When I arrived at the house a little after ten, I found Brady in the family room watching TV with Frisco in his lap.
He swung his head around when I stepped into the open kitchen behind him. “Where were you?” He sounded perturbed.
“Lark needed a ride home, but she insisted on taking me out for sushi first.”
Brady’s eyes widened. “You went on a date with her?”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Sounds like a date.”
“Not a date.”
Brady turned back to his TV show. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and joined him on the L-shaped couch. “Hey. Great game tonight.”
“Thanks.”
A few seconds of silence. My eyes were drawn to the TV screen. A parade of humanoid monsters were stalking a man whose only weapon was a baseball bat. I turned from what promised to be a gruesome spectacle.
“Want to help me stain the wood for the container garden boxes in the morning?” I asked.
Brady shifted on the couch. “Uh, not really. That’s your deal, Ty. I’m glad you’re doing it, and I think my mom’s really going to like them. But tomorrow morning I’m sleeping in. And I have plans in the afternoon.”
A chorus of wails and screeches erupted from the TV, along with harried music and sounds I couldn’t even begin to describe. “Oh? What kind of plans?”
“Mom already said I could go.”
“You talked to your mother?”
“She called me this morning to say hi and I asked her. She said I could go.”
More crunching and wailings and screaming. I winced at the sound of it. “Go where?”
Brady picked up the remote and clicked off the TV.
“Wow. Um, you don’t have to turn it off because of me,” I said, but I was glad he did.
“I can tell zombies aren’t your thing. It’s streaming. I can watch it on my computer in my room.” He stood and so did I. Frisco jumped to the floor.
I had the distinct impression Brady was leaving the room because I was in it.
“You don’t have to go. I can find something else to do.”
“It’s cool. I’m tired anyway.” Brady tossed the remote onto the couch and started to walk away.
“Would you tell me where you’re going tomorrow? I’m sure Dad and your mom expect me to know.”
“Because you’re in charge?”
“Because we’re brothers. And yes, they did leave me in charge.”
He spun around to look at me. “Paintball. I’m going with some friends to play paintball.”
Our eyes locked. So many unspoken words lay hidden behind Brady’s stare.
“Need any money for it?” I asked.
He kept his eyes on mine. “Nope. Dad left me some.”
My brother walked past me, Frisco trailing.
“Good night,” I called after him.
“Yep.”
“I meant what I said about the game tonight. You did great.”
I heard him sigh quietly before he responded, as if hearing my praise annoyed him.
“Thanks,” he said and then he was gone from view.
If that was the way Brady responded to admiration regarding his football-playing, no wonder Dad assumed he wasn’t happy about being on the team. I tossed up another prayer for wisdom when it came to my brother and then headed into the study to see if my dad had emailed me back.
He had, but there was no mention of my request to go down to the storage unit and hunt for the box of my mother’s photos. Instead his email just talked about the hot and humid weather, the dust storms, the food. He wanted to know how the game went, so I typed a quick update, electing not to tell him about Brady’s continued strange attitude. I was still hopeful that I could figure out why my little brother was mad at me before my dad returned.
I said nothing more about the photos, though suddenly they were all I could think about. I had a feeling the omission in my father’s email was intentional, which really irritated me. As I closed down the first floor of the house and headed up the stairs to my room, I felt myself growing even more agitated until my heart began to pound with anger. Didn’t he understand how important this was? My request had not been made lightly. What right did he have simply to ignore it and pretend I’d never said a word? Truly, if I had a key to the unit and the knowledge of where it was located, I just might march over there and dig up those pictures myself.
My bedtime prayers were brief and rote, and as I lay in bed afterwards, trying to calm my frustration, Lark’s comment about how I came to be raised Amish kept repeating itself in my head.
Crazy.
I knew she didn’t mean insane. She meant it didn’t make any sense.
Thinking about that now, I realized her reaction hadn’t been all that different from Rachel’s when we were kids.
“He’s your dad,” she had cried. “And he just gave you away.”
Maybe they were right to be so appalled.