Three Weeks With My Brother Read online

  “Relief carvings,” I said. “Relief.”

  “Whatever.”

  Meanwhile, our lecturer was still talking on and on, growing even more excited.

  “And notice outside the four sandstone heads atop the perimeter wall! Can you see them? We think those represent the Guardians of the Four Directions, or maybe even the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara!”

  When we reached the center of Angkor Wat and stood at the base of the temple mount, the lecturer was in full swing.

  “It’s interesting to compare Mahayana and Theravada Buddhism, but for historical purposes, you might keep in mind the animism that was also prevalent in the early Khmer empire—for example, the belief in Neak Ta. Perhaps you noticed the serpent god Naga near the entrance? This—”

  “Excuse me?” Micah interrupted.

  The lecturer paused. “Yes?”

  Micah pointed to the temple-mountain. “Can we climb that thing?”

  We spent the remaining hour exploring the ruins on our own. We climbed the steep, crumbling steps and wandered through the rocky corridors, posed for pictures, and surveyed Angkor Wat from the highest spots we could reach.

  “I hope there’s not a test on any of this,” Micah said as we walked back down the causeway. “I’d flunk.”

  “You and me both.”

  He paused. “Do you realize we’ve been gone for two weeks?”

  “It doesn’t seem like it.”

  “It’s kind of sad to think about it. I’d been dreaming about this trip for months, and we’re already more than halfway through. It’s going so fast.”

  “Dreams are funny like that,” I said. “You want something so desperately, you somehow get it, then just as suddenly it’s over. Like running races—all that training for a couple of minutes on the track. The secret, I’ve learned, is to appreciate the process.”

  “Are you getting philosophical on me?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I’m just talking to hear my head rattle.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ve had more than enough philosophy for one day.”

  We walked a little farther.

  “Do you miss Christine?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The kids, too. How about you?”

  I nodded. “I’ve been missing them since I left.”

  Cat and I married in Manchester, New Hampshire, Cathy’s hometown. In the previous six months, she’d had to make the arrangements from across the country. She’d gone home only twice; my bride-to-be, I was beginning to understand, was quite efficient when she needed to be.

  We were married on July 22, 1989, in the Catholic church she’d grown up attending, and as she was led to the aisle by her father, I couldn’t look away. Her eyes were luminous beneath her veil, and her hands were shaking slightly when I took them in my own. I barely remember the ceremony. The only moment that stands out in my mind was when I slipped the ring on her finger. The reception was also a blur, and we were both exhausted by the time we arrived in Hawaii for our honeymoon. The honeymoon had been a gift from Billy and Pat Mills, who had come to love Cathy as much as I did. Lisa, who’d long since found someone new in her life, jokingly began referring to me as “the ex-boyfriend that never went away.”

  Because the ceremony and reception had been held on the other side of the country, only a few of my friends had been able to make it. My mom, however, decided to throw a party in Sacramento in our honor. She decorated the backyard, made a cake, set out beer and food, and everyone I knew from childhood stopped by to congratulate us. The party went on for hours, and in some ways was more fun than the original reception. I had returned from honeymooning in Maui, owned two rental properties with Micah, had finished my second—albeit unpublished—novel. I was excited about a new business I was starting, and was deeply in love with my new wife. It was, I still think, one of the best evenings, and summers, I’d ever spent.

  If possible, my mom was even more excited than we were. In the course of the evening, she’d mentioned that she was thinking about quitting her job in the near future. Now that we were out of college—and with my dad earning more than he ever had—there was no reason for her to keep heading into the office every day. She’d worked long enough, she said, and she wanted to spend her time enjoying the family and riding horses with my dad.

  “In fact,” she said, her eyes shining with excitement, “we’re going riding again next weekend.”

  On the following Friday night—only six weeks after we’d been married—Cathy and I went to a barbecue at my parents’ house. We were the only kids there. Micah was in Cancun—he’d be arriving back home on Saturday—and Dana was in Los Angeles with her boyfriend. It was a quiet evening. We cooked and ate dinner; afterward, we settled in the living room to watch a movie. When the hour grew late, I mentioned that Cathy and I should head on home, and kissed my mom on the cheek as she sat in her chair.

  “Maybe we’ll drop by tomorrow night,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said. “We’d love to have you. Drive safe, you two.”

  “’Bye, Mom,” I waved.

  By noon, my mom and dad were riding horses on the trails that run alongside the American River. Like most August days in the Sacramento Valley, the temperature hovered in the nineties and the dry air was still. Only a few clouds dotted the horizon, and my mom and dad shared a picnic lunch in one of the many shady areas that line the parkway. A little while later, they were riding again; because of the heat, however, the horses neither trotted nor galloped. Instead, my parents rode them at a slow walk, taking in the scenery between bits of conversation.

  As the river rounded a bend, the trail narrowed and my father led Napoleon into the front, Chinook and my mom close behind. According to my dad, nothing extraordinary happened next; there were no sudden noises, no snakes, nothing to startle either horse at all. The gravel pathway was strewn with rocks, he noted; at times, there was a slight angle to it, but again, nothing that either horse should have had trouble navigating at all. Indeed, both horses—and thousands of other horses over the years—had passed over that same stretch of trail dozens of times.

  Yet that day for whatever reason, Chinook stumbled.

  I was in the kitchen of my apartment as the phone rang. When I answered, my father sounded breathless, on the verge of hyperventilating.

  “Your mom’s been in an accident . . .” he started. “She fell off the horse . . . They took her to UC Davis Medical Center . . .”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” His voice was simultaneously panicked and robotic. “I had to bring the horses back. I haven’t talked to the doctor . . . I’ve got to get down there . . .”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Cathy and I drove to the hospital, terrified, and trying to convince ourselves that it wasn’t serious. As soon as we rushed into the emergency room, we asked the nurse in charge what was going on.

  After checking her notes and heading back to talk to someone, she rejoined us.

  “Your mother’s in surgery,” she said. “They think she ruptured her spleen. And her arm might be broken.”

  I sighed with relief; I knew that though the injuries were serious, they weren’t necessarily life-threatening. A moment later, Mike Marotte, an old friend from high school who was on the cross-country team with me, hurried through the door.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I was running on the trail when I saw a group of people and recognized your dad. I helped him get the horses back, and came straight to the hospital from there. What’s happening with your mom?”

  Mike, like all my friends, loved my mom and seemed as frightened as I was.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “They said she ruptured her spleen, but no one’s come out to talk to me. You were there though? Was it serious? How was she?”

  “She wasn’t conscious,” he said. “That’s all I know. The helicopter got there just a couple of minutes after I did.”

  The world s
eemed to be whirling in slow motion.

  “Is there anything you need me to do? Can I call anyone?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I gave him the phone numbers of relatives on both my mom’s and dad’s sides. “Tell them what happened, and tell them to call everyone else.”

  He jotted down the numbers.

  “And find Micah,” I said. “He’s supposed to be flying in from Cancun this afternoon. He’s coming into San Francisco.”

  “What airline?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What time is he coming in?”

  “I don’t know. Do what you can . . . And find Dana, too. She’s in Los Angeles with Mike Lee.”

  Mike nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  My dad arrived a few minutes later, pale and shaking. I told him what I knew, and he burst into tears. I held him as he cried, and a moment later he was mumbling, “I’m okay, now. I’m okay,” trying to stop the tears.

  We took a seat, and minutes passed without a word. Ten. Twenty. I tried to look through a magazine, but couldn’t concentrate on the words. Cathy sat beside me, her hand on my leg, then she moved closer to my father. He sat and rose and paced, then sat again. He rose and paced, then sat again.

  By then, forty minutes had gone by, and no one knew what was going on.

  Micah had just stepped off the plane when he heard his name being paged over the public-address system at San Francisco International Airport, requesting him to answer the courtesy phone.

  “Please go directly to UC Davis Medical Center,” the voice on the other end told him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “That’s all the message says.”

  Suddenly panicked, he jumped into a limousine—no cabs were available—to take him to a friend’s house, where he’d left his car for the week.

  He was two hours from Sacramento.

  After an hour, a soft-spoken man wearing a suit came out to greet us.

  “Mr. Sparks?”

  We all rose, wondering if he was the doctor. He said that he wasn’t.

  “I work with the hospital as a counselor,” he said. “I know this is hard, but please come with me.”

  We followed him into a small waiting room; we were the only family in the room. It seemed it had been set aside for us. It was oppressive; I felt my chest constrict, even before he said the words:

  “Your wife has suffered a cerebral hemorrhage,” he said to my father. His voice was gentle and ached with obvious sympathy.

  Tears welled again in my father’s eyes. “Is she going to be okay?” my dad whispered. His voice began growing softer; I could hear the plea contained within it. “Please . . . please . . . tell me she’s going to be okay . . .”

  “I’m so sorry,” the man said, “but it doesn’t look good.”

  The room began to spin; all I could do was stare at him.

  “She’s not going to die, is she?” I croaked out.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said again, and though he stayed with us, I don’t remember him saying anything else. All I remember is suddenly reaching for Cathy and my dad. I drew them tight against me, crying as I’d never cried before.

  Dana had gotten the call; she was boarding the next plane to Sacramento. I called a couple of relatives and told them what was happening; one by one, I heard them burst into tears and promise to be there as fast as they could.

  Minutes crawled by, as if we were inhabiting a time warp. The three of us broke down and tried to recover again and again. An hour passed before we were able to see my mom. When we went into the room to see her, oxygen was being administered and she was receiving fluids; I could hear the heart machine beeping steadily.

  For just a moment, it looked as if she were sleeping, and despite the fact that my mind knew what was happening, I nonetheless grasped at hope, praying for a miracle.

  Later that evening her face began to swell. The fluids were necessary to keep her organs from being damaged in the event we would donate them, and little by little, she looked less like my mom.

  Some of the relatives had arrived, and others were on the way. All had been in and out of the room but no one could stay very long. It was unbearable to be with my mom because it wasn’t her—my mom had always been so full of life—but it seemed wrong to stand in the hallway. Each of us drifted back and forth, trying to figure out which alternative was less terrible.

  More relatives arrived. The hallway began to crowd with friends as well. People looked to each other for support. I didn’t want to believe what was happening; no one wanted to believe it. Cathy never left my side and held my hand throughout it all, but I felt myself constantly being pulled back to my mother.

  When no one was in the room, I entered and closed the door behind me. All at once, my eyes welled with tears. I reached for her hand and felt the warmth I always had. I kissed the back of her hand. My voice was ragged, and though I’d already cried for most of the afternoon, I simply couldn’t stop when I was with her. Despite the swelling, she looked beautiful, and I wanted—with all my heart and soul, and more than I’ve ever wanted anything—simply for her to open her eyes.

  “Please, Mama,” I whispered through my tears. “Please. If you’re going to come out of this, you’ve got to do it soon, okay? You’re running out of time. Please try, okay . . . just squeeze my hand. We all need you . . .”

  I lowered my head to her chest, crying hard, feeling something inside me begin to die as well.

  Micah arrived, and as soon as I saw him I burst into tears in his arms. Dana arrived an hour after Micah did, and had to be supported as she moved down the hallway toward us. She was wailing; hers were the tears of someone not only losing a mother, but her best friend as well. In time, my brother and I led her into the room. We’d warned her about the swelling, but my sister broke down again as soon as she saw how bad it had become. My mother looked unreal, a stranger to our eyes.

  “It doesn’t look like mom,” she whispered.

  Micah held her tight. “Look at her hands, Dana,” he whispered. “Just look at her hands. Those haven’t changed. You can still see mom right there.”

  “Oh, Mama . . .” she cried. “Oh, Mama, please come back.”

  But she couldn’t respond to our pleas. My mom, who had sacrificed so much in her life, who had loved her children more than any mother could, whose organs would go on to save the lives of three people, died on September 4, 1989.

  She was forty-seven years old.

  CHAPTER 13

  Phnom Penh, Cambodia

  February 6

  After two days in Angkor we flew back to Phnom Penh, this time for a tour of the Holocaust Museum and a trip to the Killing Fields.

  The museum is located in downtown Phnom Penh, which had been seized by the Khmer Rouge in 1975. Pol Pot, the leader of the Khmer Rouge, hoped to create a perfect communist state, and evacuated the entire city. A million people were forced into the countryside. With the exception of Khmer Rouge soldiers, whose average age was twelve, Phnom Penh became largely a ghost town.

  With the departure of U.S. forces from Vietnam and no other country willing to intervene, Pol Pot began his bloody reign. His first act was to invite all the educated populace back into the city, upon which he promptly executed them. Torture became a way of life and death for thousands. In time, to save the cost of bullets, most of the executions were carried out by striking the victim on the back of the head with thick bamboo poles. Over the next few years, more than a million people were killed, either through enforced hardship, or executions in what are now known as the Killing Fields.

  On the flight, Micah and I anticipated our arrival with a degree of ambivalence. Though we wanted to see both the museum and the Killing Fields, our excitement was tempered by our apprehension. This, unlike so many of the sites, wasn’t part of ancient history; it was modern history, home to events that people want to forget despite knowing that they never should.

  From the outside, the Holocaust Museum lo
oked unremarkable. A two-story, balconied building set off the main road, it resembled the high school it had originally been. But belying its innocuous appearance was the sinister barbed wire that still encircled it; this was the place where Pol Pot tortured his victims.

  Our guide, we learned, had attended school there, and it felt disconcerting, almost surreal, when he pointed to his former classroom, before moving us to the exhibits.

  They were a series of horrors: a room where they used electricity to torture victims; other rooms featured equally horrific devices. The rooms hadn’t been altered since Phnom Penh had been reclaimed, and on the floors and walls, bloodstains were still visible.

  So much that we saw that day seemed beyond belief; the fact that most of the Khmer Rouge were children was almost too appalling to contemplate. We were told that the Khmer Rouge soldiers dispatched their victims without remorse and with businesslike efficiency; children killing mothers and fathers and other children by striking them on the back of the head. My oldest son was roughly the same age as the soldiers, which made me sick to my stomach.

  On the walls were pictures of the victims. Some pictures showed prisoners being tortured; others showed the bodies unearthed in the Killing Fields. In either corner of the main room, there were two small temples that housed the skulls of those victims who’d been discovered in the camp after the guards had fled. On the wall was a painting of a young boy in a soldier’s uniform, striking and killing a victim in the Killing Fields. The artist, we learned, had lost his family there.

  No one on the tour could think of anything to say. Instead, we moved from sight to sight, shaking our heads and muttering under our breath. Awful. Evil. Sad. Sickening.

  More than one member of the tour had to leave; the intensity was overwhelming.

  “Did you lose anyone in your family?” I finally asked the guard.

  When he answered, he spoke steadily, as if he’d been asked the question a thousand times and could answer by rote. At the same time, he couldn’t hide a quality of what seemed almost stunned disbelief at his own words.