Twitter was different. He’d tweeted regularly until he got his diagnosis. Then it had dropped dramatically, although the final tweet came the night of his party. My hands shook as I skimmed through them. There was no indication that he was sick. Just normal, geeky, funny tweets. “We need to save all of these, and the same with Instagram. I don’t have to look. I want to save any images that he posted, even if I can’t go through them yet.”
“Very well. I’ll archive as you’ve asked.”
“Then delete the accounts.”
“Are you certain?”
“Social media is aboutnow. There are too many current things for people to consume. Keeping his available seems wrong. I’d rather they were gone.” I started to push away from the table when Grant laid a detaining hand on my arm.
“What about his CaringBridge site?”
That jolted me. While most families of cancer patients used CaringBridge to broadcast about their patient, my brother hadn’t let us tell anyone that he was sick, outside his care team, family, and Kimberley. “I didn’t know he had one.”
“Indeed. He included James in his username.”
I opened the JamesSeanTucker site and supplied the password he would’ve used in February. Within seconds, I was in.
He’d established his account nearly a year ago, during his second round of chemo. He’d written journal entries frequently, and there were a lot of responses, but only from the same five guys. It didn’t take long to figure out that they had testicular cancer, too.
I went to the beginning of his journal. He’d initially posted about his diagnosis and treatments, the tone positive. The guys had teased him with crude references to body parts they were all missing. There was plenty of swearing and dark humor.
One of the guys dropped off in September. After a couple of weeks, his mother posted that he had passed away. My brother responded with an amazing entry about Antonio, someone he’d never met in person but who had meant so much.
Biting my lip, I looked away, sucking in mouthfuls of air, trying to remain calm and objective. I couldn’t say why this affected me so deeply, except this site had been incredibly important to my brother and he’d never told me. Not my mother, either. She wouldn’t have been able to keep it a secret. My dad? Possibly.
Okay. Back under control. I resumed reading.
The entries and responses grew crudely funny again. However, in his Halloween entry, he sounded depressed. It started with:
I’ve been tired this week. Bone tired. Not even math can cheer me up.
His four friends had become instantly encouraging. And then on Thanksgiving, this:
The Brat senses that something is off. I hope she’s wrong, but she never is.
I skipped over his posting on Christmas Day. I couldn’t bear to know how he told them that he was terminal. In January, he was happier again. There were references to me, Kimberley, and Camarin, although none of us by name. Instead, we were Brat, Friend, and Gatekeeper. The dark humor and swearing returned from the other guys.
He’d written his last entry six days before he passed away. The words swam out of focus, white letters on a navy background. Could I read them? Was I brave enough?
“Sara, there is no need to complete this today.”
Grant’s voice startled me. I’d forgotten he was there. “I’m fine.”
Had I spoken out loud or had he read them in my mind? Either way, he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
Deep breath. Eyes wide.
Hey, guys. I’m jaundiced and feeling weak. I think we all know what that means. So thanks. You’ve been great. See you on the other side.
Wow. Sean!
I closed the lid of the laptop, left the dining room, hurried through the house and sunroom, and exited into the backyard through the exterior door. It was dark. The heat of the day had passed. I lay down on the lawn and stared up at the night sky.
Footsteps whispered through the grass and stopped nearby. “Sara?”
I didn’t look at Grant, too intent on the stars. “Join me?”
“I shall.” He stretched out beside me, a few inches away, close enough to smell the faint hint of pine he always had.
