And not only that, you refuse to use it, my adoptive father said. It’s hurtful to all of us.
I thought it was only a little funny that my adoptive brother seemed to have the final word on their system of support. Underneath my laughing, I was sobbing, and then my sobbing turned quickly into anger. They didn’t even offer me cookies and milk, they were so astonished by my arrival. They didn’t think I would come, I, the most reliable one of them all! There are so many people in the world, I thought, what do they do with themselves everyday? How to live, what to do? Hey Sister Reliability, suck my dick! If you wanted to show your gratitude, you could bake a pie tomorrow, wake up, find a recipe online, make a list of ingredients, go to the grocery store, pay for everything out of your own pocket, bake an apple or cherry pie, even though you have never baked a pie in your life. You never would. Be a better daughter, Helen. I heard my adoptive father’s voice over and over in my head. Where’s your fucking waterfall? I said to no one. You’re not that type of person, a pie-baker, and you never were! My waterfall is a watermill in ruins!
I would need to begin first thing in the morning. I would shower off the dirt and death molecules I had accumulated since entering the house of my childhood, I would burnish my skin clean until my thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell,5 I would dissociate myself from the death stench permeating the house. Hey Sister Reliability, kiss my cunt!
Instead of baking a pie, I search on the internet for old friends of his if he had any, teachers, doctors, therapists, dentists, etc., then scour his bedroom and disgusting closet for clues, I go out the window to examine the roof over his head, to cap off the day I sit down at the kitchen table with my adoptive parents, I could see already the bright overhead light illuminating their grief-stricken ghost-faces, I ask them pointed questions about his mental state the day of his suicide, what did he look like that day, what was he wearing? I interrogate them. Certainly something good would come from that, which would counter the terrible circumstances that produced his suicide.
What were your last words to my adoptive brother? What did you say to him before he went headfirst into the abyss?
11
October 2nd, the first real day of my investigation, it was pitch-black outside, darker than the darkest mornings in Manhattan when the garbage has not yet been collected and the rats are at work. That morning I was only able to wake up because I heard voices from below, loud and emphatic voices joking and laughing, disrupting my peace! I waited until the voices subsided and when I went downstairs to investigate, I was astonished to see a man I had never seen before sitting at the table, wearing a gray suit, reading the newspaper, and sipping coffee as if he had been a lifelong resident or an esteemed guest of my childhood home. All the kindness and generosity I worked so hard to muster up that morning dissipated quickly.
Who are you? I said. What are you doing here?
The man looked at me and removed his round rimless glasses.
I’m Chad, the grief counselor, the man said, you must be Helen.
Helen Moran, I said.
I didn’t extend my hand, because it didn’t seem like that kind of social meeting; it was like meeting an emergency relief services worker, I thought, and you don’t shake those people’s hands.
Chad stood up from the table and extended his hand as toast crumbs fell down the front of his suit.
I touched his hand lightly, the way I would touch a sick person. So how do you know them?
We go to the same church, he said.
He smiled.
Helen, do you remember me?
Without his glasses, he appeared to be around my age.
We went to school together, he said. We were in the same homeroom for sophomore year, Mrs. Kleeb. I sat across from you and your friend.
I searched my memory thoroughly for Chad in high school, but no image came up. Not even one image to tamp down quickly.
You’ve altered your appearance, I said.
Well, I’m older now, he said.
As are you, he said a little less generously.
It horrified me to think a stranger who knew me from sixteen years ago was now sitting in my childhood home, eating his breakfast, and talking to my adoptive parents about the suicide, maybe even consoling them with religion, and offering his own version of support. He probably knows more than I do about the situation, I thought with disgust.
I have been very interested in seeing you again, he said. Your parents have told me a lot about you.
That time of my life was terrible. It was a depressing time. I’ve lost weight since then. Of course my skin is worse than in high school.
I don’t notice it, he said. And your parents do have a lovely house here.
Appalled, I put a piece of bread in the toaster, then I began to empty the dishwasher and I heard him speaking to me. It was just a voice in the background. Meanwhile, it was very pleasant to take things out of the dishwasher and to put them in their correct places, the places I remembered from childhood chores, chores to get one extra dollar a week. My cheapness began in early childhood, because my allowance was so small, it was incredibly disheartening to try to save up for something big, like a bike or a video-game system. It was easier to make do without. Then I noticed Chad was smiling at me and speaking and occasionally gesturing with his hands. I started to actually listen when I detected a bitter note in his voice.
It’s terribly difficult to be a family friend and a therapist. What are you up to these days?
At least he didn’t call me ma’am, I thought. I told him I helped troubled youth and for emphasis, I slammed shut the dishwasher. He put on his rimless glasses and peered at me.