I keep going back to a week ago, he said. We went to a Greek restaurant. It was his favorite restaurant, not only because they had everything you could imagine on the menu, not only because the servers remembered his order perfectly, but because they served plain steamed white rice and unseasoned roasted white chicken especially well. In fact that very meal happened to be their house specialty, that was the meal they were famous for. It was my favorite restaurant, too, I loved their beef vegetable soup and homemade crackers. Helen, do you think I’ll ever be able to go there and eat their beef vegetable soup without getting sick to my stomach?
A couple days ago, I accidentally drove by the Greek restaurant. It was a mistake; I had forgotten what I was doing, where I was going, I was in a complete fog. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have been driving, but I was supposed to meet Father Luke and Chad and your mother and instead of meeting Father Luke and Chad and your mother, I was driving nowhere and I had to turn around and I went right past the Greek restaurant where your brother and I had a final meal together. Of course I had no idea it would be our final meal; if I had known it was to be our final meal I would have insisted we go somewhere else, I would have insisted we go to an expensive restaurant as far away as possible, somewhere outside the city limits, a restaurant I wouldn’t care if I ever returned to. I would have insisted we go to a place like that. Because when I drove by the Greek restaurant a couple days ago, I had barely digested the fact that your brother was dead. It hadn’t sunk in even though sometime around three in the morning of September 30th, I saw his body in the emergency room hospital bed hooked up to multiple machines, and even though I was the one who made the decision, even though I was the one who told the doctors not to resuscitate, it had not fully sunk in that he was gone, that there was no longer a person there, my son whom I loved and cherished, my favorite person in the world. I knew that to resuscitate him would be to impose upon him a life of utter embarrassment and humiliation. To fail at suicide would have been a catastrophe. For him, to live a life as a suicide survivor would be something far greater than death, do you understand? So you could say your mother and I did what was right for him and by him. In fact, I’ll say we did the just thing, and we told the doctor not to resuscitate, we repeated it twice at 4 a.m. in the morning of September 30th at the hospital closest to our suburb. And yet when I passed the Greek restaurant a couple days ago, I pulled over immediately. It’s on a very busy street, you know where it is, Helen, it’s nearly always impossible to find parking, it’s on the most traffic-congested street in the city. And as I pulled over into the right shoulder, in front of the Greek restaurant, cars blasted their horns at me, they swerved away angrily, rightfully so you could even say, and I got out of the car and was sick to my stomach. I emptied the contents of my stomach, and the cars continued blasting their horns at me. Some people yelled at me, Motherfucker! Get out of the way! The owner of the Greek restaurant came out to see what was going on. We stood next to the passenger side of the car and I began to tell him what had happened. I told him that first of all, his restaurant was a place I would avoid at all costs. When he asked me why, I told him my son and I ate there not a week ago, I told him how I had lost my adopted son, a son I raised as my own, a grown man whom I knew had his troubles, but to what extent… And I asked the Greek restaurant owner if I could, as a father, as the caretaker of the family, ever truly forgive myself. The Greek restaurant owner looked at me carefully for a while, then he put his hand on my shoulder and it was in that moment I noticed we were around the same age. We both had white-and-gray hair. I can tell you we were both very tired that day; the Greek restaurant owner had struggled to understand me because of the traffic noise. The Greek restaurant owner squeezed his hand on my shoulder and he told me he had three sons of his own, three sons who worked with him in the kitchen, in fact, he named the restaurant after them, the restaurant was called THREE SONS, and that the life he lived with his sons in the kitchen was one of incredible satisfaction and, at times, joyful. It was possible to find joy in that grind of a kitchen. And it would hurt him tremendously if one of his sons were to kill himself, especially given the life he had built for them, said my adoptive father. The restaurant owner looked me straight in the eye and said, I think you know what I mean when I say the life I’ve built for them, I think you’re a man who can understand that. You seem to me like a man who would build a life for his children, the Greek restaurant owner said. It would be incredibly painful if one of my sons died like that, said the Greek restaurant owner, incredibly painful. His voice rose above the traffic and he started to yell, It would be incredibly painful! And then the Greek restaurant owner went on to say that it probably wasn’t best to ask oneself the question of forgiveness a few days after the death, said my adoptive father, but I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. I didn’t see it coming at all, I didn’t see it coming… do you understand, Helen? I didn’t see it coming… he said.
He reached out to touch my arm and began to weep again. I let him touch my arm even though I was very uncomfortable and did not know what to do.
Have you ever heard of the Waterfall Coping Strategy? I said. I could tell you about it some time if you want.
He stood up and handed me the keys and a wad of twenties.