I stand in Dad’s bedroom doorway. His bed remains unmade but the cans are gone. I didn’t clean them up. Did Vance? I can still see Dad lying there holding up his beer, defiantly saying, “Cheers!” He fell into a coma that next afternoon. He never made it to the liver doctor.
Vance and I found him unconscious in his bed when we got home from school. We called 911, and he spent a short time in the hospital before they moved him to the hospice.
His service is in two hours. It’s only going to be me, Vance, Joey, and Bill.
Once the cell company released Dad’s PIN, we got into his phone and called our grandparents and aunt.
My grandparents couldn’t make it from Alaska. My aunt couldn’t make it from Singapore. Vance and I seriously didn’t care if they came or not. They were just people. At first we didn’t even want Joey and Bill to come, but then Vance made a good point—he said Dad would’ve wanted them there. He was right. They liked Dad, and Dad liked them. They’d stuck by him.
Ms. Becker really is our liaison with the funeral home. She calls each morning with a list of questions for me and Vance. We put her on speaker and answer them, together.
• No, we don’t want to speak at the service.
• No, flowers are a waste of money.
• No, we don’t practice any kind of religion.
• No, we don’t want a memory book or funeral cards made.
• No, we don’t plan to bring photo boards.
• Yes, we want Dad’s coffin to be nice.
• Yes, we want his burial to happen right after.
• No, we don’t want a limo. Vance can drive us. We know the way. It’s the same cemetery as for Mom.
The Child Protective Services woman comes tomorrow morning. Ms. Becker says she is her favorite CPS social worker. We’ll see.
“Eggs are ready,” Vance yells up the stairs.
“Coming.” I close Dad’s door until it clicks. Of course we’ll have to open it, maybe even when we get home, but there is the tiniest comfort in shutting his things away for the time being. A temporary break from one space in which he lived.
Vance and Growler sit at the table, already eating breakfast. It was my idea to invite Growler over last night. I thought he’d be the perfect person to hang out with. Vance objected at first, saying he wasn’t ready to see people. I reminded him that it would be nice for Growler since he wasn’t invited to Dad’s service. Growler loved Dad. And besides, we still had the sunglasses he’d left at the hospice.
Vance texted him, and he got permission to sleep over. We hung out in the living room telling Dad story after Dad story. It was during one of those stories that I had a mini-revelation. The fact that I insisted on calling Growler “Stephen” was annoying. Growler was Growler, and that was that. The only reason I did it was to annoy Vance. I’d moved on from that.
The kitchen smells of melted butter and toast. “Looks good. Thanks.” Complimenting Vance, showing him gratitude, still feels awkward, the words clunky in my mouth.
Vance drops his eyes. “Sure.”
We trip over the exchange. We are unsure. We are in strange territory.
“Tasted good,” Growler says. “I gotta bolt. My dad’s expecting me to help with the garage cleanout, which starts in ten minutes. I’ll be thinking of you guys today.” He lifts his half-empty OJ glass. “To your dad!”
Vance and I raise our glasses, and the three of us clink. Growler simultaneously squeezes both of our shoulders before leaving.
We eat in silence. The seriousness of the day is all-powerful.
I cannot count the number of glances I take at our father’s empty chair. Hundreds maybe. Despite my efforts at being subtle, Vance says, “Maybe we can start eating in the dining room.”
I shrug and blink rapidly. The tears can’t come yet.
He says, “You know how Dad loved Cliff’s ‘Many Rivers to Cross’?”
My hand trembles as I take a bite of eggs, and I nod.
“What if we play it on my phone and put it up to Dad’s ear? Before Joey and Bill get there. Do you think he could really hear it?”
Who is this person sitting across from me? Will he retreat into his old personality soon? How long will Vance, the actual brother, be present and accounted for?
Vance answers his own question. “Probably not, right? I guess it would be more for us than him, wouldn’t it? It’s stupid.” He stands and clears his plate from the table.
“It’s not stupid.”
He turns around. He’s biting his cheek.
I point to Dad’s empty chair. “How do we know where his soul is? What if he’s here?” My voice rises. “What if he’s sitting there, listening to us, screaming that he wants you to play the song? How do we know anything anymore, Vance? I don’t know shit! I just don’t know shit!” I pound the table with my fist. My fork jumps from my plate and rattles around.
Vance wipes a tear away. “I don’t know shit either.”
We silently clear the table and pack the dishwasher. I walk into the living room and plop down onto the sofa. Vance follows—again, this is new because he usually would be anywhere I wasn’t.
“That picture…” he says, his voice drifting off.
What picture? Is he talking about one of my drawings?
He walks to the corner table, grabs the framed family photo from the zoo, and holds it up. “Let’s bring this with us to Dad’s thing. Mom loved this picture.”
“Do you think they stopped loving each other?”
Without hesitation Vance says, “No.”
I don’t know where his certainty is coming from, and I’m not sure he’s right, but it feels so good to hear it.