A few feet from my aunt, a man lay on his side on the floor. I couldn’t see his face at first, but I knew the suit well. It was one of my father’s favorites. He’d been wearing it that morning when he’d kissed me on the top of my head and wished me a good day at school. I walked over to wake him. His glasses had fallen off, and I reached down to pick them up. That’s when I saw that his eyes weren’t completely closed. They were staring blindly at the rug, and gravity had pulled his tongue halfway out of his mouth.
I was twelve years old. I’d never seen a dead body before. I’d been trained to dial 911 since I was old enough to read numbers. But when I pulled the phone out of my pocket, I couldn’t figure out who to call. Even I could tell there was nothing any doctor or ambulance driver could do. When I thought I heard someone else in the house, I was relieved. Help had arrived. I was no longer needed. I slipped through the kitchen, where my aunt’s cat lay dead beside its water bowl, and left via the service entrance. Then I walked home through the snow, sat on my bed, and waited.
I wasn’t going to tell anyone that I’d been there. I didn’t want them to know what I’d seen. I was sure that if I didn’t breathe a word, I could pretend none of it had ever happened. I wish I’d known then—that’s not how it works.
Five hours later, the news finally arrived. I’d been sitting on the side of my bed, still wearing my winter coat, since eleven-thirty. It was dark when my mother came to my room to tell me my father and aunt Sarah had died. I remember her face was so pale that I wondered if she might be dying, too. Nothing she said made any sense. She told me that Sarah’s maid had discovered the bodies when she’d arrived at work at three o’clock.
“Where is James?” I asked when she’d finished.
“He’s flying back from Chicago,” my mother told me.
“I’ll wait here for him,” I told her. James would know what was true.
I waited all night. James never came.
My therapist used to tell me that everyone responds to grief differently. Some people look to those they love for support. Other people push their loved ones away. And some people choose to run. I was told that all reactions to grief are valid and normal. When I was twelve, I didn’t buy it.
I only saw James once in the days after my father and Sarah died. He was shaking hands with guests at Sarah’s memorial. I was surprised to see him there. He hadn’t joined my mother and me during the service. When I’d been told he was having trouble coming to terms with Sarah’s death, I’d imagined him in bed with the curtains pulled. But there he was in a perfectly cut black suit, thanking the mourners who’d come to say goodbye to his wife. All the stress had whittled away at him. His cheeks were sunken and his body skeletal. He barely looked alive himself.
I was too timid to cut through the crowd. I decided to wait for the guests to leave. When I took a seat in one of the chairs that lined the walls, it felt as though I’d vanished from view. The mingling grown-ups didn’t notice me.
“It was a carbon monoxide leak,” I heard a woman whisper. I glanced up to see a classmate’s mother.
“I know,” said a lady standing beside her. “I swear to God, I had our boiler guy in our basement thirty minutes after I heard.”
“I think we all did.”
My classmate’s mother lowered her voice. “They found him on top of her,” she whispered. “They were both half-clothed.”
The other woman gasped. “You’re kidding!”
“Think about it—why else would he have been there at three on a weekday?”
“I wonder how long it had been going on,” said the woman. “Oh my God, I feel so terrible for Jane. What a way to find out.”
“Apparently, James is completely broken. I don’t think anyone could love another human being as much as he loved Sarah.”
It took me a minute to realize what was being said. I knew about sex, of course, but back then it wasn’t the first place my mind took me. When I finally caught on, I was horrified. I didn’t believe it for a moment. But I thought maybe that was why James was avoiding us. He must have heard the rumors, too. He thought my father had destroyed his life. I could lose James, too, unless I set the record straight and told the truth.
I searched the funeral home until I found my mother in the luxurious powder room touching up her makeup. I stood behind her and waited until her lips were perfectly painted and her cheeks tastefully rouged. The woman in the mirror was stunning. I could understand why my father had fallen into her trap. And I knew she took no pleasure in looking back at me. At the time, it seemed like I might never grow into my face. I had my father’s bushy black eyebrows and untamable hair, along with a nose that seemed several sizes too large. And yet my mother and I both knew that, despite her great beauty, I was the reason my father had chosen to stay.
“Yes?” my mother said.
“I heard two women talking,” I said. “They said Dad and Aunt Sarah were having sex.”
“Oh dear.” My mother’s face softened. She was the picture of compassion when she turned and took my hand. “I was hoping you wouldn’t hear the gossip until you were old enough to process it.”
“I don’t need to process anything,” I told her. “What they said isn’t true.”
My mother sighed. “I’m afraid it is, sweetheart,” she told me. She only called me “sweetheart” when she thought I was being childish or stupid.
“No, it’s not,” I insisted. “I was there before the maid. I saw them. They both had their clothes on, and Dad was lying on the floor a few feet from Sarah. They looked like they’d been talking before they died.”
My mother recoiled and dropped my hand as if it were rotten or diseased. “Why would you make up something like that?” she asked.
I was confused. “I’m not making anything up,” I insisted. “That’s what I saw. I thought you and James would want to know.”
Her expressions shifted so quickly that I couldn’t keep track. For a moment, though, I was sure she believed me. “Oh, darling,” my mother said, bending down so we were eye to eye. “I think this tragedy has damaged you much more than I thought. Don’t worry—we’ll get you help. But for now, promise me, Bram. Keep all of this to yourself. Don’t tell a soul. You’re all I have left. I can’t lose you, too.”
And so began my long relationship with the mental health industry. Though I was only allowed to speak to my therapist, I continued to insist that I’d seen what I’d seen. I couldn’t help it. The images never went away. My father’s face, blue and lifeless. Sarah’s toes, perfectly packaged in her Wolford hose. The cat dead by its water bowl. These pictures were always in the back of my mind, waiting for the moment when I let down my guard.