and is the commercial center for most of the rural regions of Rajasthan.

Though we weren’t sure what to expect, we quickly learned that India was a country like no other. After showing our passport in
three
different places, we boarded the bus that would take us through the city of Jaipur to the Amber Fort, which was once home to the Maharaja.

Our guide spoke perfect Indian-accented English, and as we made our way across the city of Jaipur, he informed us that Jaipur is regarded as one of India’s most beautiful cities. He seemed to believe it as well. In the forty minutes it took to reach our destination, he would point out various monuments and explain what they were. His favorite words, as far as we could tell, were
Jaipur, beautiful,
and
pink
. Every description contained or ended with a variation of the following:

“Jaipur. The beautiful city. Jaipur. The pink city. Look. Can you see how beautiful it is? The landscape is beautiful, and the buildings in the old town are painted pink. Jaipur is the pink city. Jaipur is the beautiful city.”

Meanwhile, Micah and I were staring out the windows with our mouths agape.

People were everywhere. The sidewalks and streets were packed, and our bus shared the roads with pedestrians, scooters, bicycles, camels, elephants, donkeys, and horse-drawn carts, all moving at different speeds and zigzagging in traffic. Cows—sacred in the Hindu culture—roamed freely throughout the city, nosing through piles of garbage along with dogs and goats.

The poverty struck us forcefully. Ragged tent sites and houses slapped together with rotting boards or whatever discarded materials could be found were home to tens of thousands of people. They lined the main thoroughfare and all the crossroads we passed. People dressed in rags were everywhere, and dozens, if not hundreds, were sleeping in the gutter. People defecated and urinated in plain view, yet no one but us seemed even to notice. The smell of diesel fuel was overwhelming.

Meanwhile, our guide continued.

“Look at the fancy houses just beyond the walls. Can you see how beautiful they are? In the old town, all the buildings are pink. Jaipur is the pink city. Jaipur is the beautiful city.”

Micah leaned over to me. “Where are the fancy houses again?”

“I think he said they’re behind the walls over there. See those roofs?”

“You mean behind the slums?”

“Yeah.”

“And this is a beautiful city? He’s got to be out of his mind.”

At that point, one of the other members of our tour who was sitting behind us leaned forward.

“Actually,” he said, “Jaipur is wealthy when compared to some of the other cities in India. You can’t even begin to imagine what Calcutta or Bombay look like.”

“It’s worse than this?” Micah asked.

“By a long shot. Believe it or not, Jaipur
is
the beautiful city.”

After that, all we could do was stare out the windows, wondering how on earth people survived like this.

The Amber Fort, located six miles from the city, was built atop a hill, and is surrounded by peaks and easily defended valleys that made it ideal for protection of the Maharaja.

At the base of the fort, we broke into groups of four and rode elephants up the long, winding road that led to a large courtyard that served as the entrance to the fort itself.

It took some time for our entire group to arrive at the gates—we’d needed over twenty elephants, and they moved slowly. Micah and I quickly learned that Indian vendors were even more aggressive than those in Peru. They crowded around us in groups of four to six, all of them holding trinkets, undercutting each other’s prices. It didn’t matter if we said no or walked away; they simply followed us, each of them almost shouting to get our attention. If we refused a second time, they closed in tighter and spoke even louder. The people in the tour first to arrive at the fort clustered in a defensive circle, backs to the crowd, trying hard to ignore the shouts. The vendors kept at it for over thirty minutes. In the end, they would follow our group right up to the door.

We toured the Amber Fort for the next hour, marveling at the blend of Hindu and Muslim architecture. There were spacious, scenic courtyards, high-quality paintings and frescoes, and individual apartments for the dozen concubines of the Maharaja. We took photographs in front of a large garden that used an ingenious system of irrigation to enable the flowers to bloom year-round, and eventually made our way to the upper levels, where we could appreciate the fort’s location from a defensive standpoint.