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(Names in this story have been changed)

Jennifer and I tossed our batons high into the air, caught them in unison, twirled them with a flourish, and ended in a perfectly-synchronized salute.

My best friend and I had been chosen as twirlers for our high-school band—pretty exciting stuff, especially for freshmen. I'd spent the past several days in intense practice partly because I wanted to do my best. I'd also thrown myself into practicing because I wanted to block out the fact that my older brother Josh had been missing for 10 days.

Josh had gone out to meet a farmer about buying some grain and hadn't returned. When my sister-in-law called to tell us Josh was missing, my parents packed and left for my brother's farm. I'd decided to stay at home with my elderly aunt and uncle, who were living with us at the time.

As Jen and I continued our practice, my family's doctor drove up. Doc was usually all smiles and wisecracks, but today he wore his serious face. He put his arm around me. "Amy," he said gently, "they found Josh. He's dead."

I didn't say anything. I didn't even cry. I simply walked into Jennifer's house and sat on her bed. She followed me into her room. I traced the yellow sunflowers on Jen's comforter with my finger. My ugly, gnawed fingernail snagged a loose thread. Josh hated it when I bit my nails.

Sixteen years older than me, Josh had been my handsome, fun-loving big brother. He'd babysat me when I was little and, as I'd gotten older, he offered words of wisdom about boys and friendship. He'd been my hero. He couldn't be gone.

Pushing my memories down deep inside, I pulled my hand away from the comforter and said, "I think we need a lot more practice on that salute." I jumped up, grabbed my baton, and dashed outside. We practiced until dark. I spent the night at Jen's. We talked about twirling, band practice, and football season. We never discussed my brother's death. I'd put up a barrier and refused to let anyone in.

Nobody told me how Josh died. My parents were trying to protect me from any further pain. As long as I didn't ask questions, they assumed I was coping. But they were wrong. By picking up bits and pieces of conversations, I learned that my brother had been shot and left in an abandoned pump house in a grain field. The thought of my brother dying on the dirt floor of a ramshackle pump house was too painful to even consider. From then on I tried hard to keep such thoughts out of my mind. I also tried hard to avoid talking about my brother's death with anyone.

During my sophomore year, the high-school athletic department put up a new flagpole and plaque honoring Josh, a former student, football player and game announcer. I stood on the football field with the band, saluting with my baton, eyes straight ahead. I didn't connect the dedication with my brother. It was like the announcer was talking about somebody else. Only one fleeting thought connected me to the ceremony: "I hope nobody's looking at me."

Not only did I avoid talking about my brother's death, I also tried to block out the murder investigation and the trial that followed. This wasn't too hard. The trial took place almost 400 miles away. My aunt and uncle hid the newspapers from me and turned off the television news when I was in the room. My parents never discussed the trial when they called home. In fact, all through my high-school years, they never offered any information nor encouraged me to talk about my brother's death. They thought they were doing what was best for me. But my denial of my pain and my family's efforts to "protect" me only drove my hurt deeper.

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