"You and Dana. Can't either of you date anyone for longer than a month?"

"I dated Juli and Cindy for years."

"Half the time you say you were dating them, you were actually broken up, and you were dating other people. And then you ended it with both of them."

He smiled. "Not everyone wants to be married at twenty-three, Nick."

"I didn't plan to marry that early. It's just that I met Cathy."

"You didn't have to marry her right away."

"Yes I did. Do you know what she said to me when she decided to move to California? While I was picking her up at the airport?"

He shook his head.

"When I met her at the airport, I started telling her all this really sweet stuff-you know, how much I loved her, how glad I was that she'd moved out here, how much I appreciated her courage. Anyway, she let me finish before she finally smiled. "'I love you, too, Nick. And I'm glad I came. But let's get one thing straight. As much as I love you, I'm not going to abandon my family for a relationship that might be only temporary.' So what does that mean? I asked her, and she patted my chest. 'You've got six months to propose, or I'm going back home.'"

Micah's eyes widened. "She said that?"

"Yep."

He laughed. "I love that girl. She doesn't take guff from anyone, does she?"

"Nope."

"You did the right thing, Nick. You couldn't have married anyone better."

"I know. But as I was saying earlier-what's with you?"

"It's simple, Nick," he said. "I haven't met my Cathy yet. But when I do, I'll marry her and settle down."

By 1992, three years after my mom had died, each of us had somehow found a way to move on.

I had a family and a new career; Dana had a new boyfriend and was back in college. Micah continued to date and enjoy one exciting weekend after the next. Though dad was still wearing black, the ups and downs were getting less frequent, and he'd even begun to think about dating again. Our family life, as much as could be expected, was gradually regaining some semblance of normalcy.

In October, Cathy and I eventually came to the conclusion that it would be best if we moved away. While we loved California, practicalities precluded us from being able to create the kind of family life we wanted for our son. My salary, while decent, wasn't enough to enable us to live in the kind of neighborhood Cathy wanted for Miles. Nor, due to rapidly escalating housing costs, could we foresee a change in the future.

What Cat and I wanted, I suppose, was the chance to live the American dream. We dreamed of having a house we could call our own, a decent-size yard for the kids, a barbecue grill in the backyard. Just the basics, but the basics were out of reach, and after a series of long discussions with Cat, I finally talked to my boss about applying for a transfer to a territory in the southeast.

My boss wasn't thrilled by my request; I'd only been with the company for eight months, had only recently completed all my training, and was doing well in my territory. He didn't want to go through the process of hiring someone new, since there was always a risk the new employee wouldn't work out. And, of course, the territory would suffer while a new employee was being trained.

That night, I called Micah.

"Micah," I said, "do you want a job selling pharmaceuticals?"

My proposal made perfect sense to me. We'd run together, waited tables together, owned houses together, and he'd been part of the small company I'd started as well. We even looked somewhat alike.

For a moment, Micah was taken aback. Though he'd done well in real estate, it was strictly commission work, and was dominated by the large brokerage houses. Because he was with a smaller firm, finding new listings required endless hustle, and he'd grown tired of the way his firm dragged out paying him what he was owed.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked.

"If I get the transfer, I'll introduce you to my boss, you can interview with him, and I bet he'll hire you."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

He thought about it overnight and called me the next morning.

"Nick," he said. "I think I want to be a pharmaceutical rep."

And lo and behold, after I received a new territory centered in New Bern, North Carolina, my brother was hired, took over my old territory in Sacramento, and I handed him the keys to my company car. Meanwhile, Cat and I began the process of getting ready for a new life on the other side of the country.

In early November, less than a week after Micah accepted the job, I was at home and beginning the slow process of packing up our things when I got a frantic call from my father.

"You've got to get to the hospital right now," my father suddenly said. He was breathless and scattered, a reprise of that fateful call three years ago. "She's at Methodist. Do you know where that is? Bob just brought her in a couple of minutes ago."

Bob, I knew, was Dana's boyfriend, but my dad's garbled message didn't make sense.

"Who? Are you talking about Dana? Is she okay?"

"Dana ... she's in the hospital ..."

"Is she okay?" I repeated.

"I don't know ... I've got to get down there ..."

My head suddenly began spinning with a sense of deja vu.

"Do you know what happened? Was she in an accident?"

"I don't know ... I don't think so ... Bob said she had a seizure of some sort ... I don't know anything else ... Micah's on his way ... I'm heading there now."

At the hospital, Bob told us what had happened. Bob lived on a ranch in Elk Grove and worked as a local trucker delivering feed for horses and cattle. Taller and heavier than Micah or me, he wore cowboy boots and had competed in bareback rodeo riding. I'd never seem him look as frightened as he did at that moment.

"She woke up and she couldn't talk right," he said. "Her words were all mixed up, and she didn't make any sense. So I loaded her in the car, and we started for the hospital. On the way, her eyes rolled back, and she started to convulse. She was still having the seizure when we got here.

They took her back, and I haven't seen her since."

Though a different hospital, it was eerily reminiscent of the one where my mother had died. So were our feelings as we paced the small corridor, waiting to hear what was going on. And so was the room where we eventually saw my sister.

Dana was tired when we saw her; she'd been given medication for the seizure, and her eyes drooped. She, like us, was frightened, and she knew no more of what had happened to her than we did. But other than exhaustion, she seemed fine. She could tap the tips of her fingers against her thumb, she could remember everything from the night before. And she remembered realizing that something was wrong when she woke up earlier that morning.

"I remember trying to talk," she said, somewhat groggily. "I can even remember hearing the words coming out, but they were the wrong words. So I'd try to repeat myself, and the same thing happened again. And the smell. I kept smelling something really bad. That's when Bob put me in the car. I don't remember anything after that, though."

Later, the doctor said she had had a grand mal seizure, though when pressed, he wouldn't speculate as to the reason until further tests came in. He did suggest that it was probably best if she rested for a while.

I was the last one to get up to leave; once the others had left the room, Dana asked me to stay.

"Nick," she said, "tell me the truth. I want to know what's going on. Why did I have a seizure?"

"There are lots of possible causes," I said. "I wouldn't worry too much."

"Like what?"

She searched my face, trusting me, wanting to know. My sister knew that I would always tell her the truth.

"Anything, really. A sudden allergy. Stress. Maybe you're epileptic, but the seizures hadn't been triggered until now. Brain tumor. Maybe you ate something bad. Dehydration. Something just made your body go haywire for a little while. Lots of people have seizures. Seizures are actually quite common."

She looked at me, zeroing in on the one cause I'd hoped she would overlook.

"Brain tumor?" she asked quietly. I shrugged. "It can cause seizures, but believe me-it's not all that likely that you have one. I'd say it's the least likely of everything I mentioned."

She glanced toward her lap. "I don't want a brain tumor," she said.

"Don't worry," I reassured her, hoping to hide my fears. "Like I said, that's probably not the reason."

Over the next few weeks, Dana underwent a number of tests. The doctors couldn't find what was wrong with her. CAT scans were inconclusive, but since she had no more seizures, it seemed to us that the worst had passed. Still, the uncertainty weighed heavily on us; we still had no idea what had caused the seizure in the first place.

It had also come time for me to move to North Carolina.

Cat and I had talked about it numerous times since Dana had gone to the hospital; she suggested that we might consider staying, even though I'd have to find another job. Dana might need us, she said. We can put our dreams on hold for a while. At least until we know what's going on.

It was one of those choices in life without any ideal option.

"Let me talk to Micah," I finally said. "Let me see what he thinks."

That night, when I explained the guilt I felt about moving away, he put his hand on my shoulder.

"There's nothing you can do for Dana," he said. "We don't even know what's wrong yet. But you've got to think about your family. You have a baby now. You've got to do what you think is best for him."

I couldn't meet his eyes.

"I don't know ..."

"I'll watch out for Dana. I'm still here, and so is dad. And you're only a flight away if we need you."

"It doesn't feel right to just leave, though."

"I don't want you to go either," he said. Then, with a smile, he added, "But remember, Nick- what you want and what you get are usually two entirely different things."

A few days before Christmas 1992, Cathy flew out with the baby to North Carolina to meet the moving van; I stayed behind to finish showing my brother around his new territory and introduce him to various doctors. Because our apartment had been emptied, I slept in my old room at my dad's house the night before my departure.

Micah came over to help me pack my remaining items in the car: I would drive it cross-country.

I noticed that he was wearing a pair of shorts of mine; because we were the same size, we had borrowed each other's clothes for years.

Micah had worked a couple of summers loading trucks for Consolidated Freightways and knew how to load the items to prevent them from being damaged. With the exception of the driver's seat, the car was completely filled. We were standing just inside the door when the time came to say good-bye; I'd already said my good-byes to Dana and my dad. But it was time to go, and both Micah and I knew it.

In the house were a thousand memories; in my mind, I could hear mom's laughter from the kitchen, and see my brother and sister at the table. For the second time in my life, I was leaving my family, but this time was different. The last time I'd left, I'd been a teenager; now I had a family of my own; I knew I'd never be moving back.

"It looks like when we loaded the Volkswagen to move here, doesn't it?" I cracked.

"It's pretty full. But at least it's level this time. How long will it take you to get there?"

"Four days or so."

"Drive safe."

"I will."

We hugged. "I'm going to miss you," I said.

"I'll miss you, too."

"I love you, Micah."

He squeezed harder. "I love you, too, little brother." When we separated, I could feel the tears coming, but tried to hold them back. We'd come to depend heavily on each other in the last three years, but I tried to diminish the significance of what was happening. I told myself that we were simply moving; it wasn't as if we wouldn't see each other again. I'd come to visit him and he'd come to see me. We'd talk on the phone.

"You're wearing my shorts," I said randomly.

"I'll give them to you tomorrow," he said without thinking. "No," he added quickly. "I won't.

You'll be gone tomorrow. I can't give them to you."

At that, Micah began to cry and he leaned into me again.

"It's okay, Micah," I whispered, beginning to cry as well. "It's going to be all right."

And a few minutes later, through my own blurry tears, I saw his image in the rearview mirror grow smaller. He was standing on the lawn, forcing a smile and slowly waving good-bye.

Chapter 14

Jaipur and Agra, India

February 7-8