It was the summer of college graduation for my adoptive brother’s friends, and everyone came home to relax and see their families before starting new lives. Everyone met up at a bar in our neighborhood, an American Legion hall-like place. Almost everyone from his favorite time in Catholic elementary school was there. When I think about his life, I’m sure that third grade was his best time, the time he could be who he was and exist comfortably. That night, in his early twenties, his friends drank the tavern’s entire supply of beer. And he paid for everyone’s drinks that night, everyone in the bar, even strangers who happened to stop in for a drink. The bartenders worked very hard, it was said, and besides paying for everyone’s drinks, he left everyone who worked that night an enormous tip.
The second story was more recent. A week before he ended his life he told my adoptive mother that he was going to a ball. For once, she didn’t have to ask him a lot of questions, he simply went into great detail about what it would be like. He said the women would wear gowns and gloves, the men would be in tails and top hats. Ice sculptures were set out. Someone dropped off a few swans that would parade around. An octet would play, then a jazz band and maybe even a swing band to cap off the night. Everyone would dance. He would find the ugliest girl who appeared to be alone, and ask her to dance. After he asked her, in a certain light, she would become very beautiful. They would waltz. He described platters of shrimp cocktail set on ice trays, roasted duck with orange sauce, and a chocolate fountain. He would eat white rice. There would be vats of white rice cooked and warmed exactly the way he liked it. Men would play croquet on the lawn, women would whisper in clusters in the bathroom. He told her he rented a tuxedo for the occasion. He said he went to the mall and bought black dress shoes and shoe polish. My adoptive mother told him how happy she was for him. She was overjoyed. When she asked him when the ball was, he said the evening of September 29th, the night he killed himself.
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At seven in the morning, someone knocked emphatically on the door, which frightened me; I felt how wide my eyes were opened. I was sitting up in the bed, already dressed. I decided I would attempt to play the good adoptive daughter, I would go along with whatever my adoptive parents said, even if Chad Lambo asked me to do something, I would do it without complaint or questioning or criticism. I would shut my mouth.
Helen, said my adoptive father through the door, I need you to do something for us.
What’s that? I said.
I almost said, Sister Reliability, here to help.
We need you to take your brother’s car and go pick up a package from the photography department at the drugstore near the café.
Why can’t I take your car? I said. Then I remembered, no questions or complaints!
Can I come in for a second?
Before I answered, he opened the door, came in, and sat down at the desk. I noticed he was fully dressed in funeral garb, a white dress shirt, black pants, black shoes. I smelled shoe polish, most likely applied late last night.
How are you this morning? he asked.
Instead of exchanging pleasantries, I gestured toward the computer, then asked him if he had looked at the document. My adoptive father’s face became very sad.
We read it a couple days ago, he said. We had no idea how sick he was.
What do you mean by sick?
Mentally ill.
Why wasn’t he seeing a therapist then? Did you know he wanted to die?
My adoptive father began to shake; he was shaking and then he bowed his head down. Tears rolled off his face into his shirt and before long, his white dress shirt was soaked with dark circles and patches like lakes and ponds. I was stunned. There was silence, he always spoke at a delay, outside of time, until he looked up, and his eyes looked directly into mine.