A Place in the World

Before he died, your father told you he wasn't afraid, he'd had a good life, his only fear was that he was letting you down. This was in June—Father's Day—and he would die at his home in New Canaan eight weeks later. When he died, you hid in a closet so no one could find you when they came to put his body in a bag. You didn't want to see his body without him in it.

Your father was holding your hand when he said he wasn't afraid and when he asked, with his mathematical mind, if you knew why it was that people had to die. You pressed your lips and shook your head; speech was not available to you.

"To make room for the babies," he said. Then he gave your fingers a squeeze. Don't be afraid, the squeeze was saying. I'm letting you see, so you'll remember this someday. It's all okay.

But it isn't all okay. You've been staying at your father's house for a couple of weeks, now that he's come home from the hospital and is in hospice. He isn't watching you, but he sees.

When he tells you he's worried about you, you try to reassure him that you have everything under control. You attempt some lie. You act casual while you tell the lie—you touch your ear, scratch at a mustard stain on your jeans. This is a performance. Everything is a performance. You don't tell him that you often stay up all night and sleep all day, that you've stopped paying bills and doing laundry, that the IRS would like to speak with you. You don't tell him you don't understand where other people get the strength to lead their lives. You definitely don't tell him about the eating disorder you have that flushes buckets of money down the toilet each night and takes up huge amounts of your spare time—although you have no job, so really, all your time is spare. You don't tell him there's a question that beats through your body like a second heart: you're waiting for the world to give you a reason to stay.

Your father knows all this, of course. He's your father. He knows everything. But you can't discuss your situation with him because you don't know how to explain it. If you're depressed, you've been depressed your whole life. Whenever you see an infant wailing inconsolably, as if she's confused, as if she does not want this life or understand why she's been thrust into it, you feel a stab of recognition, as if she's wailing for you.

Your father, your hero, your closest friend, continues to die before your eyes. You try to witness his deterioration with courage. You get out of bed, you walk around, you say things. This is a lie. It's all a lie.

"I'm worried about you," he'll continue to whisper, even when the light grows dim and his voice begins to fail.

________

If things were bad while he was passing away, they become even worse when he's gone. You've graduated from college, but you don't know what to do with your life. You have a little money from your father, so you mope along, trying to figure things out. During the day, you wander the streets of Manhattan in a trance, half floating above the pavement. Sometimes you ride the M104 bus all the way to the end of the line and back, staring out the windows at the city streets. You like riding the bus; it perfectly embodies how you feel: part of the world but also separate from it. You eat toasted Reuben sandwiches in steamy diners, your face in a book, and when you're feeling downhearted, which is often, you go to the movies on the Upper West...