Chapter 11 - The Brother I Thought I Knew
Brandon called me on a Sunday.
The first words out of his mouth were not an insult.
They weren't even an apology.
"Do you remember the tree house?"
I stood beside my hotel window.
"What?"
"The tree house behind Grandma's place."
I remembered.
Dad built it one summer when we were children.
Brandon was seven.
I was ten.
There was a rope ladder, a crooked wooden platform, and a little flag made from an old pillowcase.
Brandon fell trying to climb down.
I caught him before he struck the ground, and both of us landed in the grass.
He cried.
I scraped my knees bloody.
Dad came running.
He hugged Brandon.
Then he yelled at me for allowing my little brother to climb too high.
"I remember," I said.
Brandon was quiet.
"Do you remember what Dad told everybody?"
"That you were brave."
"He told people I jumped."
"Yes."
"He said I jumped because I wasn't afraid of anything."
I leaned against the window.
"Why are you bringing this up?"
"Because I started believing him."
His voice cracked.
"All those years, he told me I was the fearless one. The natural leader. The one who would make the family proud."
I didn't answer.
"And every time you did something good, he made it sound like it wasn't important."
"I noticed."
Brandon exhaled.
"I know."
The admission surprised me.
He continued.
"I used to think you enjoyed making me look stupid."
"When?"
"When you got into the Academy. When you became an officer. Every time you came home wearing something new on your uniform."
"Those accomplishments had nothing to do with you."
"I know that now."
I looked down toward the street.
"You humiliated me because you were jealous?"
"At first."
"And later?"
He hesitated.
"Because everybody laughed."
I closed my eyes.
"That's worse, Brandon."
"I know."
He began to cry.
Not loudly.
Just the exhausted, uneven breathing of a man realizing that the habits he considered harmless had consequences.
"I thought Vale liked me," he said.
"He made me feel important. He'd invite me into his office and tell me I had better instincts than half the officers aboard."
"Did he ask you to share your password?"
"Yes."
"And destroy the report?"
"Yes."
"Why did you agree?"
"He told me I was helping the ship."
"Did you believe him?"
Brandon took a long time to answer.
"I wanted to."
That was the first entirely honest thing he'd said to me in years.
He explained that Vale had praised his judgment, offered him opportunities, and suggested that important people were watching his career.
Then the favors became requests.
A password.
A document.
A small administrative change.
Something that would "save everybody unnecessary trouble."
By the time Brandon realized he might be involved in something improper, he was afraid to admit what he'd done.
So he kept obeying.
"And Dad?" I asked.
Brandon went quiet.
"Did he tell you to trust Vale?"
"Yeah."
"What exactly did he say?"
"That the Vales were family."
I looked toward the harbor.
"Did he tell you about Fort Carson?"
"No."
"Did you ever ask?"
"Once."
"What happened?"
"He got angry."
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then Brandon said something I hadn't expected.
"When I grabbed your uniform, I knew you were an admiral."
I felt the air leave my chest.
"What?"
"I knew."
"But you acted surprised."
"I'd seen the photograph."
"The one Dad mocked?"
"Yeah."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Then why did you say my stars were fake?"
His voice broke.
"Because I wanted everybody to laugh at you before they found out who you were."
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
That truth hurt more than the shove.
More than the insults.
More than my father's thirty years of indifference.
Brandon had deliberately tried to strip away the respect I'd earned because he couldn't bear to stand beside me.
I swallowed.
"Thank you for telling me."
"Sandra—"
"I need to go."
"Please don't hang up."
I stared at the water.
"Brandon, you can tell the truth now and still have to answer for what you've done."
"I know."
"An apology doesn't erase misconduct."
"I know."
"And I cannot protect you from this investigation."
He sniffed.
"I wasn't asking."
I almost believed him.
Then he whispered, "I just wanted my sister back."
I closed my eyes.
"You never lost your sister."
I paused.
May you like
"You spent thirty years refusing to know her."
And I ended the call.
