In July, my brother got sick. I nursed him through a long illness. He was bright-eyed and happy by August, and I played chess with him in early September. He spoke incessantly about being excited about returning to Rutgers in two weeks, and I let myself hope for the first time in months. By October, he was down to 98 lbs. and the entire family gathered in our apartment in downtown New Brunswick: Mom, Dad, Elise, our other sister, Rowan (who had flown in from California with wet, bloodshot eyes and sleep-tussled hair) and our much older brother, Branwell, from Mom's previous marriage. There was a paradoxically celebratory atmosphere, not despite Ben but because of him. He was just a small child the last time the entire family had gathered, especially with Rowan and Branwell.

We all stayed up late Friday night, eating pizza from Giovanelli's and drinking beer, including Ben. He seemed genuinely happy for the first time since his longtime girlfriend, Jessica, died six years ago. We all laughed a lot that night, and owing to how much everyone had drunk, we all stayed in the apartment, including Rowan and Branwell.

#

I awoke before everyone else Saturday morning. Looking in on Ben, I gently ruffled his hair. He was much to pale and cold to the touch. I sat upon the edge of his bed and lifted his upper body into my arms. I rocked him gently as I wept. I must have been louder that I thought, because I looked up at one point and found that the rest of the family had come in at some point. They stood watching me as I held my little brother and best friend. I just went back to rocking him.

#

As the EMTs took away his zipped body, I caught a movement in the room adjacent to the foyer. I know none of the others could see, but I could, and clearly. Ben sat in the corner stair in the sitting room, quietly reading a science fiction novel. That's when I learned that Ben would be just like Jessica. Only I could see Jessica, and I kept that to myself. But as time would show, those who loved Ben could see him, whether they had the aptitude for viewing ghosts or not.

The funeral was over, and Rowan and Branwell returned to California and Washington State, respectively. Elise drove back up to Kean College in Union, while Mom and Dad went back to the house in East Brunswick.

August gave way to September with nary a drop in temperature. I spent the days keeping up with my summer reading. Ben sat on the living room sofa, drooling all over himself. As of yet, he had done very little, only whimpering or laughing. I would occasionally draw him into a fierce hug. Then, on Wednesday, September 30, I was washing the dishes, I heard from behind me, "You should use Palmolive, not that generic sh*t."

I turned around to face him. He gave me a sardonic smirk and squinted at me, with hishead tilted. For the first time since he'd died, I couldn't tell if his actionswere old habits, or calculated gestures designed to achieve some desired effect.I only knew one thing for certain: he couldn't care less what I chose to washthe dishes with. Ben helped out plenty around the apartment, but he hated doingthe dishes or the laundry. But it worked out equitably: I hated making the bedsand cooking. Ben made the beds with hospital corners.

But more importantly, he was an excellent cook. In fact,he was an artist all around. In addition to the cooking, he was a part-timeillustrator and painter. He could dance. He took theater classes. And, my God,he could sing.

The making of beds,and the drawing and painting, were simply not going to be possible. That daythat I was doing the dishes, he tried to extract a pan, and the otherimplements he would need in order to make an omelet. I loved omelets, especiallywith mushrooms, onions, and mozzarella cheese. Unfortunately, his attempt tograsp the pan handle failed and his hand passed right through it. He shriekedand clutched his hand to his chest, almost as if — no, exactly as if — it hurtto do so. The look he gave me was so filled with despair, I nearly forgot that he was, in fact, already gone.

At that moment, he vanished.