By Daniel Crépault

The jarring ringtone cut through Winston’s sleep, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through him that was as unwelcome as stepping on a Lego block in bare feet. Half asleep as he was, Bonnie’s nasally voice grated on his ears as his sister-in-law delivered the news. “Your brother is dead.”

There was a long pause as Winston, shaking away slumber, forced his leaden tongue to formulate some response. “I didn’t even know he was sick,” he said finally, sounding like some Vaudevillian hack. He coughed loudly into the phone, not from any genuine need, but solely to break the silence that followed.

Unfazed, Bonnie continued, sharing the grim story that by then she’d practically memorized. She described the doctor’s prognosis, James’ worsening condition, and how the illness ate away his strength until he couldn’t even get out of bed. Winston listened to the slurred words, saw the glowing clock across the room that read 12:07 AM, and thought he could almost smell the Manhattans through the phone. He opened his messages app and scrolled through recent texts with his brother, searching through what seemed like an endless sea of GIFs for some mention of his brother’s illness. Finding none, his face flushed hot. “Why wasn’t I told?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice controlled.

“James didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t want anyone to see him like that, especially toward the end.”

“I’m his brother! He damn well could have picked up the bloody phone!” There was a pounding in his ears now. His heart was racing. Bonnie was blubbering incoherently.

“Oh God, Bonnie. I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the phone. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

“I tried…” she said through sobs, before reverting to that muttered, incomprehensible tongue known only to drunks. He tried his best to soothe her, telling her things a grieving widow might want to hear—that it wasn’t her fault, that she needed to be strong for the kids, and that he would come up to see her very soon. Then he ended the call and sat on the floor.

Winston’s stomach roiled and a metallic taste filled his mouth. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself not to retch, and focused on taking deep breaths the way his therapist had taught him. The moment soon passed, leaving him drenched in sweat but calm. He sat up, leaned against the foot of the bed, and stayed motionless for what seemed like a long time, listening to the passing cars outside his house and watching as their headlights flashed along the wall.

He tilted his head and looked out the window at the night sky visible just above the housetops, hoping to see stars, but saw only the sickly orange glow of city lights. When they were kids, they’d spent hours in the backyard with their father’s telescope peering up at the moon. They’d even consulted a battered old atlas to learn the names of lunar regions. The Sea of Serenity had always been his brother’s favourite. Winston’s chest tightened at the memory, and he wondered if there was any serenity wherever his brother was now.

His thoughts wandered back to Bonnie. Over the years, their mutual dislike had evolved into thinly veiled hostility that sometimes bubbled to the surface as they traded sarcastic barbs across the dinnertable at holidays. James had confronted them about it once, but neither had been able to articulate the origin of the dislike, both blaming personality differences or irreconcilable political opinions. But Winston could see the undeniable truth now. It had always been about James. They’d both loved him, more than most and saw the other as a threat. And now they’d both lost him. His stomach tightened again as he remembered shouting at her over the phone, promising himself to call her first thing in the morning when she sobered up.

Placing his head in his hands, he saw his phone glowing faintly in the dimness around his feet. He picked it up and glanced at the conversation and the profile picture showing his brother, still healthy and giving that boyish grin of his. Winston’s thumbs tapped slowly as he wrote a final message to end the conversation. His thumb hovered over the Send button, then hurriedly erased it and tossed the phone onto the bed. The cars were passing less frequently now, and the shadows were creeping away down the walls, chased away by the amber sunrise blooming over the freeway.

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Daniel Crépault is a criminologist, addiction treatment provider, and emerging short fiction writer. He lives in Ottawa, Canada with his wife and two beautiful children.