What I Lost and Found at Epcot

A memory of my brother Brian

In 1986 my brother Brian took me for a wild goose chase of a walk at Disney’s Epcot Center. I was ten years old. He would have been seventeen, I guess. Seven years later he would be dead.

Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. That sounds like a stupid thing to say — of course, I didn’t know that at the time, but I assure you, I’m not the only person that thinks such thoughts after a tragic death: “I didn’t know that at the time.” We don’t know they’ll get sick and die. We don’t know they’ll go away forever without ever saying goodbye. We don’t know it and we fault ourselves for not knowing, as though we should have or could have if we’d just paid closer attention to the signs or lived a fuller life together or taken advantage of every moment and experience and recorded every detail so as to never forget a thing. When we say, quite foolishly, “I didn’t know that at the time,” what I think we mean is that we should’ve known. Or perhaps we wish we’d known. Blame and regret are the motives in these respective scenarios.

My family was at Disney. That alone is a story within a story. Between my parents and my siblings there were eight of us. Disney wasn’t something the Flood family was guaranteed and most certainly was not something the Flood family would do again. This trip was a one and done, once in a lifetime thing. So of course, as is usually the case with such events, I remember very little of it.

But I do remember that evening at Epcot. Brian took me for a walk. I can’t remember why or where. But I was ten and it was late in August in Orlando so my energy dissipated quickly and I began to whine.

I asked Brian what we were doing and where we were going and when were we leaving and he patiently said, “I’m just looking for something. Come on. Follow me.”

I asked again and again, and again he said he was looking for something.

I followed him. I tried my best not to cry. He bought an ice cream cone and he held it while I took refreshing licks as it melted with gusto over his knuckles.

We never found anything. We never did anything. At some point we bumped into the rest of my family again and went back to the hotel. I didn’t ask him what it was he had been looking for.

I didn’t realize it then, but now I understand that if Brian was, in fact, at first looking for anything, before long, he was lost. He probably got turned around and was separated from the family. I, in my admiration of my big brother, probably followed him without thinking. He just walked and I followed. It seemed as if we were going on a little jaunt.

The crux here is that Brian didn’t shout at me. He didn’t lose his patience. He didn’t panic. He didn’t race. His frustration with himself for being disoriented or his frustration with his whiny little brother never manifested outwardly in any way. He remained quiet and patient. And gentle. Always gentle. He didn’t appear to me to be frightened. He really did look as though he were simply trying to find something.

This is not a trait I possess. When I am lost, wrong, or frustrated, everyone knows it. My sound effects, body language, death stares and swears are like sirens on emergency vehicles: stay away. It’s really not a good quality. I hope someday my loved ones will remember my endearing heart pinned to my sleeve instead of my foul temper and curmudgeonly demeanor.

I write about Brian sometimes. Perhaps too often. Sometimes I feel like I’m telling the same story over and over and over like a broken death record skipping over it’s scratches, spinning around and never finding the groove again.

Brian was not a curmudgeon. He was a gentle, gentle soul. He never let on that he was lost that evening. But seven years later, we’d all know how lost he was and then he would be gone and we’d all be scratching our heads for the next rest-of-our-lives wondering WTF just happened?

I write about Brian sometimes. Perhaps too often. Sometimes I feel like I’m telling the same story over and over and over like a broken death record skipping over its scratches, spinning around and never finding the groove again.

Sometimes I write about how he lived. Most times about how he died. All times about how I still try to figure out how to put it all back together. Sometimes I’ll write for anyone reading so that others may know him because my brother was a sweet and deeply troubled guy and I wish everyone would have known him. Sometimes I’ll write about Brian for myself because it helps me remember or because I’m afraid of forgetting. Sometimes I’ll write about Brian to make him real again, to fashion from the air the specter of his form, to look at him again, to strain my spirit-ear to hear his distant fading voice again, to smell his clothes, to hold his things, to sit in his room with him and listen to some tunes while he plays his guitar.

I can feel myself wandering as I write of my brother. Perhaps I’m still looking for something just like we did that night at Epcot. Perhaps I’ll never find anything just like we did that night at Epcot. I think there’s a metaphor somewhere in there.

In 2019 my wife and I took our own family to Disney. We drove from New York to Orlando. The excitement of our girls was something I’ll never forget. The hotel and the parks and the restaurants and attractions were — well, I hate being such a sucker for marketing, but Disney is truly a magical place.

For the entire trip, I was time and again reminded of my own impatient childishness, my own incorrigible will-power some three and a half decades (or three and half minutes) ago; meanwhile, I witnessed my daughters’ steadfast patience and cooperation. I was particularly impressed by how much our little girls, then nine and five, loved Epcot. As we walked from country to country, they walked excitedly, without complaint. They didn’t ask when we were leaving. They didn’t ask where we were going. They were exhausted and it was warm, but they were just so joyful —and interested! They genuinely loved all of the cultural attractions.

And the ice cream, of course. They loved the ice cream too.

We were sitting on a bench in France eating ice cream when I was overcome by a sense of peace. I saw my daughters and my wife. I saw myself. And I suddenly remembered that night in Epcot nearly thirty-five years earlier. And I smiled the bittersweet smile of loss as I remembered! I remembered! Perhaps in the identical place my deceased brother and I were lost at Epcot, I remembered! It was another of those “hellos from Brian” I’ve experienced so many times before.

This isn’t a story of victorious and lasting acceptance. I’m not certain what acceptance means to tell you the truth. I don’t feel like I’m an “accepting” kind of a guy. You know, like Ahab — “I’d strike the sun if it insulted me!” Well, I’m insulted. And I’m still trying to manage that — every day of my life!

So no. I’m not trying to say I’ve “arrived” or anything. I’ve not overcome grief. I’m not “ok” with his death. No. I mean, I really miss him and I wish he were here. The truth is that I still look for him. Everywhere. And my fruitless searches can be disappointing. But in those searches, I often find something else. And that’s not nothing, you know? That’s not nothing. Seeing, maybe, my brother, somehow, in my daughters, his nieces that he never met , seeing him in their smiles or their eyes or interests or moods or in their little kindnesses— that’s not nothing, you know?

So sitting with all my ladies eating ice cream on that Epcot bench, I thought to myself, “I don’t know what you were looking for that night, Brian, but I found it now. I found it. I hope you found it too. Wherever you are. See ya ‘round, brother.”