"What's he taking?" she asked, her whine betraying the irritation that often surfaced in discussions about our brother.

"Beginning photography." I edged past her.

"I don't know why you bother, Kris. You know he probably won't go to half the classes. He'll get sick, or forget, or lose his camera again, like he did the last time you signed him up."

"I know," I said, bending down to punch in the FAX number of the school.

"How much are you spending on this little project?"

"Seventy-five dollars."

"When's he start?"

"Next Monday."

"Where will he get a camera?"

"I'm lending him mine."

"Your thirty-five millimeter?"

I nodded as the form crept through the rollers.

"I don't know why you do it," she said, dropping her resentful gaze.

Maybe because I was the only one foolish enough to try to relate to a brother who had no relational skills.

Long ago, my family had abandoned him to "the system," one ill-equipped to provide for him. The system consisted of social workers, psychiatrists, vocational rehab specialists, neurologists, counselors, physical therapists, and hundreds of other titled people. Yet none could determine what to do with David; not when he had his first epileptic seizure at age four, and not now when he was thirty-two chronologically, but thirteen mentally and emotionally.

Almost three decades had passed since doctors had first diagnosed epilepsy, and as the years mounted, the despair kept pace.

In the beginning, there had been hope.

Miracle drugs with names like Dilantin and phenobarbital were prescribed, in ever-changing dosages, to control his uncontrollable brain. Sometimes they worked at regulating the errant electrical currents. Often, however, they failed, leaving my brother to crash to the ground, his body the victim of a grand mal seizure.

The "experts" knew little about epilepsy. None of their testing, probing, or prodding could explain why David would go years without seizures and then have hundreds in one day. None would admit the long-term effects of taking massive doses of brain-deadening drugs.

Did the medicine contribute to learning disabilities? Would David have suffered from bouts of depression and explosive mood disorders without the pills?

Who could say?

All anyone knew for certain was that David had spent most of his adult life in mental hospitals and nursing homes. Most recently, he'd been living alone in a dank basement apartment near the University of Denver. Not because he was equipped to, but because Green Forest Rest Home had kicked him out after he'd thrown a full can of Pepsi at a nurse's aide.

No one else would take him.

No member of my family and no other facility. No one wanted him.

My divorced parents fought over him, but no longer loved him. My grandma "lost contact," though she lived five miles away. My two sisters in California had moved on with their lives. And Ann, despite my frequent pleas for involvement, lived as if we had no brother, as if he were dead.

I was the only one who stayed actively involved in his life, and not because I hadn't given up on him.

I had. A thousand times.

Initially, I had hoped he could have a job and friends and some degree of independent living.

I had hoped too much.

Still, something drew me back to him. I wouldn't have called it love or obligation. I didn't have a name for it, but I had been doing it since we were kids.

It would have ruined my life to let him live with me, but I did what I could. I gave him money every month to supplement his disability checks. I bought him a bike, a television, clothes, and toiletries. I took him to the mountains and the movies.

I signed him up for evening courses, paid the tuition, talked to the instructors, drove him to and from each class, and tried not to expect too much.

There were a million reasons to give up and only one reason to fight: He was my brother.

Ann barely spoke to me over the next hour, but I pretended not to notice. I tried calling David, to tell him about the class, but never got an answer.

I spent the following sixty minutes lying on the couch in my office, contemplating Lauren Fairchild's fate.

What could have caused enough pain to make dying seem easier than living?

How far in advance had she planned her death? Was it one event, or a series, that had pushed her over the edge? How had she found the courage to follow through with such a terrifying plan?

Did death bring an end to suffering?

Who was the last person she saw when she closed her eyes, and what were her final thoughts?

As she lay dying, did she cry or cry out?

A phone call from my lover came as a pleasant interruption.

"Where have you been? I called you three times last night," Destiny greeted me, her tone more full of concern than accusation.

"If you can believe this, I was at MCC playing Bingo!"

"With Fran?"

"How did you know?"

"She seems the type, but I never knew you liked Bingo."

"I don't. I hate it. I won, and I still hated it."

"You won? That's great!"

"Three bucks," I said, curtailing her enthusiasm.

"That's all? Then I suppose I'll have to treat tomorrow night," she said coyly.

"What's tomorrow night?" I knew Destiny was scheduled to return from Durango, but I couldn't recall specific plans.

"Dinner at Ramano's, I hope."

"Won't you be too tired after your flight?"

"Not at all! If I come straight from the airport, I can be there by eight."

"Do you want me to call for reservations?"

"I already did," she said, a little self-consciously. "I'm planning something special."

"What?"

"I can't tell you."

"Will I like it?"

"You better!"

I laughed. "What am I going to do with you?"

"You'll think of something. I can't wait to see you this weekend."

"Me too," I said, before adding, "I almost forgota"do you think we could do something with David on Sunday?"

"Sure. What are you thinking?"

"Maybe take him to dinner and a movie, but I have to check with him first."

"Fine. Let me know what you decide."

"Thanks. I love you."

"Me, too. I'll see you tomorrow, and Krisa""

"Yes?"

Destiny's voice dropped to a seductive whisper. "Be prepared for the night of your life!"

4.

I smiled all the way to Choices.

My arteries probably wished I'd been a regular customer at the health-food store, but in truth, I had never stepped foot in the place.

Despite the beautiful weathera"eighty degrees, blue sky, slight breezea"I decided to drive the few blocks to the store, a decision I paid for in the congested parking lot. Drivers on both sides glared as I maneuvered back and forth to get my Honda into a parking space. Then, on foot, I had to dodge three vehicles before I made it to the entrance.

I passed through the atrium in the front of the store, took a right, and caught the attention of the first worker I could find. A woman in the floral department informed me Cecelia was not in the building. She had gone to the bank and would be back shortly.

At ten o'clock in the morning, I didn't feel particularly hungry, nor did I need all-natural groceries, but I had nothing more pressing to do, so I strolled through the store.

I had filled my carry-all basket by the time I reached the deli and, after standing a few minutes without anyone appearing to offer assistance, I strode across the room and hoisted myself up on a stool at the juice bar.

A young woman with her back to me stopped cleaning the espresso machine, turned, and cordially said, "Welcome to Choices Juice Bar, how may I help you?"

The standard customer service line fell flat coming from a worker who sported a tattoo of linked women's symbols on her right bicep and a helmet of green spiked hair that poked out of a clear shower cap. Wearing peace earrings, a tie-dye shirt, an oversized skirt, and Doc Marten boots, she should have been allowed to say whatever she wanted.

"What's good?"

"The carrot shake is royal!"

I grimaced. "No, it's too early in life for that."

She smiled. "Right on. How about the carob delight?"

"That fake chocolate stuff? No thanks."

"Water?" she said, grinning broadly.

I scanned the chalkboard menu behind her. "I'll take a strawberry smoothie."

"Bueno!"

As she expertly mixed frozen strawberries, kefir, guava juice, crushed ice, and banana, she explained the properties and nutritional value of each ingredient. Over the whir of the industrial blender, I asked if she had known Lauren Fairchild.

"Yeah, sure. She was my manager. Was she a friend of yours?"

"Not exactly. Her sister hired me to try to find out why she killed herself."

She nodded her head. "Cool."

"Did she manage the juice bar and the deli?"

"Nah, just the deli. I normally work over there, but the juice wizard is in a mountain bike race today. I told him I'd catch his shift."

She shut off the blender, removed the lid, and poured my drink into a fountain glass with an expansive flourish. She didn't spill a drop. "This is more people contact than I like. In the deli, I work in the back and don't account to anyonea"except Lauren. And now that she's gone, I'm on my own."

"They made you manager?"

"Not even!" She laughed heartily. "They haven't found anyone to replace her yet, but if the chick they pick isn't as hip as Lauren, I'm out of here."

I took a sip of the smoothie. "This is pretty good. Maybe you should consider mixing drinks full-time."