"The tumor's still spreading," he said. "Her last CAT scan showed that the new drugs aren't helping at all." I closed my eyes. Micah's voice was trembling and broken. "They put her on another regimen anyway, but they don't think it'll work. They're just doing it because they know Dana wants to try something else. They say that her attitude has been the reason she's made it as long as she has, and they don't want to break her spirit. She needs to feel like she's doing something to fight it. But ..."

"She doesn't know ..."

"No," he said. "When we left, she told me she was sure that this time the chemo would work."

I could feel the lump in my throat, could feel my own tears brimming. Micah continued to cry into the phone.

"Damn, Nick ... she's so young... . She's our baby sister ..."

I began to cry as well.

"How much longer does she have?" It was all I could do to get the words out.

He took a long breath, trying to get control.

"They don't know for sure. When I cornered the doctor, though, he said that she might have six months," he whispered.

Outside, the world was darkening. The sky was filled with stars and the moon hung white and heavy on the horizon. Leaves rustled in the winter breeze, sounding like ocean waves. It was a beautiful evening, as if all was right in the world. But it wasn't, for with Micah's call, I lost my last sliver of hope.

I didn't realize how much I'd been clinging to that improbable hope, and when I hung up with Micah, I slipped a jacket on and went outside. I walked through our yard, thinking of Dana, thinking of how strong and optimistic she'd been, thinking of her kids, thinking of the future that she would never see. And leaning against a tree, I cried into the wind.

I spent the next two days wandering aimlessly through the house. I'd start something and stop, I'd watch a show for ten minutes before realizing I didn't know or care about what was on, I'd read the same pages over and over, unable to comprehend the words on the page.

Two days later, the phone rang. Cathy was in the final month of her pregnancy, and after answering it, she brought the receiver to my office. Her eyes spilled over with tears.

"It's Dana," she said.

I took the phone, and as soon as I put it to my ear, I heard my sister begin to sing to me. It was our birthday, and I concentrated hard as I listened to her, wanting to freeze the moment in time, for I knew that it would be the last time we would ever do this for each other.

On January 11, 2000, Landon was born. With green eyes and blond hair, he looked like his mother, and I was struck by how small he was in my arms. It had been seven years since I'd held a newborn, and I never wanted to put him down.

Yet I had no other choice. I was being pulled by the feelings I had for my other family, and three days later I flew to California to see my sister. From that point on, I'd begin flying out to California regularly. In every two-week period, I'd spend at least four days with my sister at the ranch.

Because my sister still had hope-and because hope was the only thing keeping her strong-I had to hide my reasons for coming. Though the effects of her tumor were becoming more obvious, she was still sharp enough to notice that I was suddenly visiting regularly, and she would infer the worst. I couldn't do that to her. Her spirits had kept her strong, and I didn't want to worsen the quality of life she had remaining, so in the end I found myself telling her half-truths. I have to do some work in Los Angeles, I'd say, and since it's only an hour away, I'll pop up and see you.

Or, I'm meeting friends in Las Vegas, and since I'm so close to the West Coast, I might as well drop in.

"Great," Dana would say. "I'd love to see you."

Micah would always meet me at the airport, and we fell into a routine that didn't change. Micah and I would stop at Zelda's, a gourmet pizza parlor in downtown Sacramento, and share a pizza and beers. We'd talk for hours; about writing and his business, about our sister, and we'd share memories of our childhood. We'd laugh and shake our heads, and grow suddenly quiet as we thought about mom or dad, or what was happening to our sister. I'd sleep at Micah's the first night, and in the morning he'd drive me out to the ranch to spend the rest of my time with Dana.

On my first visit, my sister continued to pretend that nothing was wrong. She'd cook and clean, and ask if I wanted to help Cody and Cole with their homework while she napped. We'd have dinner and visit until she grew tired and finally went to bed.

But the progress of her tumor was unstoppable, and little by little there was no disguising it. On each successive visit, her naps began to grow longer and she went to bed earlier. By February, she'd begun to limp; her tumor was slowly paralyzing the left side of her body. The next time I visited, her left arm had grown weaker as well; a week after that, the left side of her face began to lose its expressive ability. Where she'd once occasionally slurred her words, the slurring now occurred with greater frequency. Abstract comprehension grew even more difficult.

My baby sister was slowly losing her battle, but even then, she somehow believed that she would make it.

"I'll be okay," she'd say. "I'm going to see Cody and Cole grow up."

Now, however, when she made comments like those, it was all I could do not to cry. I was an emotional wreck in those first couple of months of 2000. Torn between seeing Dana and spending time with my new baby, I woke each day thinking I should be somewhere else. If I was holding Landon, I'd wish I was in California holding my sister. And when I held my sister, I wished I was back in North Carolina, holding my son. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know how to balance it all, and I didn't know how long I could keep it up. I barely slept, tears would suddenly spring to my eyes in unexpected moments, and as I forced myself through the day-to- day motions of my life, I was more exhausted than I'd ever been.

When you know that someone close to you is going to die, there's a natural tendency to want to spend as much time with them as you can. As I mentioned, it was a constant struggle to maintain the balance between my current family and the family I'd grown up with. But even if I'd wanted to, there was another reason why I didn't stay in California. My visits-though everyone understood my reasons for coming-changed the dynamics of my sister's house. Guests, even family guests, always alter domestic dynamics. And remember, my sister had a new family of her own as well.

Dana had married into a wonderful situation. Bob's father lived on the ranch in a house a stone's throw away; so did Bob's stepmother and half-brother. Bob's mother and stepfather lived less than ten minutes down the highway. So did Bob's brother. All of them loved my sister, had opened their hearts to her, had accepted her into their lives. And each of them was struggling, just as Micah and I were. And maybe, I've since come to believe, their struggle was even worse than ours.

As my sister's tumor progressed and she lost energy to do everything she'd once done, various members of Bob's family moved in and out of the house, quietly filling the void. Someone would always be there, doing the dishes, washing laundry, helping with the homework. My sister, in her time of need, was never left alone.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I visited with my sister as much as I thought I could, not how much I wanted to. I did this so that Bob's family would have the chance to spend time with my sister, without having me around. They'd earned the right, and in my heart I knew that each of them-especially Bob-also needed time to say good-bye.

I came and went, but Micah continued in the role he'd taken over from my dad. He was strong, steady, and supportive despite his fears, and in mid-March he drove with my sister to San Francisco, where she met with her oncologist. The experimental medication, as the doctors had expected, had had no effect at all. Micah sat beside my sister as the doctor explained that there was nothing left in their arsenals to try; though they could try another chemotherapy drug, there was little hope that it would do anything, other than make her sleep even more than she already was. By that point, my sister was sleeping fourteen to sixteen hours a day; if she had another round of chemo, she'd essentially sleep the rest of her life away. At the end of the consultation, Micah said good-bye to the doctor. He held my sister's arm so she wouldn't fall, and led her outside.

They sat on the steps outside the medical complex. The day was cool, but the sky was blue and clear. On the sidewalks, people passed by, without a second glance. Cars rolled by steadily, and in the distance one or two of them honked their horns. Everywhere else, life was going on as normal, but for Micah, nothing seemed normal at all.

Like me, Micah was exhausted. Yes, he knew it would come to this. We all knew it would come to this. Yet, just as we all had at our mother's bedside, we'd never stopped wishing and praying for a miracle. There was no logical reason to expect one, but Dana was our sister and we loved her. It was the only thing we could do.

My sister said nothing. Her left eye drooped and a bit of saliva leaked from her mouth. She couldn't feel it, didn't even know it was there. Micah gently wiped her mouth.

"Hey sweetie," he said.

"Hey," my sister answered quietly. It was no longer her voice; her words sounded different now, like someone mumbling in her sleep.

Micah slipped his arm around her. "Do you understand what the doctor was saying?"

Dana looked at him, moving her head slowly. It seemed to be everything she could do to remember.

"No ... more ... meds?" she finally asked. The words were soft, almost too low to hear.

"Yeah, sweetie, that's right. No more medicine. You're done with all that."

My sister stared at him, trying to follow his words. Her expression saddened, half of her mouth forming a frown.

"So that's it?"

Micah's eyes immediately welled with tears. It was her way of asking Micah if she was really going to die.

"Yeah, sweetie, that's it," he whispered.

He pulled her close, kissed the top of her head, and Dana leaned into his chest.

And for the first time since she'd been diagnosed with the tumor, my little sister began to cry.

By late March, even without the chemo, my sister's sleep continued to lengthen, and on my visits I'd sit alone in the kitchen for long periods at a stretch, waiting for her to get up from her nap. In those hours, my mind would whirl with thousands of images; how she'd looked as a child, the things we'd done together, the long talks we used to have. We were running out of time and I wanted to wake her. I wanted to spend time with her, I wanted to talk to her, but I never disturbed her rest. Instead, I would go into her bedroom and lie on the bed beside her. I'd run my hand gently through her hair and whisper stories of our childhood or tell her about Landon, but my sister never stirred. Her breath was heavy and labored, like that of someone far older. In time, I would go back to the kitchen and look out the window, seeing nothing at all as I waited for her to wake, while the hours dragged on and on.

In the evenings, after dinner, we'd sit in the living room and I'd stare at Dana, concentrating on how she looked, wanting to remember her face forever. Time had dimmed the image of my mother; it was already dimming the image of my father, and I didn't want it to happen with my sister. I stared at her, noting the curve of her jaw, her gold-rimmed hazel eyes, the patch of freckles on her cheeks. I concentrated. I forced myself to see everything, to make it real forever.

Members of Bob's family would sometimes visit with me in the hours after dinner. One night toward the end of April, Bob's stepmother, Carolyn, and I were talking with Dana, when Dana finally announced she was going to bed. She'd grown steadily worse-for the most part, all she could do was mumble-but she'd smile that half-paralyzed smile of hers, and I was struck by the thought it might be the last normal conversation we'd ever have. As soon as she was behind closed doors, I broke down and cried in Carolyn's arms, sobbing uncontrollably for nearly twenty minutes. In May, the horrible progression seemed to intensify. Dana could no longer hold a fork, so I'd feed her; a week later, she couldn't walk or talk at all. A week after that, she'd been hooked up to a catheter and could ingest only liquids; she'd have to be carried from her room.

During my last visit, in mid-May, my family came with me to say good-bye.

On our last day in town, I remember bringing Landon into her bedroom. Her eyes were the only feature that had remained immune to the ravages of the tumor, and they shone as I held the baby against her cheek. I held Dana's hand against the baby's skin; she seemed to revel in the sensation. When we were finally alone again, I knelt by the bed, taking my sister's hand in my own. I didn't want to leave her; in my heart, I knew this was the last time I'd ever speak to her.

"I love you," I finally whispered. "You're the best person I've ever known," I said, and my sister's eyes softened. With effort, she raised a finger, and pointed to me.

"You are," she mouthed.

Cody and Cole celebrated their sixth birthday the following day; my sister was carried outside and sat in a chair to watch them. That night, she slipped into a coma and never woke again. She died three days later.

Dana was thirty-three years old.

Dana was buried next to my parents, and the funeral was packed. Again, I saw the same faces in the crowd, faces that had witnessed my mom's and dad's burials. The funerals were the only time I'd seen some of these people in the last eleven years.

In the eulogy by the graveside, I told everyone how my sister and I used to sing to each other on our birthday. I told them that when I thought of my sister, I could still hear her laughter, sense her optimism, and feel her faith. I told them that my sister was the kindest person I've ever known, and that the world was a sadder place without her in it. And finally, I told them to remember my sister with a smile, like I did, for even though she was being buried near my parents, the best parts of her would always stay alive, deep within our hearts.

Micah had only been to three funerals in his life. When the service was over, we stood near the graveside, staring at the flowers covering the coffin.

Micah put his arm around me in silence. There was nothing left to say. Nor could we cry. At that moment, neither of us had any tears remaining.

I could feel the stares of others, I could sense their despair. We were too young to have lost them all, I imagined them thinking, and they were right.

It was lonely by the grave. I should have had the rest of my family to lean on in a moment like this, but they were the reason we were here. Standing beside Micah, it dawned on me that we were the only ones left in our family. It was just the two of us now.

Brothers.

Chapter 17

Tromso, Norway

February 13-14

We arrived in Tromso, Norway, a picturesque coastal town located three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, the following afternoon. Because of the latitude, the sky was already a darkening blue, but the temperature struck me as merely chilly, not cold. Though only a thousand miles from the North Pole, the coastal waters are warmed by the Gulf Stream, making the winters far milder than other Norwegian cities farther to the south.

Boarding the bus, we wound through the town. Tromso is set amid the mountains and a layer of snow coated the ground, making the city resemble a Christmas card. The sky was completely black by the time we arrived at our hotel. My watch showed that it wasn't quite four o'clock.

Immediately after checking in, I went to the hotel computer to e-mail Cat. I'd been e-mailing her regularly. Because of the time differences, it was often easier to reach her that way, and I typed out a letter, filling her in on what I'd been up to. Then, despite the mountains and cloud cover that would probably limit the use of the phone I'd brought, I attempted to call her, and found her at home. In the past three weeks, I'd been on the phone with her less than a dozen times, and we seldom spoke more than a few minutes. Though Cat had known it would be hard for her while I was gone, I don't think either of us knew exactly how hard it was actually going to be. I could hear the exhaustion in her voice; she sounded completely spent.

When I got back to the room, Micah was lying in bed reading when he looked up at me.

"You were gone a long time."

"Oh," I said, "I just talked to Cat."

"How's she doing? Looking forward to having you home?"

"You can say that. It's been horrible while I've been gone."

"How so?"

"She's been sick and the kids have been sick. Pretty much since the moment I left."

"Really?"

"Between the five kids and her, she's had to deal with seven colds, five flus, and three sinus infections. At any given moment over the last three weeks, there were three sick kids, all of them whining and crying. And get this-despite all that, she took them all on a ski trip. And they had to drive seven hours to get there, too."

He winced. "Seven hours? In the car with sick kids?"

"Unbelievable."

"I can't even imagine it." He was silent for a moment. "I'll bet she wasn't in the best of moods, huh?"

"Actually, she seemed to be in pretty good spirits."

"Your wife is nuts. In a good way, of course. But she's definitely nuts. I hate it when the kids whine. It's like fingernails against a chalkboard." Micah shook his head before grinning. "Gee, it's just a shame that you were traveling the world and weren't around to help her out."

"Oh, definitely a shame."

"If only you'd known, right?"

"Exactly. I probably wouldn't have gone."

He laughed. "Did you tell her to try to make sure they're all better by the time you get home?"

"I didn't want her to kill me."

He laughed again. "Christine would kill me, too. You guys are going on vacation in a couple weeks? Just the two of you, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah. We'll spend a few days relaxing at the beach."

"You know she gets to decide what to do the entire vacation."

"Oh, I know. I've already figured that out."

"I mean, every bit of it," he added for emphasis. "Instead of scuba diving, you'll be browsing through stores for hours, looking at kid's clothes. And she'll ask you whether you like the shirt with the pink bunny or the yellow duck, and you have to act as if you're giving the matter a lot of thought."

"I know."

"And you'll have to treat her like a queen and pretend you're enjoying yourself."