No Ordinary Day

I always thought my brother Eric’s interests were an odd pair: stargazing and architecture. But he always said, “astronomy is the architecture of the universe.” And architecture was the closest that mankind would ever come to building anything as captivating as the night sky. “The beauty of manmade structures pales in comparison to what we can find in the sky,” he would say, “but the products of human intelligence and human creativity are nonetheless inspiring in their own right.” He had never said anything so pretentious as a teenager; I think he took a course in philosophy or creative writing in college because that was around the time he started talking like that. He attended the University of Michigan College of Architecture. There were a number of architecture programs he had been considering, but he won a $20,000 scholarship for Michigan. Besides, he explained, “Michigan has a great astronomy program too, so maybe I can take some of their classes as electives.”

When we were kids I used to want to learn more about architecture and astronomy because of him, because whenever he would start talking about it I could hear the excitement in his voice and I could see the pride he took in his work when he would show off the models he made. I wanted to know what that excitement felt like. I wanted to know that feeling of pride. But I never did, and I sometimes think I never will. That’s all in the past anyway.

For his fifteenth birthday our parents had gotten him a brand-new Andromeda CelestialView 6 Reflector Telescope. He almost begged me to take him to Headlands Dark Sky Park in Mackinaw City to test it out. But he didn’t have to beg. I was happy to make the trip with him. Later that same summer our parents took us to the Village of Bay View so Eric could get a close-up look of the various architectural styles there. Trips like this were practically a summer routine for us. Eric was always visibly excited expounding on every detail of every notable building. Of course, I didn’t know much of anything about the topic and couldn’t follow most of what he was saying. But I loved these trips and I loved him.

The trips to the dark sky park were a big part of our lives after I had gotten my driver’s license, and he got his telescope. But Eric and I had always been extraordinarily close even before then, capable of having a good time in each other’s company no matter the circumstances. I remember the snowball fights we used to have with the other kids in the neighborhood. We grew up in a house on the corner of 8th and South G Street, right across from the big field that surrounded East Elementary School. On snow days when the schools closed down, we’d trudge out into the field, build our own little snow fort, and go to war with the other neighborhood kids. I like to say we were unstoppable, but anyone who was there knows we got pelted plenty of times, all in good fun.

I suppose we got to be as close as we were because our parents were often wrapped up in their own worlds of work. They were teachers, so even when they were home it often felt like they weren’t there. We’d have a family dinner but as soon as it was over, they would hide behind mountains of papers to correct, emails to read, and lessons to prepare. Even in the summer they were out of the house most days to attend some type of workshop or seminar.

I can’t say I ever really found my own interests, but I was always good at reading and arguing, so I eventually applied to law school. After I graduated from Lake Superior State University, I moved down to Ann Arbor to attend Michigan’s law school. Eric was just starting his junior year, so we rented an apartment together. During move-in week he showed me how he and his friends snuck fast food meals into the movie theater on Packard Road.

After law school I moved back to Cheboygan. By then Eric had started working for Willis & Carpenter Architecture in Romulus.

I had busied myself looking for a job, and within a few weeks I received an offer for employment from the Public Defender’s Office. Eric was the first person I called with the news. Our parents insisted on hosting a celebratory dinner that weekend.

It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. My phone chirped. Eric had texted, “Drinks on me after dinner.” I answered “sounds good.” He was driving up from Romulus for the family get-together, but that was the last communication we ever had.

Later that day, as I was driving over to my parents’ house, my phone rang. It was Dad calling. “Hi Lee. Are you on your way?”

“Yup. Looking forward to dinner.”

“Okay. We’ll talk when you get here.”

“Okay see you in a few.”

“Yeah.”

End call.

What did that mean? I knew I was running a little late, but I would have expected something like “Sounds good,” or “Great! See you soon.” But “we’ll talk when you get here”? Strange.

As I pulled up to the house, I noticed Eric’s car wasn’t there. As I parked and got out of my car, my father came out to meet me, his face disquieted. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Eric.” He hesitated, as if allowing the next words to be spoken would be too painful to bear. His hesitation stretched time immeasurably; The entire world now moved in slow motion. “There was an accident on 75 near Riggsville. EMTs took him to McLaren. We couldn’t get any information about his condition over the phone. Mrs. Johnson came by to take your mother there while I waited here for you.”

I stood stunned for a moment, before I realized what was going on.

I laughed and managed to say, “That’s a good one, Dad. You had me going for minute.”

“Lee, listen to me,” he said calmly, almost stoically.

“NO! It’s not true!” I shouted. My body flooded with anger. “STOP!” I ran into the house to try and find Eric and Mom. But they weren’t there. Time stopped and started as I stormed through each room looking for them. My father entered as I came back into the living room and embraced me. I suddenly felt too paralyzed to hug him back. And then it clicked; I had to get to McLaren, and I bolted for the door.

A drive to Petoskey would usually take 45 minutes to an hour. But I have no idea how much time passed on this trip. Once there, I hugged my mother and asked how she was holding up. My father arrived shortly afterward. And we waited… And we waited. I don’t know how long.

One of the trauma surgeons finally came into the waiting area. “Stevens family?” He called. Dad gestured to him that was us. There was no mistaking the surgeon’s expression as he approached. I could hear his voice, but not his words. I could see him and my parents, yet somehow felt like I was thousands of miles away. The world around me had changed. Everything was completely different yet somehow exactly the same. There was nothing left for me in the hospital. I stood up and walked away. I thought I heard my mother calling from behind me. Dad caught up to me, saying something about calling later when I got home. But the only thing calling was the whiskey in my cupboard. That night for the first time in my life, I drank until I passed out.

I couldn’t have been out for more than an hour when I was startled awake by a strange dream, but I remembered none of it… There was a place, a feeling, a memory maybe? But for a brief time I knew that Eric was still alive, that the terrible events of the previous day had been nothing more than a nightmare from which I had just awakened. I went back to bed, but sleep eluded me. I turned on the TV but nothing comprehensible appeared on the screen.

I felt the walls closing in. I had to leave. I hopped in my car and drove. Where was I going? I had no plan, but within a short time I found myself pulling off the highway into Mackinaw City. I stopped at a liquor store for another bottle of whiskey before heading into Headlands Park. The first time Eric and I came here was to test out his new telescope eight years earlier, but we had been back many times since. Eric insisted that we had to get a view of the stars as they changed with the seasons.

I parked by the event center and walked down to the shoreline. Sitting on the beach I could pick up snippets of other conversations carried on the wind: couples on stargazing date nights, parents pointing out constellations to their kids, a group of high school kids sneaking a few beers.

I wondered what we’d be talking about if Eric were here now. He’d probably have a story about his job, or some questions about what I would be doing in the Defenders’s Office. He would definitely have a story about the constellations that were out tonight. “Look over there. That’s the Herdsman,” I could hear him saying.

I lay back and looked up at the sky. I don’t know for how long. I don’t even know when I fell asleep, but I woke up to the ring of my phone and the sun in my face.

“Hello?”

“Lee, are you alright?” It was Dad calling.

“Yeah,” …What else are you supposed to say to that question? “Yeah, I’m alright.” Maybe if I didn’t say it, it couldn’t be true – it couldn’t be true that my brother, my best friend was dead.

“Listen, your mother and I have to make arrangements.” Arrangements? For what? “We’ll be heading over to the funeral home this afternoon to plan the services. We’d like for you to come along if you feel up to it.”

No. No. I can’t agree to that. I can’t say it. I still can’t believe it. At least, that’s what I thought. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.” The truth was I didn’t want to tell him I couldn’t be involved in “arrangements.”

The next several days are a blur in my memory. My parents planned Eric’s funeral, and I attended, as did many of our childhood friends. I couldn’t gather myself to speak. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to hear anyone tell me “he’s in a better place now,” as if that would comfort me. I didn’t need him in a better place. I needed him here, where I can call him, where we can make plans and see each other again.

Besides I’ve never believed in an afterlife anyway. It’s what we do here, now, in this world, in this life, that matters. This life is all we have, and all we have is each other – the people we connect with, the people we care about, and the people who care about us. And each time we lose one of those people, we lose a part of ourselves, a part we can never get back…

I’m not even sure what the point of writing all this is. Nobody else will ever know Eric the way I did. Nobody else will ever experience losing him the way I have. Maybe it’s because all I have left is his memory, and recording these memories in this black notebook is the only way to make sure I never lose them, the only way to keep a piece of him alive.