Eleven Voicemails for My Brother

One. Hey, it’s me. Your mailbox said it was full so I figured I’d check if you fixed it. You fixed it. Okay. That’s all this one is. Proof of concept. Call me back.

Two. Me again. Mom’s birthday is Sunday and I need to know if we’re doing the thing where we split the gift or the thing where you forget and I sign your name. I’ve already bought it, so really this is a billing question. It was forty dollars. It’s a bird feeder. She’s going to say she loves it and then never fill it, and that’s its own kind of love, I think — keeping the empty thing where you can see it.

Three. It went fine. She asked about you. I did the voice I do, the one where I sound like your press secretary. He’s been slammed at work. She knows, by the way. Whatever we think we’re protecting her from, she’s known longer than us. She fills in your half of the conversation better than you do.

Four. It’s late, ignore the timestamp. I was driving home past the reservoir and there were all these herons standing out on the mud flat, like, a parliament of them, just standing there in the dark not doing anything. And I thought, that’s us. I don’t know what I meant by it. That’s the whole message. Herons.

Five. Okay, so, real one. Dr. Patel’s office called me because I’m still your emergency contact, which, noted, you never updated that, and I’m not going to read anything into it except that I am absolutely reading everything into it. You missed Tuesday. They want you to reschedule. I’m not going to nag. This is me not nagging. This is the only voicemail in recorded history that is not a nag while containing the word reschedule.

Six. I drove past your building today. I wasn’t checking on you, the hardware store is on Fifth, I had legitimate hardware business. Your lights were on. That was good to see, man. That’s all. Lights on.

Seven. Mom asked again and I retired the press secretary. I told her the truth, which is that I don’t know. She was quiet for a second and then she said, he always came back from things in his own weather, and I’ve been chewing on that for three days. In his own weather. She’s better at this than both of us.

Eight. Short one. The Hendersons’ dog died. You don’t know the Hendersons, but you knew the dog, he’s the one that bit you at the lake that summer and Dad laughed so hard he dropped the cooler. End of an era. Wanted you to hear it from family.

Nine. I rescheduled it for you. Thursday the 14th, ten a.m. I know. I know. You can be furious at me in person, that’s the deal, fury is an in-person service now. I’ll drive you. There’s a diner next door and afterward I’m buying you the worst coffee in the county and you’re going to drink it and tell me I always do this, and I’m going to say yeah. I always do this. Somebody has to always do something.

Ten. It’s Thursday. I’m outside. I can see your lights are on. I’m going to sit here and finish this terrible gas-station coffee and then I’m going to come knock, and you’re going to answer, because the alternative is me singing out here, and you know I’ll do it, I have the lungs of a man with nothing to lose.

Eleven. Mailbox full again. Good thing you’re in the truck and can hear me fine. No, I’m not deleting the others. They’re documentation. Drink your coffee. Tell me about your weather.