Bedbug Sleep Tight

I get a phone call this morning, one I've been anticipating for three months.

"Calling to tell you and the kids that I love you," he says. "And to follow up on the birthday call. I'm not very good at follow up, but I'm here now."

"I'm glad that you're here now," I say.

Apparently I am the last person to know anything because HE has to tell ME about the bedbugs, summoned between early a.m. film job and late p.m. wait job to fetch ice and move furniture. The headline might read:

Wanted guest brings unwanted guests.

As if she needs another thing to fret about, my sister a single mother of three. The retelling of the story is funny; my brother spins a yarn complete with drama, humour, love, strange things encased in plastic and a high speed chase in her Toyota Rav, blasting "Highway to Hell" along the quiet streets of Salt Lake City, self motivational tape ejected for ACDC, a little sanity.

His stories always come back around to them. How we've changed, how they might have changed, how we might have changed them, when to give up, when to accept, and when to move on.

"She's our sister," he says. "We love her."

"Of course we do," I say. "But what is there to do?"

"I've go an album for you," I say. "Nebraska."

"And I've got one for you," he says. "Hail to the Thief."

We pause briefly, resume talk.

"No! there isn't litigation. Yes, my landlord is crazy. No, you shouldn't worry. Yes, I have a place to live."

"Can you let me know that you're around? More often? A text message--anytime--one word--hello. Because I love you."

"O.K., fine," he says.

And it is fine. This phone call is fine. He's fine. She's fine. They're fine. It's all fine. The Book says that it will be fine, and it will be. It will all be fine.

Finally, it is all fine.