Most were unopened.
All had been returned to sender.
“I tried again after we became adults. He refused to see me.”
“That makes no sense,” I said. “Paul told me everything.”
Evan looked toward the burn scar on his wrist.
“Did he tell you how he got this?”
I stared at it.
“Our first Thanksgiving. He burned himself pulling a pan from the oven.”
Evan shook his head.
“We both got burned when we were eight. A metal tray slipped from a stove. We tried to catch it.”
The room tilted.
I remembered the night Paul had told that story.
We had been with friends.
Someone had asked about the scar.
Paul answered immediately, smiling as though it were a harmless memory.
I had believed him because there had never been a reason not to.
Now I understood that he had not simply avoided talking about Evan.
He had erased him.
Diane sat down.
“Six months before the accident, Paul received a letter after their father died. Evan had found his address through the estate lawyer.”
“You helped them meet.”
She nodded.
“Paul didn’t know how to tell you. He wanted to make peace with Evan first.”
“He was planning to surprise you,” Evan added. “He said he would bring me home and ask whether you could tell us apart.”
The words cut deeper than I expected.
Paul had imagined it as a joke.
Meanwhile, I had spent eleven months mourning beside a secret large enough to have a face.
Their first conversations had not gone well.
Evan wanted to know why Paul had abandoned him.
Paul wanted to know why Evan had stayed loyal to relatives who blamed Paul’s side of the family.
They argued over letters written by frightened children and decisions made by bitter adults.
Finally, Paul invited Evan onto the boat.
He believed that several hours alone on the water would force them to speak honestly.
Diane drove Evan to the marina.
She watched both brothers board.
Then she went home and said nothing to me.
According to Evan, the weather changed faster than predicted.
The engine stalled.
Fuel leaked into the rear compartment.
A spark ignited the fumes.
