|
How to Bury Your Brother by Lindsey Rogers CookHer brother’s letters reveal everything—if only he’d written one to her.
Alice always thought she’d see her brother again. Rob ran away when he was fifteen, with so many years left to find his way home. But his funeral happened first. Now that she has to clear out her childhood home in Georgia, the memories come flooding in, bringing with them an autopsy report showing her family’s lies—and sealed, addressed letters from Rob. In a search for answers to questions she’s always been afraid to ask, Alice delivers the letters. Each dares her to open her eyes to her family’s dark past—and her own role in it. But it’s the last letter, addressed to her brother’s final home in New Orleans, that will force her to choose if she’ll let the secrets break her or finally bring her home. Everything I Never Told You meets The Night Olivia Fell set against a vivid Southern backdrop, How to Bury Your Brother follows a sister coming to terms with the mystery behind her brother’s disappearance and death. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
About the author:LINDSEY ROGERS COOK is an editor at the New York Times, previously at U.S. News & World Report. She’s a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. How to Bury Your Brother is her first novel. Lindsey lives in New Jersey, across the Hudson River from New York City.
VISIT LINDSEY ONLINE:
|
Read an Excerpt
Alice studied her brother’s mourners through the window of the church. The large Gothic structure in the middle of Atlanta cast a shadow over them as they shuffled in their shined shoes, their black kitten heels framing hosiery that disappeared under tasteful black dresses despite the thick summer heat. Tears pooled at the corners of Alice’s eyes while she watched them chatting with one another on the way to the door, as if they were heading into any other church service, rather than a funeral. None of them cared about her brother. Alice doubted they remembered his name. She blinked rapidly to stop tears from falling.
“Alice,” her mother said. “Put it— ”
“In a box in your mind,” she finished.
Her mother nodded, pleased.
“Maura, give her a break,” her father said. “I mean, look at her.” Alice removed her hand from her pregnant belly and accepted his offer of a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes.
“Now is not the time,” her mother said.
She was right. Alice had allowed herself seventy- two hours to mourn her brother, and those hours were up—she glanced at the blue plastic sports watch her mother had asked her not to wear—two hours ago, conveniently timed to end before the funeral, so she could smile at all her mother’s friends. The ones who hadn’t considered the existence of Maura’s runaway son in decades, who were only here to build up a type of social capital, so they could ensure that the same people would brave the downtown chaos when the ghost of death came for them. It was time to get the funeral over with, to say a final goodbye to the person she’d already spent a lifetime saying goodbye to, and then to move on with her life.
“Showtime!” said Jamie, in a faded gray suit and a cheerful purple tie. Her father’s best friend helped Alice up from the window ledge, and she trudged over to where her mother had positioned herself in a type of receiving line by the door, ready for the sea of supposed mourners.
Before the first stranger entered the church, Alice rubbed her neck and prepared to straighten up into a posture her mother had forced her to perfect during her teenage years with a knuckle to her vertebrae. Lack of sleep wasn’t helping her meet her mother’s standards for looking presentable. Instead of sleeping, Alice had spent the previous nights cycling through familiar dreams of her brother, which all ended the same: “Please,” she would beg. “Don’t go.” But he always did, slinging his guitar and duffel over his shoulder, the way he had the last time she saw him, and taking her childhood with him.
Closest to the door, Maura hugged the first couple. “Most people don’t know how pretty a hand- cut diamond can look,” she said, still holding the woman’s wrist. “Have you lost weight?” she said to a man with a salt- and- pepper mustache.
Alice’s father, Richard, offered each man, woman, and child a handshake. To his only living cousin, he volunteered “Harold” and a nod before his eyes returned to his shoes.
Jamie lingered behind, waiting for Maura to invite him into the family’s line. Though he was close enough to the family that everyone at the church had forgotten he wasn’t actually Richard’s younger brother, Maura turned her cheek in refusal to his silent question. Instead, he trapped men in a conversation about his latest hobby— online gaming— as they finished talking to Alice. “These kids, you would not believe,” he said, lifting his arms. He curled his fingers and darted his thumbs up and down in demonstration.
Her brother would have despised this scene. If he were here, he would have led her to the narrow staircase and up to the sanctu-ary’s balcony, like he always did as a child on Sundays. They would invent fake nonsense conversations as they watched the people in their fancy outfits, Alice laughing so loudly their mother would give a stern look from below. Or they would talk, the scratchy carpet itching the back of Alice’s legs, exposed in one of the ruffled dresses her mother always made her wear to Sunday school.
“Alice,” her mother said. “Put it— ”
“In a box in your mind,” she finished.
Her mother nodded, pleased.
“Maura, give her a break,” her father said. “I mean, look at her.” Alice removed her hand from her pregnant belly and accepted his offer of a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes.
“Now is not the time,” her mother said.
She was right. Alice had allowed herself seventy- two hours to mourn her brother, and those hours were up—she glanced at the blue plastic sports watch her mother had asked her not to wear—two hours ago, conveniently timed to end before the funeral, so she could smile at all her mother’s friends. The ones who hadn’t considered the existence of Maura’s runaway son in decades, who were only here to build up a type of social capital, so they could ensure that the same people would brave the downtown chaos when the ghost of death came for them. It was time to get the funeral over with, to say a final goodbye to the person she’d already spent a lifetime saying goodbye to, and then to move on with her life.
“Showtime!” said Jamie, in a faded gray suit and a cheerful purple tie. Her father’s best friend helped Alice up from the window ledge, and she trudged over to where her mother had positioned herself in a type of receiving line by the door, ready for the sea of supposed mourners.
Before the first stranger entered the church, Alice rubbed her neck and prepared to straighten up into a posture her mother had forced her to perfect during her teenage years with a knuckle to her vertebrae. Lack of sleep wasn’t helping her meet her mother’s standards for looking presentable. Instead of sleeping, Alice had spent the previous nights cycling through familiar dreams of her brother, which all ended the same: “Please,” she would beg. “Don’t go.” But he always did, slinging his guitar and duffel over his shoulder, the way he had the last time she saw him, and taking her childhood with him.
Closest to the door, Maura hugged the first couple. “Most people don’t know how pretty a hand- cut diamond can look,” she said, still holding the woman’s wrist. “Have you lost weight?” she said to a man with a salt- and- pepper mustache.
Alice’s father, Richard, offered each man, woman, and child a handshake. To his only living cousin, he volunteered “Harold” and a nod before his eyes returned to his shoes.
Jamie lingered behind, waiting for Maura to invite him into the family’s line. Though he was close enough to the family that everyone at the church had forgotten he wasn’t actually Richard’s younger brother, Maura turned her cheek in refusal to his silent question. Instead, he trapped men in a conversation about his latest hobby— online gaming— as they finished talking to Alice. “These kids, you would not believe,” he said, lifting his arms. He curled his fingers and darted his thumbs up and down in demonstration.
Her brother would have despised this scene. If he were here, he would have led her to the narrow staircase and up to the sanctu-ary’s balcony, like he always did as a child on Sundays. They would invent fake nonsense conversations as they watched the people in their fancy outfits, Alice laughing so loudly their mother would give a stern look from below. Or they would talk, the scratchy carpet itching the back of Alice’s legs, exposed in one of the ruffled dresses her mother always made her wear to Sunday school.
Subscribe to our newsletter!
Sign up to learn about new books, giveaways, activities, authors, and more from Sourcebooks Landmark!
You can unsubscribe at any time by clicking the link in the footer of our emails. For information about our privacy practices, please visit our website.
