My brother disappeared twenty-nine years ago. It didn’t happen on a specific day, or even during a specific month. The process was a slow drifting—a realization that grew in me like a poison, a splinter at the stem of my brain.
In 1990, he missed Christmas with the family, sending no message or explanation. He just didn’t show up.
I wasn’t exactly surprised at the time. He simply was who he was: Harold Tunmore, an esteemed scientist and Renaissance man. There was always some far-flung discovery, some hidden spool of thread he had to pull that would take precedence over other people. I never really understood his devotion to the un- known, but I learned to tolerate it over the years. You simply couldn’t count on him. He lived way up in the clouds.
It must be said that he had got better over the previous five or six years, becoming more of an uncle to my daughter, Harriet, in that time. He’d actually show up for birthdays and holidays, bringing with him strange and exotic trinkets from his travels. He’d swing by unannounced, much to my wife’s consternation, and take Harriet off on wild trips, exploring Scottish forests and camping by lakes. I’m not sure what had caused this change in him, but it was a welcome one. It was nice to see him more, after so many years of absences and excuses…