"Keith, it's Patty. I'm calling from the hospital. Robert wants to talk to you."

My brother Robert and I haven't been talking in years.

I guess we were thick as thieves at some point, at least that's what Dad told me. But I barely remember those times. We have been living in two different worlds ever since I was nine and he was seven. I became a book worm. He became a sport super-star.

From there, we didn't agree on a lot of things. Ma would be livid with us because we would always shout out our arguments to each other while she was trying to work. But hey, whenever things went wrong, it was easier to blame Robert than anyone or anything else. It just was.

Eventually, the shouting died down, but our anger was still there. The occasional chat gradually turned to silence. No point in talking if he wouldn't want to listen.

We've always avoided each other now. From what I've heard from relatives, he lives in Florida, the best place to avoid me. I always hated Florida. California had more class. It was also where Will, my husband, lived; wherever he lived was where I was, and that happened to be far away from my bitterest enemy.

The other day cousin Patty called. Robert got sick. I guess it was a stroke complications or cancer or something. Either way, she had no idea how long he's got to live.

Not like I care.

But something was still troubling me. I guess it's a gut reaction to feel scared when you know some athlete is facing the sweet embrace of death. And the fact that it was my own brother going through death seemed very perplexing. He never got sick a day in his life.

What's more, that weird feeling never really went away like I thought it would. It kept on keeping on for days. Then one night, Will came to me in a dream. I haven't seen him since before he got himself killed in a plane crash. But instead of being a happy reunion, Will looked concerned with me.

He kept asking, "Why not talk to Robert?"

I never brought up my brother with Will too often. Never did that with anyone.

Still he constantly said to me, "He's your brother. Why not talk with him?"

I don't remember my exact responses to the question. What I do remember is feeling annoyed. Then angry. Then slightly confused. Then genuine concern. And by the time I was feeling that, the phone rang, and the dream ended.

Slowly, I got up. I thought about Robert. I picked up the phone. I thought about Robert. Quietly, Robert still on my mind, I listened for an answer.

"Keith, it's Patty," said the other end. No doubt more word about my brother.

"I'm calling from the hospital."

No surprise there.

"Robert wants to talk to you."

I felt my heart stop.

"Robert wants to talk to you."

What could I possibly say?

"Robert wants to talk to you."

The world started to stop moving. It was getting harder to hear cousin Patty. I don't remember much else, aside from the world fading to black and me falling to the floor.