Blood Money

I sit in my new suit, with the book open in my lap.

‘Lindsay’ is what the looping letters from the inside cover read.

“We are here, today, to mourn.”

The book is black leather, and small- yet it holds the world.

Lindsay was small, too.

“Every life comes to an end. And for many, that happens much too soon. This is certainly the case today.”

The book still smells like Lindsay- strong peppermint with a whisper of coconut.

Lindsay was an artist. She said her hands dried out from use, and swore by her coconut oil as lotion.

“For our departed, they will no longer feel pain. They will no longer suffer. They will no longer worry.”

The book- Lindsay’s book- is full of poems and drawings. It still has nearly half the pages blank.

Lindsay will never be able to fill the rest.

The officiant continues, but loses my focus.

I turn pages.

A tiger, left page.

A poem about love, right.

Turn.

Half of a rose with a bead of water, full left page.

The right page continues with the other half of the rose.

Her drawings are in pencil, not colored, just plain graphite.

‘How do shades of grey hold so much life?’ I wonder. I never wondered before, but her art seems to carry all the life she left behind.

Lindsay was my best friend.

I turn the pages.

A self portrait. She’s wearing a birthday tiara with the number ‘18’ on top.

Poems next.

A caricature of the neighbor. A drawing of her dog.

A name with hearts, but crossed out. I remember that month, it was emotional for her.

Where are my emotions now? Right now all I feel is empty.

Lindsay was my sister.

Next page. A date, written in calligraphy and spelled out ‘May Eighteen’.

I asked for her to make me something.

She laughed, offered me a poem and a drawing but made me promise not to look until she was done.

Left page.

May Eighteen

Brandon Brightboy is

More like Brandon Butt cheek boy

Happy birthday, butt

Right page.

‘JK, love ya!- Lindz’

Underneath that was the most beautiful butterfly I’ve ever seen. It was funny. A birthmark on my rear is shaped like a butterfly. Crude sibling humor is still humor.

Lindsay used colored pencil on this part. This page is the only one in this book with color.

“Brandon Brigby?”

The officiant is done, I suppose, and looking at me.

I close the book.

I rise, and walk to stand near him. The new shoes and new suit fit well, but feel strange on my skin. Bittersweet luxury.

“My sister is dead. Our parents died in that same accident. It was too soon. I’m sure Lindsay would want us to be just sad enough to show we love her, but not too sad. She loved passion and beauty, and she never stayed sad too long herself. Whenever anyone she was near was upset, she’d always do her best to cheer them up. If she couldn’t, she cried with them.

My parents were so proud of her, and she adored them. They taught her, and me, to stand for what’s right in the world. They taught us to be passionate, and showed us how to love a partner, and how to love your children.

They taught us about animals, and how to cook, along with math and how to drive and everything else. They were incredible, and it’s going to hurt every day for a long, long time that they’re gone.

But they were prepared for a lot of things. They left this note, in case something happened. Lindsay and I were never allowed to touch it, but they updated it every year and told us that if anything happened, we could read it then.”

I stopped for a moment, and looked at the somber room while I unfold one of the letters I had tucked in the back of Lindsay’s book.

“‘To our friends and family: we don’t know what happened, but sorry we couldn’t make it. Something seems to be keeping us away.’” Several chuckles, as I’m sure they intended, and a few sniffles, which I know they anticipated.

“‘We’re sure Lindsay and Brandon can keep you entertained in our absence, we like to think we’ve trained them well.’” My voiced cracks slightly, and I pause a moment.

I miss their humor. I miss my sister. I miss my family.

I swallow, and continue.

“‘We love you all. Please remember us as we lived, rather than as we are buried. Remember our jokes. Tell our stories. Comfort our children, and each other. If we’ve wronged you without a chance to apologize, we are deeply sorry. If you’ve wronged us, know that you are forgiven. Except for Dave.’” I don’t understand this reference, despite reading this letter enough to memorize it.

A few old college friends of my dad laugh so hard they startle the other guests. Good.

“‘Again, we love you all. Thank you so much for being here, and please remember what in life is important. Sincerely, with all of our love, Erika and Justin.’”

I return the letter to the back of Lindsay’s book. I had planned to say more but I’m so exhausted. Anything more now seems repetitive.

“Thank you all for coming, really. Stay as long as you want, they won’t mind.”

I walk away from the podium and the officiant and the graves.

I try to ignore the questions about how I am.

I try to smile at the people I pass, praising the beautiful service.

What next?

‘Go home,’ I remind myself.

My house is nearby.

My new truck is parked in the closest space of the parking lot.

I would rather walk.

My mind wanders to the Other Letter.

“Brandon,

I am sincerely devastated to learn of your loss. I want to apologize, and do everything I can to make it right.”

How could anything make it right?

Dead is dead is dead, and dead means gone.

“I was appalled to learn that my son carelessly took your family away.”

Careless isn’t a good enough word. It doesn’t sound cruel enough.

They say Adam was on another bender with his father’s money.

“Adam is in the hospital now, though they say he’ll recover. I am bitterly sorry. If you want to press charges (and I encourage you do so) I will fully support you.”

I hate them both, father and son.

“I would like to offer you reparations. Since they were your parents, and they are gone, I will cover all expenses for current and future schooling. The mortgage on your parents’ house has been paid off, and enclosed you will find a check to cover the inheritance tax.”

I don’t hate the father, not truly, but I do hate that his money is enough to pay for three lives.

“Your parents and sister combined had little debt, but their accounts have been settled. Please let me know if you receive any notifications of any I’ve missed.”

Financially, I need this very much. I hate that, too.

“Also enclosed, the keys to a new truck. I know you were looking at this model (thanks to small town gossip). You appear to be using the same bank as when you worked as my intern. You can expect deposits to the account we have on file. You should be able to live comfortably. To clarify, these payments will continue monthly.”

Comfortably was an interesting word choice. I had checked my account after I read the letter, and my modest account had grown to by $20,000.

“Brightboy, I saw great things in your future. As you know, I had planned to offer you a position upon your return from graduate school. The offer stands. The payments will continue until you accept, at which point they will be modified to compliment your salary.

Sincerely and Most Regretfully,

Joseph Baker”

Even more painful was the last offer, what I had wanted for years. He was an incredible boss. Joseph treated me like a son.

He had hinted toward the end that I might make a good successor, with more school and more experience.

What he was offering was everything.

Everything I wanted.

All it cost was blood.