Good Brother, Bad Brakes

I open my eyes and glance over at the digital clock on the endstand. Two 'o' clock in the afternoon. Good, I'm getting an early start today.

Still half-asleep, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. There is a purple Post-It note stuck to the front of the coffee maker. I pull it off and read it.

Have a fantastic day, my creative genius. Looking forward to coming home to you tonight. By the way, I want pork chops for dinner. Don't forget the applesauce. Kisses.

As I pour French Roast grounds into the coffee maker's basket I wonder, and not for the first time, how I was lucky enough to end up with Chelsea. Not every woman would be willing to act as breadwinner while I stay home and play at being a best-selling author, but Chelsea's one in a million.

The change in the sunlight filtering in through the mostly closed blinds in my study alerts me to the fact that I have been at my computer for three or four hours. When I sit down to write I never know whether it's going to be one of those days where the ideas flow effortlessly or one of those days where I struggle to put two paragraphs together.

Productive day or not, however, I had better get myself to the grocery store and have dinner cooked and on the table before Chelsea gets home from work. She would not be angry if I failed to do this, but I know from past experience that she would be disappointed, which is almost worse.

My car continues to inch past the stoplight on the corner even after I step all the way down on the brake pedal. The brakes are getting worse. I know I will need to go down to the garage and get them looked at sooner rather than later, but with the impending deadline for my latest novel hanging over my head I haven't gotten around to doing that yet.

Halfway across the parking lot on my way to the front door of the grocery store I pause and stare at the young man standing by the door. He is the exact image of my older brother. My older brother, who was was killed when his plane was shot down over Iraq eleven years ago.

I shake my head to clear it and start walking again. That's not Connor. Connor is dead.

"Dean?" The man at the door greets me with Connor's smile. I ignore him and walk into the store.

"Dean?" I can feel his hand on my shoulder and I turn to gaze into his pale blue eyes, so much like my brother's. "Don't you know me? It's me, Connor."

"Look, I don't know who you are and I don't know how you know my name, but you need to stop this right now." I shake his hand off my arm and turn around again. One or two other shoppers are regarding us with curious expressions.

"You wet your bed once when you were nine and you were so embarrassed. I helped you wash the sheets before Mom and Dad found out and I promised you I wouldn't tell them. I never did, you know."

I turn to face him again, my hand shaking involuntarily as I reach for a shopping cart. I've never told anyone that story, not even Chelsea.

"But...how...Connor was killed in the war."

"No. My plane was shot down. But I'm not dead, obviously."

"Your commanding officer lied to us?"

"No. I was considered missing in action, presumed dead. They did the right thing notifying my family."

"And you waited eleven fucking years to come home?!" A woman dragging a young child by the hand turns to scowl at my outburst. "I was in therapy for eight years, Connor!"

"I wanted to come home, Dean. I tried. But it wasn't possible before now." The sorrow in his eyes speaks volumes, and I find myself realizing that I can't possibly imagine (nor do I want to try) the horrors he has more than likely been subjected to since his deployment.

"I'm sorry. I'm just..."

"In shock. I know. You weren't expecting me to come back from the dead." He gives me one of the lopsided grins I remember so well, the right corner of his mouth lifting a little higher than the left.

Vaguely realizing that there are tears trickling down my cheeks, I wipe them away with the back of my hand. "So what happened to you? How did you survive? Why couldn't you make it back home?"

"That's a long story for later."

"You can tell Mom and Dad and me tomorrow night. We can all get together for dinner."

Connor shakes his head. "Not yet. Please don't say anything to them. Not yet."

"Okay," I agree reluctantly. I don't understand, but I'll respect his wishes. "Well, do you want to have dinner with Chelsea and me tonight? Just the three of us?"

"Chelsea? You finally managed to score a girlfriend?" Again the uneven grin. When Connor left for Iraq I was eighteen and still a virgin.

"Fiance," I inform him, aiming a punch at his shoulder. "She'd love to meet you. I've told her all about you."

"And I'd love to meet her. But not tonight, okay?" There is a sudden inexplicable sadness to Connor's demeanor.

"Maybe tomorrow night?" I suggest.

"Yeah, tomorrow night would be great."

After I finish shopping Connor asks me to drop him off at his hotel, which is only two or three blocks away.

"You should really get your brakes checked," he comments, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.

"Yeah, I know," I agree.

"Seriously, Dean. Those things are ready to go completely any day now."

"They're not that bad." This is my standard response every time Chelsea lectures me about my brakes too. "I'll get them looked at when I get a chance."

Connor declines when I offer to pick him up for dinner tomorrow, saying he'll either take a cab or walk if it's close enough so I write my address down for him and wait to pull out of the parking lot until he walks into the hotel.

I am bursting to tell Chelsea about the day's events but I decide to keep the surprise until tomorrow night.

After another successful day of writing (I may even make my deadline, which should make my Agent happy) I prepare homemade fish tacos for dinner. Those were always Connor's favorite.

"Ooooohhh, that looks good, babe," Chelsea comments, glancing at the table before she turns to toss her purse onto the living room couch. "But why are there three settings?"

"We're having a guest for dinner," I inform her.

"Who? Why didn't you say anything before?"

There is a firm knock on the door before I have the chance to answer her question.

I open it and invite Connor in.

"Chelsea," I say, turning to her, "this is my brother Connor. Connor, this is my fiance Chelsea."

Chelsea's bright smile fades, replaced by an expression of confusion tinged with concern.

"You told me Connor was dead," she states in a flat tone.

"I thought he was," I reply, deciding for the moment to ignore her rudeness. "He survived."

Dinner is quite a bit more tense than I had anticipated. Chelsea barely says a word to either Connor or myself, staring down at her plate as she eats. Connor doesn't eat a single bite despite the fact that I made the fish tacos just for him because I remembered how much he always loved them.

"Won't you at least take them to go?" I offer as he stands up from the table, preparing to leave. "I'll put them in a Tupperware for you."

"No, that's all right." His smile is brief and somewhat melancholy.

"It's no problem," I assure him. "I'll be right back."

When I return from the kitchen with two fish tacos in a Tupperware container Connor is gone.

"Did my brother leave?" I ask Chelsea. She stares at me without answering. I don't know why she's behaving so strange tonight. This isn't like her at all.

I open the front door. Connor is walking across the lawn.

"Hey, take these," I urge him, pressing the plastic container into his hand.

"Thanks," he replies.

When I go back inside I find Chelsea weeping softly as she washes the dishes.

"What the hell was that about, Dean?!" She demands. "Just what the hell was that about?!"

"What? I just found out yesterday that Connor's still alive. I thought you'd want to meet him. Why were you so rude to him?"

"You thought I'd want to sit there and pretend your dead brother was eating dinner with us?"

"What are you talking about? You saw him yourself."

"You're scaring me, Dean. Maybe you should start going back to therapy."

"I haven't needed therapy for years. I'm past that point."

"I don't know if I believe that anymore." She's sobbing so hard now her whole body is shaking.

"Chelsea? What's going on? What's the matter?"

"What are you playing at? Or are you really just losing your mind?"

"I don't understand. Look, I'm sorry I invited Connor over without talking to you first. Is that what you're upset about? I didn't think it was that big of a deal."

"Dean, we've been alone all night! Just the two of us! No one else was here!"

Before I have the chance to say anything Chelsea bolts from the kitchen.

When I try to open the bedroom door I find it locked.

"Chelsea?" I call through the door. She doesn't answer but I can hear her sobbing. I guess I'm sleeping on the couch tonight.

There are no cute little love notes on the coffee maker in the morning, just the phone number for the therapist I was seeing for years after the call from Connor's commanding officer. I crumple it up and throw it in the trash.

I don't know what Chelsea's trying to do. Does she want me to think I'm going crazy? Is that why she's pretending she couldn't see Connor last night? But why would she do that? For what reason? Or is there something else going on here? With a slight chill down my spine I recall how the people in the grocery store had stared at me when I'd been talking to Connor. Had they assumed I was talking to myself? Had I been talking to myself?

"Come on, Dean!" I admonish myself aloud with a little laugh, giving my head a firm shake.

The writing doesn't seem to be going so well for me today, so I decide to drive to the park and take a nice long walk.

Something sitting on top of the lid of the outside trashcan catches my attention and I walk over to investigate. A plastic Tupperware container is perched there with two homemade fish tacos still inside.

That little chill races down my spine again.

Connor is sitting in the passenger seat of my car when I open the door and get in.

"What..."

"You already know, don't you?" He cuts me off. The pain in his blue eyes confirms the suspicion that has been gnawing at the back of my mind.

"You didn't actually survive Iraq," I reply. There's no point in phrasing it as a question. I already know the answer.

He shakes his head.

"Why are you here? Did you come to say goodbye?"

"Not exactly."

"What..." I never finish my sentence. My brakes fail at the stoplight on the corner. The last thing I am aware of is the pickup truck that ploughs into my side of the car.

"It's okay," Connor whispers soothingly as he enfolds me in his arms. "I'm with you. We're together now, little brother."