The Invisible Sister

Eleven years ago today I lost my oldest brother. Rich was only 55 years old, retired for barely a year from his career as a Denver police officer. Diagnosed with cancer in January, he endured a difficult surgery and grueling treatments. But it was too late. In June the doctors told him he had about two months to live.

Rich was 14 years older than me, the only child of my father’s first marriage. Unusual for the 1940s, dad was awarded custody. Later dad met mom and they created our little family.

The age difference between Rich and me made our relationship challenging. By the time I was eight, he had graduated high school, joined the military, served in Japan and Hawaii, returned home, and was married with a child on the way. It was more than our age difference, though. We were like oil and water. He was brash and abrasive, a teller of tall tales who craved the spotlight, loved to argue, and especially loved to win arguments. I was a quiet, shy, sensitive soul with no debating skills. My family was conservative; I was the peace loving flower child with liberal notions and a completely different way of looking at the world. This made me an easy target. Rich took delight in ridiculing my beliefs. As time passed I found it easier to simply withdraw from most conversations, keeping my ideals intact even as I grew weary of defending them. The fact that I never married or had children also set me apart. I was too different, too hard to understand. Eventually I became invisible.

Rich had another half-sister several years older than me. Patty and Rich shared the same mother, Ida. When Ida passed away, Rich took custody of his teenaged sister. Patty was a sweet, kind, pretty girl. Everyone loved her. In a few years’ time she finished school, married, and moved to Las Vegas to start her own family. Rich visited her frequently and she returned to Colorado on a regular basis.

My brother lived a full, active life. He was adventurous, always into something, and had friends galore. A whirlwind of people constantly surrounded him at his many parties at home, at his cabin on Johnson Lake in Nebraska, or at his trailer near Elephant Butte Lake in New Mexico. I learned this from the tales my family told me, since they usually attended. Once I was asked why I was never at Rich’s parties, never had joined them on road trips to the cabin or the trailer. That was easy to answer. I was never invited.

Naturally, a grand party was planned at Rich’s house following his memorial service. So many people were there, yet I only knew a tiny fraction of them. As the evening wore on, I staked out a quiet location in the living room where I took solace in the company of my brother’s dogs. A line had formed to the bathroom, and one fellow standing in that line asked who I was, how did I know Rich? I answered that I was his sister, Debbie. He looked puzzled. Then he said to me, well, everyone knows Patty, but he never heard that Rich had another sister. Was I from somewhere else? I was devastated.

After that conversation, I went to the dining room where a collage of photos had been assembled on a giant bulletin board to memorialize Rich’s life. As I pored through the photos, I saw the faces of people living and dead, every conceivable connection you could imagine: grandparents, parents, children, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, cars, dogs, boats. I searched but could not find my face anywhere. Finally I realized only three key people were missing from the collection: Rich’s two former wives, and me.

That last summer of his life I visited Rich every weekend, and cared for his dogs while his wife took him to see the ocean one last time. Every time I left his side, I reached out to hug and kiss my brother and always said “I love you.” Each time he turned his face away from my kiss; not once did he respond to my declaration.

The day before he died I spent the afternoon with Rich, giving his wife a break. I joined him on the bed and we watched TV, a documentary about the sinking of the Lusitania. He commented during a commercial for paper shredders, saying he really needed to get one of those. And he told me he kept seeing lights, did I see them too? I shook my head, no. When I left, I leaned over to hug and kiss him. This time he didn’t turn away. When I said, “I love you,” he answered, “I love you too.” For the first time, and the last.

So in the end, what did it matter that a complete stranger didn’t know that Rich had two sisters? Neither did it matter that my photo was not displayed on the memorabilia board. Because at long last, I finally had the answer to something I never dared believe was possible. My brother did love me after all.

Home Away From Home

On our way home from a Colorado weekend trip years ago, I suggested to Dave that we stop in Salida, a town I had visited once and enjoyed. At first he didn’t like it. But with each visit, the place started to grow on him. The first time we stayed in Salida was the year we were married. Dave was hooked. Our trips there have since become an annual ritual, a home base for touring south central and southwestern Colorado. This year the plan was to take a leisurely drive to Salida on Friday, then spend the next day on a visit to Tincup, a ghost town south of Taylor Park.

At mid morning on Saturday we reached the summit of Cottonwood Pass, elevation 12,126. We began what was to be a brief hike on the Continental Divide Trail when we noticed three people returning from the summit of a nearby mountain. I bet you can get amazing views of Taylor Park from up there, I told Dave. Off we went.

At that altitude it’s pretty slow going. Tonka seemed unfazed as he dragged Dave up the trail ahead of me. Being the weakest link, I typically bring up the rear. I used my frequent “oxygen breaks” to ponder the views and take a snapshot here or there, admiring the resilient alpine tundra flowers, even trying to follow a ptarmigan Tonka had discovered hidden among the rocks. When we reached the summit, a fierce west wind smacked us right in the face. Despite that, the views were stunning. We returned to the car tired but pleased.

We had no idea that Taylor Park is a sort of Mecca for ATV enthusiasts. The road to Tincup was packed with them. We were clearly outnumbered by dozens of ATVs and dirt bikes. Their loud engine noise filled the air. In Tincup, I took a quick photo of the town hall as several ATVs zoomed past. We piled back into the car and left without exploring a thing. On the south side of Cumberland Pass we spied a few decrepit log cabins near an abandoned mine and decided to have our picnic lunch there. I wondered aloud, what must it have been like to live here in the 1800s? Just then two ATVs went screaming by. Dave gave his usual calm, stoic response, “It was probably a lot quieter.”

The drive back to our home away from home was peaceful. I enjoyed looking out the window at the lovely farms and ranches along the way. That lush, fertile river bottom land feeds numerous beaver ponds but also provides sustenance for generations of the same families. Everywhere you looked, farmers were mowing and bundling hay, preparing for the winter to come.

Each afternoon in Salida we brought Tonka to the Arkansas River to play in the water, then took advantage of the makeshift doggy “hitching post” at Bongo Billy’s so we could sip a couple of beers on the deck. Saturday night we ordered our favorite Moonlight Pizza and returned to our room at the Aspen Leaf Lodge, a funky flat-roof motel on Highway 50, doors painted a pretty pink. The owners are friendly people, plus they always give us the room on the end, quiet and private.

The first morning I took Tonka for a long walk in the Little River valley. Along the way we surprised a nervous mule deer doe with her twin fawns. In a second pasture we encountered two curious young bucks. The morning light on Mount Shavano was beautiful. Why didn’t I bring my camera? I hurriedly returned to the motel, grabbed the camera, and drove back. But the moment was lost, the light too bright, the deer long gone.

The second morning I woke before dawn and took Tonka outside. Such stars in the sky! Starlight has all but disappeared in the city, so it almost felt as if I were seeing it again for the first time. I opened the windows and crawled back into bed. Dave was stirring awake. “You should go outside and look at the stars,” I suggested, followed by, “Do you hear that?” “Hear what?” was Dave’s reply. “Nothing… absolutely nothing.” The silence was nearly as beautiful as the stars.

Salida figures prominently into our more optimistic retirement dreams. Now each time we leave Salida, it is with a tinge of sadness. We take one last cruise down Main Street, another look at the golf course, then we drive slowly through the neighborhoods, assessing the homes and lots for sale, collecting brochures. Everywhere you pass, the people wave. It’s like they already know us, already recognize us. It’s not our home, yet we feel so much at home.

Maybe next year.

Maybe someday.