It seemed like I blinked.
I shook my head, “How in the hell-“
We were in Kentucky, on my parents’ old farm. In the distance, I could see the Littrells’ house. Brian and I had grown up here. Sure, our families had both moved later, but this had been our childhood home. “What are we doing here?” I asked, surprised. I looked at my dad. “Is this like – Christmas past or something?”
“Wrong story, Kev,” my dad said, smiling sadly.
“But mom sold this house,” I stammered, “I bought her a –“ I stopped, realizing the keywords I’d said. I had bought her a new home, a smaller one that was easier for an older woman to keep up and to navigate. I gnawed my lip. “So she never moved.”
“Never,” my father replied.
“Well that’s a good thing,” I answered, “She always loved this house, she didn’t really want to leave even when I bought her the new place, so…”
My father smiled sadly. “Come, let’s go inside.”
I followed as he led the way to the front door and we walked inside. Nothing had changed since I was a boy. The furniture, the knick-knacks, everything was the same. Everything, that is, except my mother. She was still aged, as she’d been the last time I’d gone to see her. Even in her late years, my mom had a glow of beauty about her… but she seemed sad. She moved, wraith-like, from room to room, dusting the furniture with a cloth and some spray.
“Why is she so sad?” I asked.
“She’s lonely,” my father answered.
I thought of the long hours of Skype conversations she and I frequently had, the ones where she insisted I tell her every minute detail of the tours or, more recently, Mason’s every move, and when she told me stories about visiting the grocery store for beans and a recipe she learned from watching Rachael Ray.
“She doesn’t have that anymore,” my father intoned quietly. “The mortgage is so high, she can’t afford cable, and there’s no you to talk with.”
“What about Tim and Jerald?” I asked, referring to my brothers.
“They’re busy,” he answered. “And you were too but you always took the time out to call her, and you were always so patient to let her have her time she needed with you…” My father’s eyes misted, “But you don’t exist.” He smiled at me in a forced manner.
I stared at my mother as she paced about, dusting. I wanted to hug her. I moved closer and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder from behind. She turned, and her eyes lit up. “Hey mom,” I said. But before I could speak another word – she ran, right through me, to the front door, a flurry of excitement. “What the –“ I turned and looked at my dad.
“She can’t see us, Kevin,” he explained, “Nor can she hear us or feel us. We don’t exist... remember?”
My stomach churned.
“At least someone is around to visit her…” my father murmured, as my mother opened her front door and started gushing with joy. I couldn’t see who it was from where I was standing, I strained, listening.
“I was just about to make some chocolate chip cookies, dear,” she was saying, her voice trembling happily, “Let me see your coat. Take off your shoes, you can leave them there. I just washed the floor so keep your stockings on…” My mother came bustling around the corner, bee-lining happily for the kitchen.
“Cookies sound fantastic, Aunt Anne,” came a familiar voice, though the accent was much, much thicker than I’d last heard it. Brian followed after my mother, wearing dirty jeans, a plaid, long-sleeved shirt, and socks. He had a Wildcats baseball cap on and a pair of thin-framed glasses that sat awkwardly on his ears.
“Brian?” I gasped in surprise. I looked at my father. “But he’s in Boston, with the fellas.”
My father shook his head, but he said nothing.
Why isn’t Brian in Boston? I wondered.
I moved to follow Brian into the kitchen and he sat down at the small wooden table as my mother pulled a recipe book down from a shelf over the sink and started looking up the recipe for her famous chocolate chip cookies. The idea of them alone made my mouth water. Brian was sitting in the chair, seemingly contented looking.
“So how are things going over there?” she asked as she started collecting ingredients.
“Oh, you know,” Brian answered, “It’s quiet, as usual. Ma and dad are working on the song for choir tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you singing for Christmas?” my mother looked at him pleadingly.
Brian shook his head. “It’s enough that I’m going to be up there delivering the sermon, don’t you think?” he smiled and my mother laughed as she began mixing the ingredients into a bowl.
“I’m sure you’ll do a marvelous job,” she assured him.
I looked at my dad. “So Brian became a pastor instead of joining the band?” I stammered. Brian had started off with plans to go to college to go into the pastoral ministry, but I had -
I had called him and invited him to audition for BSB.
Brian never received the offer.
I stared at him in disbelief. He never got the chance to get out of Kentucky, to see the world. Brian never even moved out of his parents’ house. Despite, that, though, he seemed… content. He was there to visit my mother, he filled the void that I’d left behind. Sure, maybe he hadn’t gone into singing – his true passion - but he’d done what he’d always wanted to do. He’d gone to college, earned a degree, become a pastor, and kept his family close…
He was happy. Changed, but happy.
“C’mon…” my dad said, taking my hand, “There’s other things to see.”
