I'd been expecting something more. That I would open them up and immediately understand something more. I'd see something that had been T.J.'s and get what he had been thinking or doing right before. Or I'd see something meant just for me. Some piece of T.J. that would be all mine.

But I didn't count on everything being handled and reorganized, sanitized, and not by his buddies or anyone who even knew him. I didn't think about some stranger packing everything up in secure plastic bags, with no clear answers for me.

Kneeling down, I start to sort the stuff. The first bags hold nothing interesting. I sift through things, glancing and moving on until there's a pile of the everyday crap of T.J.'s life, none of which is going to answer any questions.

The next layer isn't any more enlightening: some more clothes, washed clean of all traces of T.J.; a striped towel; a fleece jacket with some kind of logo; and finally, together under the rest of the clothes, the T-shirt he wore the day we left on our hike, the one with the crack in the word ARMY, and his favorite sweatshirt, with the ripped pocket. I put them both to the side, pumped to at least have those.

More plastic bags. A few books. A handheld game player and a bag of games. A bunch of CDs, mostly by groups and singers I've never heard of. Some aren't even in English. I pull out a couple of the CDs that look interesting and put the rest in the pile to go back in.

I practically dive into the footlocker for the next bag - T.J.'s laptop, his battered case empty next to it. But when I lift it, the bag's too light, and when I open the bag, there's a gaping space where the hard drive should be. A letter in the bag says it was damaged beyond repair. Losing that hurts. I guess down deep this is what I wanted the most, so much so I didn't even have the guts to wish for it. I drop it onto the pile of stuff. No point in taking it without the hard drive. Disappointment seeps up inside me. What if there isn't anything here that can tell me anything important?

A Discman. A few more plastic bags of CDs, and one holding some papers. I shuffle the papers around. Statements and forms. Some pamphlets with other soldiers' names. Memorials. Other dead guys T.J. had known. No thanks.

I repack the footlocker, with, I hope, something at least close to the care used to pack it originally. I lay everything back in neatly, stacking some things to make it look full even without the small pile of stuff that's coming with me, until all I have left is the uniform on the bed. I force myself to once again pick it up by the plastic edges and, as gently as possible, lay it in on top. I smooth out a couple of ripples. Someone who didn't even know T.J. made it look perfect. The least I can do is try to keep it that way. I slip the zip tie back through the closed lid, wrap tape around the cut, and slide it so the tape doesn't show as much.

In the third footlocker, there's more clothes, and then a portable DVD player and several bags of DVDs. I look them over one by one, wondering which was his favorite, which ones he watched over and over, which ones he would tell me to watch, if he were here.

I have to take a deep breath and make myself keep going. If I stop to dwell on the stuff I wish I knew, on all the ways I wish I had known T.J. better, I'll lose it. The DVDs go into the pile to go downstairs, but I put the player aside to put back in. The DVDs, Dad will never notice around my room, but the player, covered in stickers and so obviously T.J.'s, will make him ask questions.

The next layer down, I hit pay dirt. T.J.'s iPods - three of them, all different sizes. They're beat all to hell and scratched and are probably the things he loved the most out of everything here. Most people don't need more than one. T.J. took all three with him on deployment. He probably had some reason - something about their uses, or time, or convenience. Hell, maybe even types of music. He bought the Shuffle the last time he was home - he couldn't resist its tiny size. But I guess he just couldn't bring himself to get rid of his first true-blue one, even with the others.

T.J. always fell asleep to music. Ran to it, too. He did pretty much everything to music. I can't wait to hook them up and try to figure out what he listened to the most, what he fell asleep to in the middle of a war zone, and what he listened to last. God, to scroll through the songs, see his history in music - maybe even some of my own. Probably a lot of songs I first heard through the closed door of this room, my ear pressed against the other side. I put the iPods in my keep pile and move on.

His camera's a mess - scratched and cracked and held together with some kind of tape. I can't get it to turn on. No memory cards. I put the camera back in, at least for now.

A few more books, some falling apart, like they might disintegrate if I handle them too much. T.J. didn't read much when he was home - a book or a magazine by his bed, maybe, but he didn't just sit around and read. But these, all beat up and creased, he read these a lot. One in particular is held together by a rubber band, with the front and back cover gone, and the pages crinkled and fluttering like it's been wet and dried out at least once. Another says Stories from the Appalachian Trail, a scrap of paper sticking out, marking a page. I choke, hold my breath, push on my eyes. I'm not ready to see what's on that page, how far he read before . . . I put the four books with the pile to go downstairs.

The next layer's a blanket I've never seen before. Then a box, black-and-white and glossy, with some kind of shiny stones or shells in an intricate pattern on top. I pull it out of its plastic bag. The inside smells like wood, but it's nearly as glossy as the outside. It's beautiful, and I have no idea why T.J. had it. It doesn't look like something he'd carry around with him, and I can't see him giving it to me or Dad. But there's something about it. I want it. But no way could I pass it off if Dad saw it in my room. Too much to risk.

More plastic bags with nothing interesting. At the bottom are a couple pairs of jeans. Kind of a letdown, and I feel sick to my stomach. I was sure I'd find some answers, but I'm leaving with just some stuff. Some cool stuff, but still.

I reach in to roll up the jeans so they'll take up more room. My hand hits something more, something underneath them. I yank the jeans out and toss them aside.

At the bottom, like afterthoughts, are more plastic bags.

Something crackles in the air around me, shoots through me.

I drag the first one out with shaking hands. Pictures. Stacks and stacks of pictures. I open up the bag and grab some at random, their slick surfaces sliding around.

The first picture's all light and dark. But after turning it, a window and side of a building, and some sign in a foreign language, becomes clear.

I dump all the pics back in their bag. The other three bags are full of envelopes, loose letters, and cards, even a couple of drawings.

Shit.

The things people sent him. I grab all four bags. No doubt they're coming with me.

I glance at the clock in the kitchen on my first trip downstairs. Shit. Later than I thought.

If I can get it all downstairs, hide it, then even if Dad finds out, maybe he won't be able to find it all.

I'll hide my stuff better than he ever could. But I know, even if he finds out, I'll deal with it. No way he's taking anything back.

I repack the footlocker as fast as I can, one layer at a time, but not nearly as carefully as before. Too much to lose now. And still, so many times I have to resist the urge to add to my sizable pile, knowing there's every chance I'll never get another look. It hurts to put the black-and-white box back in, but of all the stuff, it's the thing Dad would know, on sight, was wrong. I just can't be that stupid.

It takes three more trips to get everything down to my room, and on each trip, things fall and my spastic hands scrabble to gather them up again. I toss stuff onto my bed and run back for more. When it's all downstairs, I stare into T.J.'s room again.

From the doorway, everything is exactly in the places I found them. The footlockers are exactly where I found them, and I rubbed my shoes all over the carpet so there are no obvious dents or roughed-up places to give me away. From the hallway, you can't even see that the footlockers have been opened. Dad would have to go all the way in and crouch down to see that the zip ties have been cut.

Back down in my room, I start to panic for real. A bunch of T.J.'s things sitting around in piles will beg questions. There's no telling when Dad might get home, or when he might get it in his head to come down and check up on me.

I dump the stuff from my lowest desk drawer into a trash bag and then put most of the smaller stuff in there. The T-shirts and sweatshirt I hide in my bureau, underneath my other sweatshirts. The books and DVDs get stacked under the desk, in the back, behind the comic books I haven't read in a while. Then I push my desk chair in as far as it will go.

In the bottom of my closet is my box full of hiking stuff. I dump it all out, and then shove the bags of letters and pictures into it and slide it under my bed. Close enough to grab in an emergency, but still out of sight.

Then I wait for Dad to come home.

DAD'S TRUCK DOESN'T PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY UNTIL after midnight. I hold my breath, listening as he moves through the house.

Instead of going right upstairs, he walks around the kitchen. I hear the cabinet. He gets a drink. If he comes down the stairs, I might shit my pants. If he heads to the recliner, I'm gonna have to sweat it out some more.

Then I hear it: the open, close, lock of the back door. The steps pause near my stairs. I dive for the bed, ready to pretend I fell asleep listening to the music. But the door doesn't open, and his footsteps head through the living room and upstairs.

I wait for the water through the pipes, the sounds of him walking around his room, and count to one hundred. Wait some more, and there's nothing but silence. He has to be out. Then, moving as quietly as I can, wincing on every step, I grab my backpack. I drop it next to my nightstand, in case I still need to hide the letters and pictures, quick and portable-like, or make a run for it.

Just before climbing back onto the bed, I slide the box out from underneath it and turn on the bedside lamp. I pull out the bag of pictures. The first few I grab are of buildings and people, looking like every pic I've ever seen of Iraq. One of two little boys holding thumbs-up at the camera, the smaller boy holding a candy bar clutched in his hand. A couple of some kind of market, with colorful stalls. Some kind of water. A sunset over a city.

Next are three of guys from T.J.'s unit, or maybe another unit, but Army guys, recognizable even in jeans and tees. They're standing in front of a restaurant or a bar. A couple of pics of the same guys at some kind of party, but this time all looking a little wasted. One of T.J. leaning over with some little kids - he was blowing up balloons. His face, so happy. I stare at it for a long time, then slip it into my backpack, in the small pocket at top.

One of a woman in uniform, dark skin and hair, serious, except for her eyes: her eyes seem to be laughing, maybe at T.J. taking the picture? Maybe she's in T.J.'s unit? Another picture of her, more relaxed, sitting at a table under an umbrella, with T.J. and two other guys. She's the only one in the sun, and her dark skin is glowing, shiny and kind of coppery. Her hair's pulled back from her face, cool sunglasses on top of her head. She's beautiful, smiling into the camera. The other people around the table, including T.J., smile, too. A couple more of them, in different places, but the same clothes. More pics of kids.

Some soldiers in full uniform talking to a classroom full of kids. Another of the woman with T.J., arms around each other. He's grinning his shit-eating grin, and she's laughing, her feet dangling like he had just lifted her off the ground.

Lots more of Iraq. Buildings. People. Streets. Lots of other soldiers. Even more pics of kids.

Another of T.J. and some guys around a picnic table. These guys don't look like Army, but I have no clue where it was taken, or who they are. Were they friends? A woman leaning against a fence. A whole bunch of a lake, houses on the other side. Some people windsurfing. A cat on a chair. Still so many in the bag. So many people I don't even know. Who are they?

And letters. Cards. Three bags. The sheer number of letters is overwhelming. Dizzying.

I push the pictures to the end of the bed and reach into the box. The first bag's about three-quarters full. I tug it open and grab a handful of letters. Shuffling them into a neat pile, I get all the return addresses aligned. Someone in North Carolina. T.J.'s friend Dan. Mitch, from work. Florida. Texas. Wisconsin. I grab some more, scan the names as they slide across my lap. There are so many. Some don't even have envelopes. Some classes sent pictures and handmade cards, with little-kid signatures.

About two dozen in, I find the first one from me. No envelope. Before his birthday, probably in with the package we sent. Written fast and stupid. It's even pretty sloppy. Lame. Idiot.

One with Dad's business labels. Another from Dan. Mr. Anders. I stop and start to read that one, then feel weird, like if I read his letter, it'll be hard to look at Mr. Anders next time I see him. I put it back.

A few more from strangers. A girl T.J. went to high school with. Some with return addresses of classes, schools. A card from Dad and a letter from Denver, from one of T.J.'s buddies I've actually met, from his first tour.

I work my way through the whole bag, reading a few at random.

Whenever I wrote T.J., I never knew what to say. Reading some of the letters other people sent him, they all sound a lot alike - how proud they are; how thankful - but at least they had something to say. Nice stuff, but nothing interesting, really.

I don't know a lot of the people, but some of them had to be his friends. People who wanted T.J. to come home soon. Talking about what good times they'd have when he came home and news of other people I don't know. He hadn't really lived at our house in years, so I guess I always knew he had to have friends all over. Maybe some were guys who got out. Or maybe people he met near base: North Carolina, Georgia, and Wisconsin. A lot of the letters are from Wisconsin. Makes sense - that's where T.J. had been posted before this deployment. But seeing the letters, from so many different strangers, drives it home, how little I really knew what he did when he wasn't here.

Dad's letters are short. To the point. How proud he is of T.J. How he hopes T.J.'s staying focused. Asking if T.J. needs anything. Mine are all lame.

Through the first bag, and all I feel is guilty, and kind of sad. It's embarrassing how few letters I sent. We sent e-mails back and forth all the time, and T.J. sent me postcards sometimes, but we just didn't write each other letters. I really only wrote a letter when we were sending a package. But I still feel like a total jerk. Even Dad wrote more than I thought he had. I guess I just never saw him do it. But Dad's and mine together aren't nearly as many as some of the others. Dan wrote more letters than I did.

I grab the next bag out of the box. Almost as full as the last one. The first three I grab are all from Madison, Wisconsin. The fourth and fifth, too. C. CARSON, on the first label, and second, and then CELIA CARSON, but the same address. Tingles start in my hands and ears and shiver through me. I feel like I'm floating off the bed.

Another handful: the same. I dump the bag and fan them out. All of them from C. or Celia Carson, 754 River Road, Madison, Wisconsin 53703. The whole bag, all of them are from her. Fuck. My mouth goes dry. Hands shaking, I open one at random.

Theo, Theo? Who the hell is Theo? I scramble for the envelope: T.J.'s name and address. A shudder crawls down my back. Since when was T.J. "Theo"?

Dad, Theodore Sr., was "Ted." Dad always called T.J. "Junior" or, when introducing him to people, "Ted Jr." Mom called him "Teddy." To everyone else, T.J. had always been "T.J." He didn't even like it when I said it like "Teej." More than a few guys ended up in stitches for calling him "Theodore." But . . . "Theo"?

It's just after midnight here and this is the first chance I've had today to write. I read your letter last night and actually started a letter back, but I didn't get it finished, and decided to start fresh tonight instead (last night I was missing you just that much too much).

Whoa.

I'm working on another package - the magazines and supplies you asked for, some more of the tees and socks, two CDs that came in the mail (bet you miss eBay almost as much as you miss me), a few other things (and tell Tito I found more of the cookies he's been nagging you about) - but it won't get sent until at least next week because there's something special I'm waiting for. You'll like it. Wink.

Holy shit.

Your letter sounded tired - and yes, I can hear that in the letter. Trouble sleeping again? Me, too.

In case I haven't made it clear, I really miss you. It's turned suddenly cold here, and it makes me miss you even more, if only for the warmth at night - just kidding. . . .

Holy fucking shit!

I grab the pictures. Dig through the bag. Knowing what I'm gonna find but still needing to see. The one of her in uniform. Has to be her. I squint at the uniform. Is her name there? Could be Carson, but I can't see it clear enough to be sure. I dig for more of her. The one at the table, with T.J. and the guys, all of them toasting the camera. Another of her with some people near a swing set. Another of her, but her hair's longer.

In the meantime, know I love you, I think of you day and night, and I hope you are being safe. All my best to the guys. Lol. Xoxo.

Love you, C.

I look at the picture of her in uniform, then at the letter, and then back at the picture of her at the table, sunglasses on top of her head, back to her in uniform. Celia - in uniform and in regular clothes. The one of T.J. lifting her off the ground. Has to be her. One of a bunch of people near water, the sun glinting off the surface behind them: Celia and T.J. and their friends?

My heart pounds so hard it might crack a rib, and still I feel like no blood is reaching my brain.

T.J. had a girlfriend. I scan the letter again. T.J. had a girlfriend, and he never told me. And she called him Theo. And she sent him sexy letters, and packages, and . . . Fuck. I start reading as fast as I can.

MY HEAD'S BEEN SPINNING SINCE SATURDAY NIGHT. EVERY time I think I've wrapped my brain around what I found, it hits me all over again.

I read all night Saturday, slept for a few hours, and then started over again.

By Sunday night I'd read all of her letters twice, sifted through all of the pictures to find the ones of her.

I was already dreading Monday, but the lack of sleep and all the stuff whirling around my head made it a soul-sucking hell.

As if I'm not rattled enough, Tuesday starts with a nice long session with Mr. Lee in Guidance. And I have to play nice.

When I came in this morning, they made me sign some paper that said if I don't cooperate in the guidance sessions and be a good boy, I'm gone for the rest of the year, I'll miss finals, and I'll have to do summer school to be a senior next year. And they're putting a hold on my grades until I pay for the display case. Not sure how I'll even know if I have to do summer school if they won't release my grades, but I decide I don't care enough to ask.

I'm supposed to be reading some article about the stages of grief or something, but my head is pounding and my mind keeps wandering.

After some Googling around yesterday, I have a little more than a name and address. The online phone book showed a bunch of addresses for C. Carson and Celia Carson, but it looks like she's still at the River Road address. I also found a listing in a staff directory at the university. And from there, I found a picture. A group shot at some kind of event, small and hard to see, and I think from a few years ago, but clear enough to see that one of the women in that picture sure looks a lot like the woman in T.J.'s pictures.

"Matt." Mr. Lee sighs. "Are you here? I mean, really here?" He rubs his eyes.

It's only 8:42 a.m. and already this day sucks. I sit up in the chair. Focus.

"Yeah," I say, so he knows I'm paying attention. "Sorry."

I'm not sure I can take much more. Mr. Lee shuffles through the file in front of him, then picks up his clipboard again.

"Your brother's death isn't the first loss you've suffered, Matt. How did your family cope when your mother died?"

It takes everything in me not to walk out the door.

"Take a few minutes. Think about it. You have to have done something," Lee says, reaching for his coffee.

I've been dreaming about her a lot. Just fractured images mostly, but sometimes in full-out Technicolor replays. Sometimes I can even smell her, or more how our house smelled when she lived there. I don't dream much about the good stuff. Mostly of Mom right before she left, her wild, fast talk, eyes all shiny and weird. Crazy or silent, somewhere else in her head. Lost before she even left.

That last fight, T.J. threw me in the closet and then tried to get between them. Dad yelling: It isn't worth it. None of it's worth it. After everything I do for you . . . Her screeching and tearing the house apart. Wild.

T.J. was only thirteen, and no match for Dad, but Mom was the one throwing things, and he could usually get her under control if Dad let him. T.J. ended up with a split lip. She took off three days later.

It's worse when I dream about the nicer times. Her hands, soft and gentle, even when she could barely hold herself up. She used to make me butterscotch pudding with chocolate-chip faces on top.

How do you grieve for someone who kissed you good-bye one morning when you were five years old and then left while you were at preschool, so that you came home to an empty house and never saw her again? Do you even grieve when you spend the next year and a half confused and scared and sometimes worried that she might come back?

I can see Mom's face behind my eyes: twisted like in every fucked-up memory. The smell of her: sour-sweet breath and sweat, or, when she was doing OK, that perfume she loved. T.J. trying to get her out of the car. Dad yelling while counting pills and trying to clean up the mess. Breaking glass. Like I'm still cowering in the corner, listening through hands fisted over my ears. Choking on the sudden sour burn in my throat.

"Matt."

Shudder. Head rush. My throat burns. Lee's half out of his seat. I've never seen his face like that.

"Are you OK?" he asks.

"Yeah." I rub my sweaty palms over my knees to dry them. "Fine." I pull the paper closer to me. Stages of Grief.

Mr. Lee pushes the paper aside right out from under my fingers. "OK, let's try a different tack." He settles back into his chair. "Yesterday was Memorial Day. What did you do to honor your brother's memory?"

Worse than Mom.

Dad got up, got dressed, and left, like it was any other Monday. No idea if he actually went to the office or what, but he left around the usual time and he came home around the usual time, and then he spent the rest of the night in his recliner, as if there were nothing at all unusual about the day.

I tried not to lose my fucking mind. I had no idea when Dad might come home, and in what kind of mood. I sat in my room, wishing time would move faster, doing some research and looking at the letters, but with my shoes on and backpack at the ready, just in case he came home and decided to look at T.J.'s stuff. If he'd even paused outside the door to T.J.'s room, I'd have been out of there.