Bittersweet Fruit

When "Apples & Oranges" came out in May, New York Times critic Michiko Kakutani gave it a rare unqualified rave. "Ms. Brenner uses the prism of her love and grief for her brother -- and her bewilderment too -- to create a haunting portrait," Kakutani wrote. The book "explores the difficult algebra of familial love and the possibility of its renewal in the face of impending loss."

Which brings us to the complex emotional equation implied by those empty shelves.

Brenner had moved to San Antonio to be near Carl as his cancer worsened. She describes "a quiet Saturday, not that far from the end." He reminded her of a time when, as children, he had carried her on his shoulders.

Then: "You know, I never told you something. . . . I am sorry I was a terrible brother."

"It's not your fault," she replied.

She had to return to New York for a few days. He called her there, talked about plans for his orchards, told her he loved her, hung up the phone -- and shot himself, leaving his letter behind.

You will find everything you need on these shelves.

A disconnected sister would likely have read this as one last rebuff. But Brenner has chosen to focus on the words Carl wrote after that: Go forward.

"In my brother's inimitable way," she says, "he was trying to express something that was actually very graceful." What he meant, she thinks, was: Don't look back. You already have everything you need.

Maybe so. But if Carl had tried as hard to know his sister as she tried to know him, he'd have understood that her needs were different. She couldn't go forward without going backward first.