In Small Measure

“Alex, I’m privy to every patient’s medical file, and unfortunately, the reality is that your brother is dying. The cancer has metastasized all over his body,” I say into the phone, trying to infuse both silk and steel into my voice. “He knows he made mistakes, and those mistakes have been haunting him. He’s asking, begging really, that you come. He wants to speak to you while he still can.”

“Classic!” The man literally snorts. “I’m supposed to trek across the country, rush to his bedside so he can relieve his guilty conscience. And those ‘mistakes’?” Another snort. “Gotta love it. A mistake is when you bump into another car because you misjudged how far it was from yours. No one robs his only brother of his entire inheritance ‘by mistake.’ ” His voice cracks, pain oozing past the rage.

“He hurt you,” I say quietly. “He hurt you badly.” I pause, letting my words sink in, letting the man on the other side of the line know that his pain is seen, acknowledged, heard. That has to happen before I can move forward.

There’s heavy breathing, and then, slowly, it softens. I take that as my cue. “Alex, you have every right to say you never want to see Robert again. No one would blame you — not even Robert. Especially not Robert.” I pause. Then, “But picture a year from now. The doctor estimates Robert has a month left, two tops. How will you feel in a year, in five years, in ten years, when you think back to this time, to your brother being alone during the scariest moments of his life?”