Three Weeks With My Brother (41 page)

Three weeks after our trip to New York, my brother called me. It was my birthday, and as soon as I answered the phone, he began to sing to me, in the same way my sister always had.

I listened with my eyes closed, remembering it all.

“I guess I’ll have to do this for you now,” he said, when he finished. “It’s a tradition, you know.”

I smiled, missing my sister but thankful for my brother.

“Thanks, Micah.”

“No problem, little brother.”

There was one other way in which my brother changed as well.

While he still went to church, his attendance became sporadic and continued to diminish as time went on. And on those days he did go, he sat in the pew and felt nothing.

With my sister’s death, my brother had lost his faith.

I, too, had suddenly become aware of the fragility of life and the preciousness of time. But as similar as Micah and I were in many ways, my reaction was exactly the opposite.

I came to believe that because life could end at any moment, I had to be prepared for any eventuality. I wanted to make sure my family was taken care of, no matter what might happen in the future. I had goals, and with the clock ticking, I had to hurry up and meet them before the unthinkable occurred. There was suddenly no time to waste. I had to hurry, I had to get things ready, I had to work. I had to
go.

Less than two weeks after my sister’s funeral, I began to work on
A Bend in the Road
, a story inspired by my brother-in-law, Bob. It was the story of a young widower with a child, and I forced myself to sit at the computer for days on end to finish it. That fall, I toured in Europe and the United States to promote
The Rescue
, and as soon as the edits on
A Bend in the Road
were completed in early 2001, I began
The Guardian
, which would eventually become my longest and most challenging book to date. Little by little, work on the novel began to consume me.

I’d become so used to stress in the last eleven years that it was as if I didn’t know how to function without it, and from that point on I continually added more to my plate. In January 2001, we found out that Cat was pregnant again; a few months later we learned she was having twin girls. After three boys, it was definitely exciting, and expecting twins seemed appropriate considering the sudden increase in the pace of life.

I became the master of scheduling. Every minute was planned for during the course of a day. Time was not to be wasted, even when I didn’t work, for my responsibilities didn’t end there. To accomplish everything, I compartmentalized my life into little boxes: If I wasn’t working, I was dad, or husband, and I focused on those areas as intensely as my work. In the same way I sought my parents’ approval, I sought my family’s. I couldn’t be simply dad, I tried to be
super-dad
: I coached soccer teams, attended gymnastics practices, helped with homework, played catch, and spent the weekends boating, bowling, swimming, and heading to the beach. I continued working with Ryan informally—he no longer needed intense structure—and played on the carpet with Landon every night. I tried to be the best husband I could, helping around the house, and doing my best to romance my wife. Somehow, despite all that, I squeezed in time to earn a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, lift weights, and jog daily. I continued to read a hundred books a year.

I slept less than five hours a night.

It wasn’t all bad news, however. In the spring of 2001, I picked up the phone to hear Micah’s excited voice.

“Christine is pregnant,” he said. “We just found out.”

“Congratulations,” I said sincerely. “When’s the baby due?”

“January,” he said. “Just like Landon. And the twins will be only a few months old when she’s born, so they’ll have fun as cousins when they get older. When are the twins due?”

“Late August. How’s Christine holding up?”

“Great, so far. She wouldn’t have even known that she was pregnant except for the home pregnancy test she took.”

“That’s wonderful,” I enthused. “I’ll tell you, though—it’s going to change your life.”

“I know. I can’t wait.”

“You ready for this? Being a father?”

“Of course I’m ready. I’ve raised Alli since she was two.”

“That’s when they start getting easy. Wait until there’s a newborn. It’s a whole different world.”

“Any words of advice you want to offer? Since it’s my first time, and you’re the expert?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Toward the end of the pregnancy, see all the movies you can.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I said, “you’re not going to see another movie for at least a year.”

“Yeah, we will. Christine loves movies.”

“Trust me,” I said. “Nothing can change a lifestyle more than having a baby.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. Despite myself, I smiled inwardly. He’d learn soon enough.

“And Micah?”

“Yeah?”

“Congratulations again. Everything changes, but it’s a change for the better.”

“Thanks, little brother.” He paused. “Oh yeah, one more thing—Cat wanted me to tell you this.”

“What’s that?”

“Quit working so hard.”

“I will when you start going to church again.”

We both laughed.

“This is great,” I said. “I’m happy for you and Christine.”

“Me, too.”

I didn’t listen to my brother. Or to my wife.

By early summer 2001, one year after my sister’s death, Cat was heavy with twins, and I had to take on even more responsibility, since she couldn’t keep up with the toddler or the older boys. To meet those additional demands on my time, I found myself sacrificing more sleep. Throughout that summer, I averaged less than three hours a night, and though I felt like a zombie when I stumbled out of bed, I quickly poured a cup of coffee, and charged into my day.

And I went and went and went. Working. Watching the kids. Taking care of Landon. Cleaning the house. Go, go, go.

Somehow, I was pulling it off. But a pace like that isn’t normal, nor is it realistic. Something had to give, and for me, it was not only sleep, but simple downtime during the day. No lazy mornings sleeping in, no poker games with friends, no time to watch sports on television. I rushed through lunch and dinner. For a while, it didn’t bother me, for my schedule made it seem as if I were in control of my life. I was taking care of all that I needed to. The schedule, though, had begun to control me. Little by little, I forgot how to relax. Even worse, I began to feel as if I didn’t deserve to relax.
Not until I finished
——— (fill in the blank).

But nothing was ever finished. There was always one more page to write, one more novel to finish, one more city to add to a tour, one more interview to give. My children continued to need my attention, no matter how much time I spent with them the day before. There was always another chore around the house. I wasn’t necessarily unhappy—boredom has never suited me—and the pace wasn’t killing me physically. But the lack of downtime, I would eventually realize, wasn’t good for me mentally or emotionally. I began waking every day with the sense that I was falling behind. Despite my best efforts, I began to feel as if I were failing. Where once I was doing all those things because I wanted to, it gradually came to feel as if I
had
to, as if I had no other choice.

I say this in retrospect. At the time, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Back then, all I knew was that I began to wake up with a sickening sense of dread. As soon as my eyes popped open, my mind filled with all that I had to do, and how my only chance to get it done was to start right then, at that moment, and get going. My life was a long to-do list, and instead of slowing down and doing what I could, I’d roll up my sleeves, grit my teeth, and work even harder.

Again, I wasn’t consciously unhappy about it. I tried to find humor in the situation. I continued to laugh. People often remarked at how optimistic I seemed or how much I smiled. Yet, slowly but surely, life was becoming a grind, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

My brother and I continued to speak on the phone regularly that summer. Our conversations—after discussing our pregnant wives—usually went as follows:

“What’s going on?” he might ask, and I’d begin telling him everything I had scheduled. When I finished, he’d say nothing for a moment.

“So when do you sleep?” he’d ask.

“When I get the chance,” I answered. Strangely, I felt a sense of pride about this, as if this were an admirable quality.

“That’s dumb,” he said. “You gotta sleep. And you gotta take time for yourself, too. You’ll go crazy if you don’t. Haven’t you learned the importance of balance yet? Life is all about balance, and right now, your life is seriously out of whack.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Well, you sound stressed.”

“Just busy. I’m fine—really,” I said. “So what’s going on with you?”

“Just living my life. I get up whenever I want and linger over the newspaper. I work out for a while, get in the shower around noon, and then figure out what I want to do next.”

“Must be nice.”

“You could do it, too. Everyone chooses his own life.”

“Not always,” I said. “Sometimes responsibilities get in the way. Granted, I could choose to ignore them, but it wouldn’t be good for my family.”

“Your family will be fine. You’re just making excuses. You’re going to go crazy if you keep up like this.”

I didn’t see it that way. I knew, however, there was no use arguing with him.

“Enough about me. How are you doing?”

“The same.”

“You going to church yet?”

“Not really.”

“How’s Christine handling it?”

“The same. She’s not too happy about it.”

“Don’t you think you should go then? If only for her?”

“You go to church for yourself, Nick. If you go for someone else, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then go for you.”

“I’m not in the mood right now. I’ve got nothing against it, but I’m not getting anything out of it when I do go. I feel like a hypocrite sitting there.”

“You can always use the time to pray.”

“I’ve tried praying. I prayed for Dana every day, and she still died. Praying doesn’t work.”

We acknowledged our standoff with a moment of silence before Micah cleared his throat.

“So how’s Ryan doing?”

In early August 2001, my brother was proven correct.

Endless nights of allowing myself only three hours of sleep had left me exhausted, and something inside me finally gave way. It came out of the blue. I woke with a feeling of anxiety unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I couldn’t concentrate, and all of a sudden I started crying for the first time since my sister had died. I simply couldn’t stop. My wife—now approaching her thirty-fifth week of pregnancy—held me in her arms, then sat me down.

“You need a break,” she said. “Go to the beach house for a couple of days. I’ll be fine here.”

“Yeah . . . okay . . . let me get my things . . .”

She put her hand on my computer. “This stays here,” she said. “I want you to relax. Take long walks by the water, sleep in. Do absolutely nothing for a few days.”

My first night there, I slept seventeen straight hours. When I woke, I read for a little while, then slept another nine.

My brother called me a few days later.

“Heard about your little breakdown,” he said. “I told you it would catch up to you.”

“You were right.”

“How you doing now?”

“Better,” I said. “I think I was just tired and needed sleep.”

“I think you need to learn to slow down.”

“Like you?”

“Hey,” he said, “I’m not the one who crashed. And in fact, I think I’m ready to go back to work. I’m starting another business.”

“Doing what?”

“Same thing,” he said. “Making garage cabinets.”

“Good for you.”

“Yeah, I’m excited about it, and with Christine pregnant, it’s time. Besides, I’ve been getting bored lately. All my friends are working. No one has time to do anything fun.”

Despite myself, I laughed. “Imagine that,” I said.

In the fall of 2001, despite the lessons I should have learned, I threw myself back into work with a vengeance. If anything, I grew even busier than I’d been before.

Savannah and Lexie were born on August 24; Lexie Danielle had been named for my sister. While my wife took care of the twins and recovered, I took care of the other three kids and the household, at the same time pushing myself to finish the novel. A month later, I was on the road touring the country for
A Bend in the Road
. My wife, with twins, a toddler, and two older sons, somehow managed to keep the household running smoothly.

But again, there was more. There was always more.

At birth, Lexie had a small hemangioma—a collection of excess blood vessels in the soft tissue beneath her chin. It was the size of a pencil eraser at birth; by the time I went on tour for
A Bend in the Road
, it was a bulbous, purple mass that made her chin seem small in comparison.

It ruptured while I was on tour. Cat and I were talking on the phone, when she suddenly screamed, “I’ve got to go! Lexie’s chin is gushing blood!”

Lexie was seven weeks old when she was rolled into surgery; that night, I signed books for eight hundred people, hating myself for not being with my family.

But still, I continued to work like a demon. I finished the first draft of
The Guardian
while in Jackson, Mississippi, and as soon as I got back home, I wrote a screenplay based on the same novel. I then composed text for a Web site that had more words than my first novel. In my spare time, I began working on a television pilot based on
The Rescue
for CBS, agreeing to serve as an executive producer if the network picked it up. Then, in late December 2001, I heard from my editor.

The Guardian
, I was told, would need extensive revisions—including a complete rewrite on the last half of the book—and I couldn’t imagine having to start all over on the novel. Yet, with a deadline looming, I needed a novel for the coming fall. Instead of reworking the novel, I began writing
Nights in Rodanthe
, to be published that fall in its place.
The Guardian
, my publisher and I decided, would be published in spring 2003, and I would edit it when
Nights in Rodanthe
was completed. While the time pressure on
Nights in Rodanthe
was intense—it had to be completed by April—it meant I had to do something else as well; namely I would have to write a
third novel
that year, immediately after finishing
The Guardian
, to be ready for fall 2003. The preliminary title was
The Wedding.