Not Really

A few days after the funeral, my son passes me a note. “We’re no longer speaking.”

“We?” I make a circle with my finger to include my wife Andrea.

Matt flicks his finger back and forth, only between the two of us.

“Oh.”

Matt picks up his bowl of Cheerios, rinses it in the sink, and heads outside.

***

Discovering your daughter’s legs sticking up from the toilet is not an image easily left behind. It should lead to years of intensive therapy; it will open healed wounds -- grievances against elementary school teachers, loss of childhood pets. You will certainly question your right to live. Our savings went for the funeral so I’m healing myself. The internet has all sorts of support groups.

***

The guest bedroom is the most attractive room in our house. Painted sky blue with a relaxing trim of swaying sunflowers, the previous owners really did it up right. It’s a good place to come forget. Following advice from the internet group members, it’s my “no worry zone.” This designation coincides nicely with Andrea’s request that I stop sleeping in our bed.

I like to look at the framed pictures of sea shells, sandy beaches, boats, and glimmering waters as I fall asleep. I leave the little lamp on so I can see them clearly when I wake up.

***

I knock on Matt’s door. “Matty, open up.”

I knock again.

A little note slides under the door. “Please leave me be.”

***

That morning Andrea took Matt to his soccer game. The car pulling out woke Melissa in her crib. Having only recently learned to walk, she was raring to get to it. I watched a recorded episode of one of my all-time favorite Seinfeld episodes.

Four things happened before Andrea and Matt returned. Kramer fixed Elaine’s neck in exchange for a vintage girl’s bicycle, but not really. Kramer guilted her into giving him the bike because he fixed her neck, but not really. Newman decided the bike should be split in two, but not really. Melissa fell headfirst into the toilet and made enough noise for me to hear her, but not really.