Unforgivable

Low black clouds reflected Don Martelli’s mood as he drove down rain washed city streets toward University Hospital and Clinics. His older brother Les was dying, given only a few days by the doctors, and he’d flown in that morning to stand vigil during his brother’s final hours. The two siblings had not been close for many years, but blood is blood and he wanted to say goodbye to the man who had mentored him into adulthood.

His first view of his brother as he entered the hospital room was a shock. The robust, ruddy-faced man he’d last seen three years ago was now barely more than skin wrapped around bone, red eyes shut, his mouth agape to capture as much oxygen as possible. Don went directly to Angie, his brother’s wife, and pulled her to him for an extended hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, reluctantly letting her go.

“Thanks Don. I’m so glad you’re here. I know Les would be, too.” She daubed her dark eyes with a tissue. As he greeted other family members, Les began moving, as if irritated, and suddenly opened his eyes. Seeing that he was straining to speak, Angie put an ear close to his mouth.

“Don, he wants to tell you something.”

Excusing himself, Don went to the bedside and leaned down. Les struggled to form the words.

“I know about you and Angie,” he whispered. “I’ll never forgive. I’ll never forget.”

Nurses came in and out of the room, doctors and visitors strode the hallway, but Don was solely consumed by his brother’s words as he stood up.

“What did he say?” asked Angie.

The blood rushed from Don’s face. “Uh, he…just wanted to tell me goodbye. That’s all.”

As soon as he thought it was acceptable, Don excused himself and drove toward the hotel where he was staying, picking up a bottle of vodka along the way. The memory of the affair with Angie blew through him, the lies, the deceit, but it was twelve years ago, and Les had never said a thing to either of them about it.

A half-empty bottle on the nightstand, a cop show on TV, Don’s plan to drown his brother’s words in alcohol and soporific television was a dismal failure. There was something beyond the words themselves that kept rising to the surface despite his efforts, a sense of mission that no man a few breaths away from death’s embrace should have.

The call came two hours later. Les had passed away quietly and was on his way down to the morgue.

Gusts of cold wind blew through the cemetery, and mourners pulled their coats tighter around them as the pastor finished the eulogy. “Amen” everyone repeated, and friends and family of Les Martelli filled past the coffin before it was lowered into the ground. Don stopped the weary looking Angie as she headed toward her car.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

She raised her red, glistening eyes to his. “I don’t know. As good as I can, I suppose.”

“I’m staying in town until Friday, so if you need anything…”

Angie tried to smile, but could not manage it. She lightly touched Don’s arm and turned away.

A call lit up Don’s phone at 3:30 a.m. It was from a very distraught Denise, Angie’s sister.

“Denise? What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Don, trying to blink himself awake.

“It’s Angie. I can’t believe I’m saying this. Don, she’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“She committed suicide. Oh god. The police said she jumped from the Tenth floor of the Hilton downtown. Why would she do that? Why?”

Room 1066. It was the room where Don and Angie used to meet. The air in the bedroom suddenly chilled.

“Don? Don, are you there?”

The phone fell from his trembling hand and the only response Denise received was a scream for help.