***

Two days later I went to hear the will read at our old attorney’s office, the one who dropped me after I left the band. I didn’t make enough money anymore to be worth it. He always was a pragmatist. My new attorney was fine. I wasn’t being sued, anyway.

The white, bright waiting room had the familiar feel of overpriced egotism. The receptionist wore a black jacket that made her stick out in front of the wall and behind her glass-topped desk. The room was clean and sharp. The black leather of the couches came to a point at each corner, stitched into a hardness foreign to couches that live in homes.  The table that held up issues of Sports Illustrated, Golf, Motor Trend, Popular Mechanics, and ESPN Magazine was also glass. Everything was white, black, or glass, even the modern artwork on the walls which were bars of black and white.

Mother showed up fifteen minutes after I did, walking in with a wide sunhat and dark sunglasses. She took the glasses off as she sat down next to me.

“How’re you doing?” she asked.

“I’m still not playing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t. I was just concerned about how my son was doing,” she said, picking up a magazine off the top of the pile. “But now that you bring it up, you will.”

“I’m not.”

“Can we make this not worse than it is? I don’t really want to have this conversation with you right now” she said, not looking away from the magazine. “I’m trying to read this.”

I couldn’t play it. I had told Ethan after Tim’s funeral that I was done for good, and I didn’t intend on changing that now. I had already left the band six months prior, but after Tim died, I couldn’t even play for myself anymore. I didn’t owe anyone anything. It wasn’t selfish. Selfish was her thinking that her need to have everything go perfectly and make everyone else happy was more important than how I felt about it. Selfish was dragging your brothers into your world just to spit them out. Selfish was never apologizing for what you did. They were selfish. I was going through my own grief.

After a few minutes, the receptionist called us back to see Edward Reinhardt, Ethan’s attorney. He had an equally contrasting office, keeping the black/white/glass theme, with degrees from UCLA and Stanford on the wall. We sat down in similar black leather chairs in front of his desk, waiting for him to begin.

After some brief condolences and a short conversation about how preparations were going, Mom leaving out any signs of tension, he began reading the will.

“It’s fairly short,” Mr. Rhinehardt said. “He wrote this a few months ago at my request. I know he wanted you both to be here.”

He looked down at the sheet of paper and started reading.

“I hope that I am old when I die. I hope that only you are left, Geoff, maybe with a wife and grandkids, but I know that may not happen. I might go on another bender. Or maybe all the damage I’ve done to myself will be too much. But no matter how I die, or what our relationship is like when I do, know that I love you all.

“To my mother, I leave all of my instruments and recording equipment. Do not sell them for at least ten years. Should anyone come from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame or any other museum to make an exhibit about me or ETG, give them the instruments or anything else they want. The sheet music, too. Everyone should be able to see it, not just whoever can pay the most for it at auction. If ten years have passed, though, and you need the money, go ahead and sell it. I won’t kid myself that as I write this, we aren’t exactly as big as The Beatles.

“To my brother, Geoff, I leave everything else. My house, the royalties, or my part of them anyway, my assets, and anything not related to making music. I know we aren’t close, but I hope one day we can be again. Right now, I just can’t forgive you for walking out on me. I get it. You needed to protect yourself. I was out of control, but I needed you. I needed my big brother to slap some sense into me, not walk away and watch me burn. I can’t forgive you yet. One day I will. I need more time. If I die before you, know that I wanted to.

“Use the money to make something else of yourself. You weren’t ever supposed to be a musician. Performing wasn’t for you. If I die young, use the money to go back to school. Become a lawyer or a doctor or a painter. Something where you aren’t onstage in front of thousands of people. I know our band defines you, but it doesn’t have to. Don’t become another has-been celebrity that lives off dividends and royalties, never doing anything important. I dominated the first part of your life. I’m sorry for that. But you don’t have to let me define the rest of it. If I die when I’m old, and hopefully we’re friends again, make a foundation to help the homeless or autistic kids or something. Use it to make the world better.

“I’m sorry for killing Tim. He was my brother, too.

“And for my funeral, do whatever you want. Cremate me, bury me, I don’t care. Stick me next to Tim, I suppose. Don’t toss my ashes into the wind at Leo Carillo, blowing me back into your faces. But I don’t really care about how the funeral is run. It’s more for the people still alive, anyway.

“I love you all. Be well.

“Ethan.”