It’s the three of us now, said my adoptive father.
He perched himself on the edge of a couch.
So how long do you think you’ll be staying with us, Helen?
Once a rather handsome man, he had taken on a shrunken appearance since the last time I saw him, and his brown hair had gone gray on top and white on the sides. The color of his hair changed because of the grieving and the loss, I speculated. What a toll it has already taken upon him and his physical appearance! It saddened me to see such a drastic physical transformation, and so soon after the death.
To answer your question, I said, I purchased a one-way plane ticket. I’m here to look into the abyss and to offer my support in whatever form it takes.
He nodded. His eyes were small and sad and brave like those of an endangered bird flying through a forest at dusk. It has something to do with the death, I thought as my gaze shifted from my adoptive father to the beanbag chair to my adoptive father’s hair, from his hair to the photographs on the mantel and from the photographs back to my adoptive father.
What a difficult time, I whispered as I scrutinized his appearance for a few more minutes, what a toll all this has taken, then I began to look at my adoptive father with the charity of a nun as I felt something foreign swell in my heart for him and his shrunken, birdlike figure. I moved closer to him on the couch, close enough to see the long white hairs growing behind his ears. Someone should trim those, I said.
What’s that?
I wanted to offer him as much support as possible.
Your hair looks different, I said.
We haven’t seen each other in five years, he said. People get older, Helen, people change. Besides, that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Do you have a job you have to return to? How long exactly will you be here? We will be hosting some visitors…
What visitors?
I was very curious, then I looked again at the beanbag chair slumped over in the corner of the living room and I let out a laugh. My adoptive mother came out from the kitchen to see what was wrong.
What a toll it has taken, this death and grieving and loss! I said under my breath, under my laughter.
My adoptive father said something to my adoptive mother.
Helen, said my adoptive mother, and she touched my shoulder. Is now not a good time to talk about what happened? Is being here at home with the two of us upsetting you?
My laughter, now hardly weltering, died away.4 I shook my head no.
It’s fine, I said.
What was the concept of time anyway, especially to these two ghost-figures and their grieving? A few moments passed in silence and I wondered how many phantoms were in the living room with us that night. It was an appropriate question because as I was sitting on the three-person wicker couch, I started to formulate a hypothesis that their grieving was the fourth, yet-unspoken presence in the living room and no one had acknowledged it.
Perhaps I was the only one, the chosen one, who could see it clearly in a material way. If it had to take on a bodily form, and if I had to describe that form to someone, I would say I imagined it looked like a European man in his forties, average build and height, balding, with a red nose, sitting on a chair, observing us from a dark corner of the room, opposite the beanbag chair. I shook my adoptive mother’s hand off my shoulder, got up from the wicker-basket couch, and reached out my own hand to touch their grieving and it recoiled as if I were some sort of vagrant beggar.
I am not a vagrant beggar! I shouted at it.
The European man who seemed to embody their grieving got up from his chair and left haughtily.
Perhaps this isn’t a good time to discuss things, said my adoptive mother. You see, your father and I have been thinking… We can’t be much of a support to you in a time like this, you see… do you understand what I’m saying… we can’t support you right now, as it is, we’re both trying to adjust to the situation…
Her voice trailed off and she floated back into the kitchen.
My adoptive father looked uncomfortable; I thought it might be a kind gesture to change the subject.
Will you vote yes in the stadium referendum? I said. My adoptive father covered his face with his hands.
It’s worse than a car accident, I heard him say into his hands, it’s worse than a house on fire.
My adoptive mother came out from the kitchen and set down a tray of chamomile tea and biscotti.
Helen, try to be nice to your father. Let’s be kind to one another, after all, this is a difficult time for all of us, she said.
What a difficult time! I acknowledged again and again. What a toll it has taken! It had been less than 48 hours after his suicide. What would the weeks, the months, the years do to them, these ghost-figure survivors? I estimated they would live for another twenty to thirty years, meaning two to three more decades of post-traumatic living. Meanwhile, my adoptive mother and adoptive father sat on the wicker furniture and ate their crackers nervously. I attempted to explain that I was partially employed as a supervisor of troubled young people at an after-school facility designed to keep them off drugs, out of gangs, etc.
So you look after people? said my adoptive mother. You take care of them?
She looked at me incredulously.
Of course, I said, they are troubled.