My own bathrobe and traveler’s kit were nowhere to be found. My own canvas suitcase was missing. I opened the closet and found a pair of men’s trousers that still had the tags on, possibly a gift for my adoptive brother, but never worn. I put them on, they were a few sizes too large so I found a braided leather belt. There was a pocket in the front, where I deposited my phone. I sat down on my bed for a few moments to collect my thoughts. I noticed that the flowerpots were still covered in white foam, the foam hadn’t dissipated and the entire room smelled like an old man’s acrid sweat. I had no idea how anyone would be able to fall asleep in my room with that kind of stench, I would sleep happily in the hallway.
I heard the voices of the neighbors and relatives, their voices wafted up from below like a baking smell, and I enjoyed the texture of feeling it gave me. It reminded me of the one and only time my adoptive family hosted a large number of relatives at the house for Christmas when I was in first grade, a happy time, and it was strange to me that the Christmas hosting happened only once since the house was so large and would accommodate comfortably at least ten people at a time. My room seemed to be situated so one could hear everything going on below in the house, and even though the house was so expansive and empty, from the cozy perch of my childhood bedroom, all alone, the house itself felt very small and cheerful. Listening to the voices from below brought me back to that time and how beautiful it was to be alone in first grade, to sit on my bed alone with a book like The Secret of the Wooden Lady, and to hear human voices and to know and truly feel that there were people below, and at the same time, to not feel compelled to join them, it was a luxurious feeling to cherish, because the exact texture of that feeling happened so few times in my life. Perhaps it had something to do with being a child and being free but now as an adult I had certain responsibilities to face, like finding out what happened to my adoptive brother, why he killed himself, etc.
With strangers and relatives colonizing the rooms like bacterial pathogens, it would be difficult to continue my investigation, I reflected. Because of their presence, I was forced to be social, I was compelled to be interactive. I went back down the stairs and into the laundry room where my adoptive mother was stuffing my childhood bedsheets and comforter and pillowcases into the washing machine.
This house is huge, I said, why don’t we put the relatives in one of the guest bedrooms?
Before I was able to warn her about the flowerpot insecticide, she was already saying something.
Those rooms aren’t ready, she said sharply. Those rooms haven’t been aired out in months. They are not in a suitable condition for guests who have driven all the way from Colorado. It’s very simple, Helen. Your father and I know what we’re doing. You’ve never had to host a funeral before. The best thing you can do for us is to calm down, and stay out of the way.
I mopped the foyer and the hallway in the back, I said.
Thank you for that. You’re doing your part.
So where did you put my things?
In your brother’s room.
The laundry room became small, the ceiling dropped, the walls pressed in. I was sweating. I brought my bandaged hands up to my face in an intense way, designed to get her attention, but she had her back to me. With my bandaged hands, I covered my mouth the way my adoptive brother covered his mouth before he killed himself. I was too stunned to say anything.
Is that okay with you? she said after a minute of silence.
Instead of paying attention to me and my hand-covered mouth, she took a pile out of the dryer, and began to fold someone’s underpants neatly and stack them. I felt a blast of heat emanating from the underpants, probably my adoptive father’s.
My adoptive brother just died, was on the tip of my tongue, but before I said anything, I heard her say, Helen, you should go say hi to the neighbors and relatives. The relatives are here and they are being very supportive.
And the Moons appeared, I said. Did you invite them?
But she wasn’t listening to me; she was carefully measuring out a half-cup of detergent for a new load of laundry.
That brand makes me break out in hives, I said.
It’s what we have, she said, I’m doing the best I can, considering the circumstances.
The circumstances, I repeated. Dreadful, wretched circumstances.
It’s a difficult time for everyone, she said, but it will all be fine eventually.
Before I said, Yes, but he killed himself, she said, Everything will work out.
She said it less to me, and more as if she were talking to herself. It was then I realized the bandages on my hands were oozing blood.
36
Last night I dreamt I murdered someone. I was a European man. I didn’t directly experience killing someone, but I knew it had happened. I was hiding in a room from the police, under a desk, and I knew they were about to arrest me. Jacques, come out, they said. We know you’re under the desk. In my dream, I considered killing myself, as a simple way to solve the matter instead of going to jail, but now that he killed himself, I thought in my dream, I wouldn’t be able to. Even in my dream, I had an adoptive brother who killed himself. Suicide was off the table for me. I would never be able to commit suicide, because everyone would say that I had copied him.