Contemporary Short Story - Brotherly Love

About this story:

Twenty years after her little brother’s death, Tristin returns to the cemetery for the annual ritual of grief, memory, and family tension. But when a stranger with bright red hair crosses her path — and a portrait reveals an impossible truth — Tristin is forced to confront the past she thought she understood. “Brotherly Love” is a contemporary short story about loss, longing, and the moment grief cracks open into something far stranger. A quiet blend of family drama, LGBTQ fiction, and emotional mystery, it lingers long after the final line.

 

Tristin glanced at the weather one more time. Cloudy and cool with zero chance of precipitation. No sitting under umbrellas this year. Buttoning her blouse, she checked the fit of her jacket in the mirror, dusted tiny flakes of lint off the black fabric and adjusted her pixie cut back into place.

Walking down the hallway, she caught sight of Remy working at the kitchen counter. Tristin leaned against the doorway, watching her wife as she got her photography equipment ready for the big day. Remy's long brown hair nestled beneath a bright silk scarf, a single strand left to swing against her cheek, which she brushed away.

As if sensing she was being watched, Remy looked up. With a smile, she came around the island and gave Tristin a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Remy wore a white blouse and a flowered skirt with leather flip-flops.

She brushed her hands over the lapels of Tristin's fitted black suit. "You look very snazzy today."

Tristin winced.

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry." Remy gave her another hug, this time squeezing tighter. "I forgot what day it is."

Tristin patted Remy on the back and withdrew from the hug. "You're lucky."

"I didn't mean -"

Tristin stopped her with a kiss. "You're fine." She poured herself a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and stood at the island looking down at the pile of photography equipment.

Remy joined her. "Are you sure you don't want me to cancel?"

Tristin shook her head and placed her hand on Remy's elbow. "Definitely not, Sweetheart. This is your big break."

"It's just Pride parade."

"You are THE photographer. No one else to compete with." Tristin put down her mug and turned to face Remy. "You've worked so hard for this, and I'm so proud of you. Today is going to lead to great things. I can feel it."

Remy smiled, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Tristin laughed. She brushed her thumb across Remy's cheek. "You're such a silly."

Remy snorted, sniffing back her tears.

Tristin finished her coffee while Remy packed up the last of her camera equipment. She hefted the case to her shoulder. "Time to go."

"Are you sure you have everything?"

Remy nodded.

"Have a good day."

"You, too," Remy said. Then she slapped herself on the forehead. "You know what I mean."

Tristin gave her a peck on the cheek. "Go get 'em."

Alone in the apartment, Tristin stood at the island, lost in thought. Today was going to be hard. Twenty years was a long time. Would the picture make it easier or harder? She knew what she wanted, but would her mother and brother agree?

She shrugged to herself. Only one way to find out. Back in the bedroom she rummaged through the contents of her closet, emerging with a cardboard tube, the kind architects kept blueprints in. She considered opening it, but decided after waiting this long, another few hours wouldn't matter.

# # #

The parking lot was full, unusually busy, but then this year the anniversary fell on a Saturday. Tristin found a spot between an old van and an SUV. Getting out, she heard a car door close nearby.

She took a blanket, a small cooler, and the cardboard tube out of the trunk. Handling everything and shutting her trunk lid took more finesse than Tristin could manage. The next thing she knew, everything lay on the ground, the picture tube rolling away. She stood for a moment, breathing. She couldn't let the little things get to her today.

She bent to retrieve the blanket, which she folded, and pick up the cooler. 

A woman with wild red hair and bright green eyes approached with the picture tube held out. "I believe you dropped this."

"Thanks so much," Tristin replied. She shoved the blanket under her arm and took the tube in her free hand.

The woman nodded and continued towards the cemetery. Something about the interaction made Tristin pause. Only once the woman passed a group of people standing at the entrance, people wearing all black, did Tristin notice that she was wearing jeans and a tie-dyed t-shirt. Not typical cemetery attire.

The group in black stared at Tristin. Her family, waiting. She was the last to arrive, as usual. She shook off the stranger and went to join them.

She hugged her brother, Malcolm, and tugged at his beard in surprise. He tilted his head and shrugged. Camara, her sister-in-law, gave her a kiss on the cheek. Lastly, she bent to hug her mother. For the first time, her father wasn't there to laugh as she tried to reach up to hug around his neck. She missed his bear hugs.

"No kids today?" she asked Malcolm.

He shook his head.

"They're too little to understand," Camara replied. "Shall we?"

Tristin and Malcolm each took one of their mothers' hands. She gave them a smile. Early June meant summer, but the banked clouds doused the sun, and Tristin didn't regret wearing a suit after all.

'Just as the weatherman predicted,' Tristin thought to herself.

After the deluge of the last few days the ground still seeped. Tristin stepped around the puddles, trying to stay on the grass, glad she wore her black flats instead of heels. Her mother trudged down the middle of the path as if unaware of the mud. Tristin once again praised the fact that her little brother lay at the top of a rise. It would be drier up there.

They arrive at their destination. Tristin and Malcolm lay their blankets in front of the headstone. The four adults each brushed their hands across the words etched into the stone, murmuring a greeting before settling themselves.

"Happy Anniversary, James," Camara said.

Tristin thought that was an odd way to phrase it.

"Hey, Bro," said Malcolm, fist-bumping the marker. He sat on the blanket and Camara hugged her husband in support.

"Miss you, Buddy," said Tristin.

Their mother stood for a moment longer than the others. "My little boy." She patted the tombstone, her eyes closed. Finally, she came and sat with her children.

A bird chirped. Tristin found the nest in the tree above them. A light breeze ruffled the leaves, a few buds falling to the ground. The sight of a butterfly caught Tristin's eye, fluttering here and there. Birds flitted from tree to tree. She lost herself in the sounds and sights of the surrounding countryside.

After several minutes of silence, Malcolm spoke. "Do you remember the time James cut his own hair?"

Tristin laughed. "The dogs', too. We didn't know whose hair was who's." She still remembered her brother standing in the backyard with the scissors, his hair as short as the dogs in places. Even after shaving his head, there were spots where his scalp shone through.

"That poor dog," their mother said. "She let him do anything to her."

"We still have the picture of James riding Daisy." Tamara smiled.

The group went silent again, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. This is how they would spend the next couple of hours. Mostly quiet, occasionally rehashing the same few stories about a boy whose life ended too early. Twenty years. A long time to remember someone who only lived to the age of five.

"I miss Dad," Tristin said. "He was so good at telling these stories."

"Yum, yum. His home-made peanut-butter cups were the best." Malcolm patted his belly.

Camara laughed, but Tristin stared at her mother. Tears streamed down her face.

"I'm sorry, Mom." Tristin scuttled sideways. She put her arm around her mother's shoulders.

Her mother sniffled. "I almost made them. The peanut butter cups?"

Malcolm nodded.

"I started taking out the ingredients, but when I got the recipe card out... out of the cookbook." Her voice caught. She coughed and swallowed. "I saw his writing and I couldn't do it."

"It's only been eight months." Tristin squeezed her mom's shoulders again.

"Yeah, you can make them next year."

Tristin glared at her brother. "Next year you can make them yourself."

Malcolm frowned at her. "Maybe Remy can make them."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Tristin.

"I noticed she's not here. Too good to join us?"

"I told you. She has a shoot today."

"Oh, right." Malcolm threw up his hands. "The gay thing is more important than your brother."

Tristin and her mother gasped in unison.

"The pride festivities are much more than 'that gay thing'," she said. "This will give her some genuine connections to get more clients and slingshot her business."

Malcolm took a breath, but his wife placed her hand on his knee and shook her head. His breath whooshed out, and he deflated. "You're right," he said, patting his wife's hand. "I'm sorry, Sis. I didn't mean that. I'm an ass."

Tristin's brow still furrowed, she half-smiled. "As usual."

Their mother wiped her face with a tissue and blew her nose. "So, what did everyone bring today?"

Camara opened their cooler and held up her prize. "Kool-Aid and Nutella sandwiches."

Tristin leaned to the side and pulled her own cooler closer. "Deviled eggs and Wheat Thins."

Tristin disliked the strange picnic most of all on this unfortunate day, but it was part of the tradition. All their brother's favorite foods. After the blow-up with Malcolm, she chose not to complain. The next few hours went about as expected, with only a little more tension in the air. Everyone seemed to choose their words with care to avoid another argument. They chatted and snacked and watched other people come and go from other graves.

The sun came out and Tristin started to sweat. Time to head home. She wondered if she should mention the picture. Camara was putting garbage into their cooler. Their mother had stood, stretching the kinks out of her legs.

"Next time we should bring you a folding chair," Camara suggested. "You shouldn't have to sit on the ground."

Their mother shook her head. Pulling a rag from her purse, she wiped her son's headstone clean. "I like to be close to him."

Malcolm stood and folded his blanket. Tristin did the same. She decided it was now or never.

"Before we leave," Tristin announced. "I brought something I'd like to show you all."

Her family clustered around her.

She picked up the cardboard tube. She popped off the cover and pulled out a rolled-up sheet of paper. Un-rolling it she held the paper away from herself. The others stared.

"Remy has a friend, an artist, who does portraits." Tristin paused for a breath. "This is what Malcolm would look like today."

There was a pause, as if it took a moment for that sentence to sink in. Then their mother's face crumbled. She sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. Camara rushed to her side. Without a glance in Tristin's direction, Camara led their mother down the path towards the parking lot.

"What is wrong with you? Isn't today hard enough with dad missing?" Malcolm snatched up his cooler and turned away.

"I just wanted to know," Tristin said. "I wanted to know what he would look like. I thought everyone else would, too."

Without turning back, Malcolm replied. "I do, but not today."

"Why not today?"

Malcolm turned back to her; his face also streaked with tears. "You don't get it, do you?" He shook his head. "You've taken what was a simple day, a little sadder without dad, but simple, and you've made it REAL. For the first time in years, we're mourning James. He's dead. Again."

He stomped off down the path.

Tristin stood watching her family until they disappeared into the distance. Alone, she turned the picture around to see what caused such a fuss. The man looked a bit like Malcolm, a bit like their father, not exactly like either. Her legs got weak. She dropped to the grass. At first, tears filled her eyes. She understood why her mother walked away. A moment later, her tears dried up, anger bubbling up inside her.

Tristin stared at the portrait. The artist had captured little details that only someone close to the family would see. The cleft chin, the wild eyebrows, the strong jawline. How did she take a daycare photo of a five-year-old and turn it into this man?

The anger spiked through her. She rolled the paper up and slipped it into the tube to keep from crushing it in fists tingling with adrenaline. She ground her teeth. Her anger had no outlet - no one to hit, no bad man to rail against. The bad man was already in jail serving consecutive life sentences for killing her brother and his babysitter. For the first time in years, Tristin thought of Darlene, the teenager watching James that fateful day. It was time to pay her respects. She took a deep breath and let it out. Another and another, feeling the tension relent with each exhale. 

Darlene lay on the opposite side of the cemetery. Tristin searched for a bit, finally finding the right headstone. Darlene's parents spared no expense. Angel's wings spread to either side of Darlene's headstone, a porcelain oval containing a picture of the young woman inset into the stone. Tristin brushed her fingers across the photo. Only fourteen.

"What a waste."

Tristin started in surprise. A woman with bright red hair and a tie-dyed shirt stood beside her. Tristin remembered seeing her in the parking lot that morning.

"I'm sorry," Tristin said. "I didn't mean to intrude."

The woman waived the comment away. "Not at all. I'm glad you came." She stared into Tristin's eyes. "I visit your brother every year."

"Oh? Were you a friend of his?" Tristin fumbled through her memories, trying to place the face. The green eyes were memorable.

The woman turned back to the headstone. "Something like that."

Tristin stood awkwardly, holding her blanket and cooler. Her plan to come by, say 'hi' as it were, derailed. She couldn't leave while this woman stood there.

"Why was Darlene watching James that day?" The woman suddenly asked.

"Um." Tristin's family didn't discuss the details. More evading the reality of the situation, she supposed. "We were going to the zoo, I think. A reward for... something." She put her cooler down, laid the blanket on top, and then sat on both. She rubbed her temples. "James woke up with a fever that morning. So, he couldn't go with us."

The stranger kicked a leaf and slipped her hands into her pockets. "Why didn't your mom stay home instead?"

Tristin thought the woman must be a relative of Darlene's. She probably blamed Tristin and the rest of her family for what happened.

"We thought she would have to. Instead, Darlene offered to stay with James. She was at the house for some reason." Tristin squinted, trying to remember. "She heard my parents talking. She insisted."

The woman beside her smiled sadly. "That sounds like Darlene."

The two women stood silent for a moment.

"The guy who did it still claims he's innocent."

Tristin didn't want to talk about this, but she couldn't ignore the comment. "They never found the bodies."

Suddenly Tristin understood why she loved the picture that bothered her family so much. Her brother's grave wasn't special because his body wasn't there. Maybe deep down she didn't believe he was dead. She shook her head at the thought. Ridiculous.

Tristin's phone beeped. Some stupid Facebook notification, but it gave her an excuse. She stood and gathered up her things. "Excuse me."

The woman nodded, not taking her eyes off the headstone.

"It was nice meeting you."

The woman didn't respond, and Tristin walked away. At the entrance to the parking lot, Tristin stopped and glanced back. The woman no longer stood by Darlene's grave. Back in her car, Tristin sat for a few minutes, debating her next move. Go home or try to find Remy? She didn't relish the thought of being alone. So, she would go to the Pride Parade. First, she needed to make a stop.

She drove to the nearest mall. Being surrounded by people was surreal. On this day every year the world should stop. Everyone should mourn, or at least remember, with her. She wondered if other people were mourning their own losses, possibly losses from that very day. How strange they must feel. In the housewares section, Tristin dithered over the frames. The more expensive ones were pompous and brash. She found an inexpensive frame, dark brown and plain. Just what her brother would have wanted. The picture would hang in her apartment, regardless of what her family thought.

Back at the car, she didn't delay in placing the portrait into the frame. The dark wood complemented the brown of the man's hair. Tristin admired it for a moment and then placed it flat in the trunk, where it wouldn't move around. A long traffic-laden drive later and she arrived at Montgomery Park, that year's destination for all things Pride. It took some searching before she found a parking space. She would have a walk to find Remy. Tristin took off her jacket and rolled up her sleeves.

Once back in the fresh air, her spirits lifted. Rainbow balloons were everywhere. Pride banners with slogans like 'love is love' and 'we are all human' hung from the small tents dotted throughout the park. With the parade finished, Tristin had expected the crowd to have thinned, but most of the people were still celebrating. Many wore wild costumes, some not much more than glitter. Tristin was overdressed. She laughed at herself. This day meant inclusion. Everyone wore whatever they wanted. Still, she stopped at a tent with t-shirts and other merchandise for sale. After rummaging through the racks, she found a shirt that said, 'love is a terrible thing to hate'. She paid for it and then used a porta-potty as a change room. A few minutes later she came out holding her dress shirt, the new T-shirt on. 

With so much to do, Tristin forgot about her mission to find Remy. She also forgot the day, the arguments, everything. Wandering from tent to tent, she looked over merchandise and brochures. She chatted with others from the LGBTQ+ community, discussing everything from current politics to their favorite quiche recipes. Leaving another tent where she bought some rainbow jewelry to give to Remy, someone walking backwards taking pictures with their phone ran into her. The phone went flying, and Tristin almost fell to the ground. She steadied herself against a shelf of books at the front of the tent. After scrambling to find her phone, the woman who bumped into her came over to Tristin.

The woman from the cemetery.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "Are you ok?" Then she seemed to realize who she was speaking to. "Wow, small world, isn't it?"

Tristin laughed. "Are you following me?"

"Ha ha! I think I got here first."

Tristin checked her parcels and purse. Everything was in order. The woman took Tristin by the elbow and led her to a nearby bench where the two of them sat.

The woman gestured around them at the crowd. "Great minds think alike." She held out her hand. "I'm Daphne."

Tristin shook the woman's hand. "Tristin," she replied.

"I know." The woman winked.

Tristin laughed. Daphne exuded an air of mystery. Was it the red hair? A thought popped into her head. Darlene had red hair. With that thought, the whole awful day came back to her. Tristin slumped, deflated. The bright scene before her seemed to darken, and she remembered why she was here. It was time to find Remy and go home. She turned to her new friend to make her excuses and leave.

Daphne said, "You look like you could use a drink."

"Oh, no, I'm... I'm," Tristin stuttered. It had been a long time since someone had asked her out. "I'm sorry, I'm married," she blurted out.

Daphne stared at her for a minute and then broke out laughing. "I guess that is a valid assumption, seeing where we are." She shook her head. "I'm here with my boyfriend."

"Oh!" Tristin looked around, as if the man would magically appear at any moment.

"He's hanging out with his sister. She's the organizer."

Tristin remembered meeting the organizer herself when Remy applied for the position of photographer. Type A personality for sure. Fourteen conversations going on at the same time as she was interviewing Remy. Emails, phone calls, people stopping to get her input on this layout or that slogan. Tristin had wondered if the woman even slept.

"I'm surprised she had the time."

"You're not wrong there," Daphne said. "He's probably listening to her talk on the phone." She laughed. "You never know. Things are winding down. She could be relaxing and enjoying his company."

The two women people-watched for a minute, but the day had lost its sparkle for Tristin. She gathered up her purchases and stood with a stretch. Daphne stood, too.

"About that drink?"

Tristin agreed to herself that she needed a drink, but she also needed the serenity of her own home.

“Thanks, but I'm going to take a rain check.”

Daphne smiled. "No worries."

The two women shook hands, and Tristin headed towards the parking lot. She'd wait for Remy at home.

"Hey, Tristin," Daphne called out. Tristin turned around. "If you change your mind, we'll be at The Tavern for a bit."

Tristin nodded and waved. This time, when she got to the parking lot, she didn't look back.

At the apartment Tristin hung up her purse and her keys, dumped her purchases on the floor and carried the framed portrait into the kitchen.

"Is that you?" A voice called out.

Tristin poked her head into the office. Remy sat at her desk. In the semi-dark light from the computer screen shone against her skin.

"I didn't think you'd be home yet."

"I finished early. Come see."

"First, a glass of wine. You?"

Remy nodded.

Tristin came back a minute later with two glasses of wine. She handed one to Remy and then pulled a chair next to her to see the pictures her wife had taken that day.

"How was your day?" Remy asked.

Tristin shook her head.

"The portrait?"

"Not good."

Remy nodded in sympathy and turned back to the computer screen. "I went back to the beginning."

Tristin pushed against her wife's shoulder. "You didn't have to do that."

Remy showed her the photos, explaining who each person was, what they did. She talked about their partners and their part in the Pride festivities. Tristin goggled at her.

"How do you remember all this stuff?"

"There's something about chatting with someone while taking their photograph. It sticks in my brain."

Tristin laughed and laid her head on Remy's shoulder. "You're just what I needed."

Remy patted her cheek and then continued with the show. "Oh, hey. Here's someone you've never met." Remy gestured at the screen. "Daphne, my artist friend who did the rendering of your brother."

Tristin sat up straight. "I have met her," she said. "Today. Both at the cemetery and at the Pride park."

"Really? Wait, when did you go to the park?"

"Before I came home. I was looking for you, but obviously you weren't there."

"Well, heck!" Remy said. "Then I guess you met her boyfriend, Mike." She clicked the mouse and a new photo popped up on the screen. Remy smiled. "They're such a cute couple. She's a few years older than him, but she doesn't show it."

Tristin stopped listening. She stared at the picture of the man in front of her. The curly brown hair. The cleft chin. The strong jawline.

"No..." her voice broke, and she coughed. "That's my brother."

Remy stopped chattering. "Malcolm? No, he's not."

Tristin corrected her. "James. That's James."

"Sweetie." Remy turned in her chair and placed both her hands on Tristin's face, turning Tristin to face her. The other woman tore her eyes away from the screen. "James is dead. Remember? Today was the anniversary. You spent the day with your family at the cemetery."

"I'm not having a stroke or something, Remy," Tristin said, pushing her hands away. "I know what day it is. I also know who that is." She jumped up from the chair. "Wait, I'll show you."

She rushed to the kitchen where she had left the frame and brought it back to the office. She snapped on the light as she passed the switch.

She propped the frame on the desk beside the computer to compare the two pictures.

The two women stared for a minute.

"What the hell?" asked Remy.

There was no doubt the two pictures were of the same man.

"I told you!"

"Wait! Wait, wait!" Remy stood and paced. "This doesn't make any sense."

Tristin gaped at the photos. Alive! She knew some part of her had always thought so.

Remy snapped her fingers. "I've got it." She came back to the desk. "Daphne used Mike as her model." She turned to Tristin. "Did you ever see examples of her work before you hired her?"

"Of course. She showed me samples of her aging technique."

Remy rubbed her chin. "That doesn't mean anything. I mean, we have no idea if they were any good. Or even if they were aged. What if she did portraits of real people? Maybe she's swindled other people this way."

Tristin's head was whirling. What to believe? Her mind was telling her it was impossible, her brother had been dead for 20 years, but her heart didn't agree. She thought back to earlier that day when she had first seen the rendering. She remembered thinking the artist had caught certain features specific to her family.

"No, I know it's James. I can prove it!" Tristin leapt up and rushed to the bedroom. There was a box under the bed. She rummaged through it until she found what she was looking for. She ran back to the office.

She slammed the old photo album on the desk and flipped pages until she found the photos she needed. A picture of her dad when he was younger and another picture of her brother Malcolm from the year before. She held them up, side by side, beside the picture on the computer screen.

The three men looked like brothers.

Remy stared. Her eyes wide and her mouth open.

"How is that possible?"

Tristin shook her spinning head. She needed to sit down. Another thought flashed into her head and kept her on her feet as she searched the album. "Show me Daphne again."

Remy stepped up and clicked the mouse. Daphne's red hair, green eyes and smiling face filled the screen.

"Aha!" Tristin pulled out another photo. Again, she held it up.

The photo was of a young woman, about fourteen. Her bright hair and green eyes were distinctive. Even without that, she was clearly a younger version of the woman on the computer screen. How had Tristin missed the resemblance when she was at the gravestone, speaking with Daphne earlier?

"Come on." She tossed the picture aside as she grabbed her wife's hand. "Come on. We have to go!"

"Where?"

"The Tavern. She said they'd be at the Tavern."

# # #

Remy drove. Tristin barely made it to the car without tripping over herself several times. She couldn't be trusted behind the wheel. The drive was a short one, but long enough for Remy to put some of their thoughts into words.

"Where have they been all this time?"

"Did she kidnap him?"

"I just don't understand."

"Should we call your brother? Malcolm, I mean."

"Wait, does that mean the guy in jail IS innocent?"

"They changed their names. Darlene to Daphne, James to Mike. What's that all about?"

"Why come back now? Wait, what if they've been here all along!"

The questions swirled in Tristin's head. But there was only one thought that mattered - she was going to see her brother. Her brother was alive. At each traffic light and every traffic snarl-up Tristin pressed forward in her seat, whispering 'go, go, go' to herself. She held her seatbelt in both fists, squeezing it tighter with the delays.

Remy pulled to a stop and Tristin hopped out of the car without waiting for her. Inside the smell of hops greeted her. Country music played on the jukebox. A few men at the bar and a couple in a booth stared at her as she rushed inside. Tristin checked out the other patrons. She searched the booths, behind the bar. She even checked the restroom, but Darlene and James had left. Maybe they had never been there. Tristin slumped and then dropped into the nearest chair.

Remy went up to the bar. "Excuse me. We're looking for friends that might have been here earlier. Red-headed woman and a brown-haired man?"

"Are you Tristin?" asked the bartender.

Tristin perked up. She approached the bar. "I am."

The man handed her a piece of paper. "She asked me to give this to you."

Tristin took the paper with shaking hands. She glanced at Remy, who nodded at her, and then unfolded the note.

"Too late," was all it said.

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