But It's Real

The neurologist says that one way to tell that someone is sane is this:
“You can tell the difference between what is real and what is... not real.” The neurologist looks up after saying this, but avoids my eyes. She pretty sure I am sane. She thinks she is sane. And we both think that our dead brother threw a particularly good party at his cottage the other night. 

My husband made the food. I did the dishes, and our living brother served the drinks. But Teddy was there, as present and palpable as the music streaming from the speakers by the kitchen, setting the tone and dictating the pace of the evening, which stretched long into the night, holding the last four of us to our chairs for another hand of bridge while we rubbed our eyes and apologized to each other and no one in particular for being drunk and tired and daft. We kept playing.

Teddy always loved a party. He loved the sense of a home filling up, the rush of sounds in a large room - the deep baritone laugh of bank presidents and the click of well made heels on a hardwood floor.  The look of a large hand slunk low in a deep pocket, and the gaiety of a well-pruned eyebrow raised at the sound of a slightly off-color joke told by a woman who can well afford to offend. He loved the cacophony of comfortable money.

There were no bank presidents in attendance last night. No heels.  No lined pockets. He came anyway. He shooed away the mosquitoes so that his eclectic family could linger on the deck, and he gave the Genius mix something to think about. His nephew, fresh from practicing hip hop flips at the beach, found Cat Stevens. We heard, for the first time in 7 years, the songs he sang to us on the chair lift. Everyone. Everyone. drank gin.

My sister, the neurologist, says sometimes what’s real isn’t so obvious. My sister, the caregiver, says she dreamed of Teddy after the party. He was sick, but he was going to travel anyway. He loved traveling. Never regretted a trip. She told him it was okay, he didn’t have to. He could change his mind.

She explained that she never dreamed about him, that it was weird. I looked down. It’s hard to prove that you’re sane once the cat is out of the bag. So I’ll just tell you: he didn’t listen to her. I’m dead certain. He’s traveling again.