Musings of a Mystery Sibling

For some, the light at the end of the tunnel is a sign of hope. For me, it is a symbol of eternal darkness. Every morning and evening I subject myself to its presence on the platform of the #6 train. If I am late, I race toward it, my legs as fast as the cranks on a high-powered locomotive. If I am early, I reverently watch the glow of the light get brighter, knowing that I will ultimately allow the force of the train’s arrival to suck me in and spit me out within a fraction of a second. It is a sick form of honor, one I don’t share with anyone. It has been four years now since my brother was pushed from the platform, and perhaps I should be a regular passenger again, to let this ritual die too, but there is nothing regular about my life anymore. The victim of a deranged individual’s thrust, he was the last living member of my immediate family. Observers of my life said that anger would eventually set in, and for a long time I feared it. It never came. Will it ever? I don’t know. But I’m not afraid of it anymore. Its company is not as impending as the relentless light at the end of the tunnel. I remember everything about the call that came late morning on a Thursday. It’s funny how you always remember the smallest details of your life before it changes forever. “Ellen Bannister?” a soft male voice inquired. “Speaking,” I replied. “This is T. J. Clarke. I’m a detective with the NYPD, the 19th precinct. I need to discuss a highly confidential matter with you in person, if that’s all right. Would it be okay if I stopped by your office in a little while?” The voice, although somewhat apologetic, was steady and sure, and I immediately got the sense that any attempt on my part to obtain more information over the phone would be futile. I pressed anyway, figuring he’s asking a lot and offering little in return. “A confidential matter related to what?”