Piece of Mind

by Michelle Adelman

  “It would have been nice if he’d warned us in some way,” I said. “Like in a dream? As a cow or stalk of wheat. Maybe he did, and we don’t remember. Or we ignored the signs. Do you believe in that? Or that he’s here now, watching us?”

  I wanted to believe that. To know he was guarding our spirits and our minds, our sleep.

  Nate closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you think we should talk about this?” I said.

  He got up and began searching the bar.

  “It’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it? With Mom, you were so small, but this—it hits us both, doesn’t it? I know it hasn’t had time to hit yet, really, for me anyway, but you think things will work out?”

  He poured himself a scotch.

  “You drink that?”

  “Today I do.” He winced as he took his first sip. “How about you?”

  I thought about it, to honor Dad, but it only reminded me of his absence, how much he would’ve liked to pour that drink himself. And besides, I wasn’t really supposed to drink on my meds, or kill any more brain cells. I needed the strength of the cells I had. But I couldn’t miss my chance.

  I took Nate’s glass and swallowed what remained all at once.

  “Take it easy,” Nate said. “It’s not meant to be pounded.”

  “Oh well,” I said, wiping the bitter spots from the corners of my mouth and my collar.

  “Dad did a lot of stuff for me, so I just kind of don’t want to end up on the street, if that’s okay,” I continued. “Because I think I would be if he didn’t make sure I wasn’t, and I know it’s not your job to assure me that won’t happen, but—”

  “Luce, this just happened.” He took a giant breath and poured himself another swig. “I literally walked in two minutes ago. Can we wait on this conversation?”

  “Okay,” I said, but my thoughts didn’t work that way, in planned chunks. If it wasn’t a pinball machine, it was like a solar system in my head, a swirling darkness filled with little constellations of ideas, loosely connected by random strings. I heard Dad explain it that way to a family friend once, as if he had been inside my brain with me.

  “What did he look like?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You saw him, right? To identify the body?”

  He looked at me and took another sip.

  “You know what?” he said. “I’m glad you asked about that.”

  “Was it awful?”

  “No, it wasn’t. His face was all washed out, but it was almost like—the way his mouth was curved, it was like he was almost happy. Like he was okay with the whole thing. Like maybe he was going somewhere he was okay with.”

  “You believe that?” I said.

  “I don’t know, but I think he did.” He raised his glass and took another sip. “I hope he did.”

  I TRIED TO stay out of Nate’s way in the days that followed. When it came time to plan the funeral, he led all of the arrangements, got in touch with whomever we were supposed to contact, knew what he was supposed to say and how to say it, drove Dad’s car wherever we were supposed to go. We had to pick a box for him, and a plot. We had to call people and identify pallbearers. We had to meet with the rabbi.

  We said “we,” but it was all him. I was suspended in some kind of fugue—sleep, dreams, nightmares—all the same shadowy haze. If I slept enough, I wouldn’t have to think.

  I probably would have slept through the funeral if Nate hadn’t woken me.

  He gave me only forty-five minutes to get ready. If Dad were there, he would have given me a couple of hours, so he could have assigned me a special role, maybe a prayer he liked or a poem he found, and so he could help me remove the lint from the nice outfit he would’ve taken me shopping for the day before.

  But as it was, that morning I had to sift through the pile of potential interview clothes on the floor to find something that could work; at least I knew the blue shirt was out. I couldn’t remember if I had combed my hair. I didn’t have the energy to scrub the toothpaste or Harry’s fur off my top, couldn’t find hose, couldn’t make my legs any less bruised or gleaming white or bristly, couldn’t force my shoes to fit my feet any better.

  In the end, I settled on the wrinkled skirt and a dark sweater riddled with moth holes. No one else seemed to notice.

  THE FUNERAL HAPPENED so quickly that I barely registered it had happened at all.

  After the rabbi spoke, said some nice things about Dad’s generosity of spirit and mind, his broad smile and kindness, his soul and fullness of life, I noticed a lot of people were teary and red-faced. Who were those people? I didn’t recognize most of them. And yet there they were, touching my shoulders and covering my hands in theirs, kissing me on the cheek and whispering softly about mourners in Zion and Jerusalem, like their whispers could reach inside me and soothe the pain. Their pain was real. I could see that. Even Nate, who decided he didn’t want to say a few words in the end, seemed shaken.

  I recognized that I should have been that way too, but I wasn’t then. It was as if my emotions were guarded by a special coating, protected from reality.

  It was probably because I kept waiting for Dad to come back, for him to bring around the car himself after the funeral so we wouldn’t have to walk in our nice shoes, to unlock the doors for us manually, because he never got used to the gadgets, and then lower the radio so that he could suggest a stop at the local diner for homemade cinnamon doughnuts.

  If Dad were there, he would have praised the two of us: for our poise and maturity, for planning such a terrific commemoration, for our unparalleled teamwork—we could go on the road with such well-oiled coordination, doing what who knew, but something. The Dynamic Duo, he would say. At it again!

  If he were there, he would have wanted to celebrate our eloquence and dignity, to reward us for our efforts. He was always so proud.

  No, we would have told him. This day is yours, not ours.

  Nonsense, he would have said. This affects all of us.

  8

  AFTER THE CEREMONY, WHEN EVERYONE WENT BACK TO THE house, I escaped upstairs with Harry and went through Mom’s old perfume drawer, the bottles that had never been thrown away, the place I went to mist particles of her in the air. There were moments when I could feel her suspended in the scent she wore on the day she died—hints of warm vanilla and lavender.

  When it happened, she was young, in her forties, and full of life. That’s what people always commented on: her gusto. Rather than walk, she did this little jog, with her head down and her arms in a tight swing—from the car to the post office, to the grocery store, to the bank and back—as if to squeeze out as much time as she could from each chore. People like that were supposed to live forever, or at least until their nineties.

  So why then? What was the difference between an accident and a miracle, coincidence and fate? A second earlier or later in someone’s thought process, a left turn versus a right, a decision to seek help immediately or wait until the pain subsided, a doctor who could work magic and one who was having an off day? Brain injured versus brain dead.

  How was it fair that one family would have to distinguish between different “accidents”?

  How could two siblings who were still growing up have to suffer through the loss of both parents?

  There weren’t easy answers, of course, which was probably why I could still detect her, why there were days when I could sense her hovering. It wasn’t like I could hold a conversation with her, but I knew she was there, that she knew when I needed her.

  She came back because she had to. I bet she fought hard for that right. You can’t do this, she might have said. You can’t make me some martyr without my permission. This isn’t about me. This is about them.

  Nate said Dad looked like he was at peace in death, but I couldn’t imagine Mom was.

  So she stayed. She stayed in whatever form she was allowed, the only way she could. She stayed without saying a word.

  In the f
irst couple of years after she died, she appeared with some frequency, every couple of months it seemed, maybe even more than that in the first year. I saw her full face, expertly dressed (always in her relaxed jeans and a pale-blue sweater), in her signature red lipstick, unmistakably Mom. But it was only for glimpses, hurried shots of knowing glances. I was the only one who could see her.

  The first time I thought I caught her, we were at the Central Park Zoo. Dad had taken us there as a special treat, to help distract us after the shock of Mom’s death had passed. Nate, at eight, loved the fact that there were wild animals in the middle of the park, but he kept asking to explore all of the hidden pathways outside of the zoo: the waterfalls and bridges, and the carousel he’d seen in picture books. I could’ve stayed inside the zoo all day staring at the different animals, especially Gus, the polar bear.

  There were three bears then: Gus, Lily (who passed away in 2004), and Ida (who died in 2011). Ida was historically most prized and praised, for working the crowd better than any other animal, and for winning the specially arranged ­challenges—hidden peanut-butter treats and treasures buried in caves—two steps ahead of Gus. I had read books and any articles I could get my hands on to learn all about their diets, their histories, and their personal struggles.

  I had also seen videos of polar bears playing in the wild, like giant dogs frolicking in the snow, and I was entranced by their ability to swim so gracefully. Inuit folktales posited that the bears were actually humans cloaked in bear suits. That seemed like a reasonable theory when they stood upright. They were a different kind of breed. They weren’t as aggressive as other bears, and they tended to live their lives in isolation. Mothers abandoned their cubs around the age of two so they could learn to fend for themselves, though siblings sometimes stuck together.

  Gus, with his giant white mountains of fur and enormous gleaming eyes circling through the water, was always the bear I was most excited to see.

  The moment I saw him with Nate and Dad I felt a strange, tingling sensation, like I wasn’t quite in my body, like maybe I was dreaming.

  “I’ve been here before,” I said to Dad.

  “Of course you have! Your mother took you here. Don’t you remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” I said.

  It was 1994 when Mom took us that first time. I was nine, the same age as Gus, and Gus’s neuroses were at their height. For hours on end he would swim the same lap, flipping from the same rock, emerging at the same time before beginning again. Some blamed his behavior on his captivity. Maybe he longed for freedom, maybe he was bored, or maybe it was simply his nature. For me, there was something endearing about his repetition, his inability, or maybe his unwillingness, to stop.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him. When Mom asked if I was ready to go, I said no. I wanted to stay to watch.

  You could catch him from two angles: one inside, near the bottom of the tank, where you could see his whole body if he stopped at the window, and one outside, looking over the landscape of rocks and his playground.

  Mom wanted to leave. It was getting chilly, and Nate was fussy, but she said okay, we could watch from inside, because she could see how much it meant to me.

  She let me stand in front of the tank window for hours.

  Eventually, the zoo hired specialists to curb Gus’s routine. He was given his own spa, new toys, and a redesign of his space. The key, they said, was to keep his mind and body active, and all of the therapy apparently worked. But over the years, you could catch him occasionally lapsing into old habits, as though he were reminding us of the true self ingrained beneath his fur.

  The day I met Gus again with Dad and Nate, Gus was calm—a little older, maybe a little wiser. As we watched him from behind the glass, I didn’t expect all of it to feel so familiar, to feel like she was still there with me—in the murmur of the wind, under my skin. I could feel her, even if I couldn’t see her.

  I knew Mom was watching with us.

  After that, Mom and Gus and the zoo were forever connected for me.

  THE SECOND TIME Mom appeared, it felt more tangible. It was in the midst of a fight I was having with Dad. He was going on about my sloppy homework and the mess in my room and the example I was setting for Nate. We were all in crappy moods all of the time, and I was in the worst mood of all when I saw her dart across my line of vision.

  It was as if time stopped for a fraction of a second, and I could perceive this impulse pressing against my shoulder, beneath my bones, holding me in place. I immediately blurted out her name, “Mom.”

  “Are you okay?” Dad said, concerned maybe that I was having an aneurism or suffering from early dementia.

  “Sure,” I said. “I was just daydreaming.”

  But I wasn’t dreaming. I could smell her, the lavender and vanilla, and I could feel her—the cool breeze on the back of my neck and the soothing presence. It was a sense of tranquility better than any sedative.

  After that visit, I tried to search for her, but it didn’t work that way. She only came when I wasn’t expecting it, yet always subtly, when I needed her.

  As I got older, she appeared less often. In fact, it had been years, and the last time, I wasn’t sure it was her at all. I couldn’t really see her in the same way, and I had never been able to speak to her. Still, I knew she was around.

  Maybe she had a choice at some point: eternal joy in heaven, or whatever the Jewish equivalent of heaven was, or staying back. Just so she could watch. So she could say I’m here. Because she knew there was comfort in that. Presence. Sometimes that was all you needed.

  I wished I could have felt her then.

  Mom’s approach was so much different from Dad’s. Sure, we argued a lot because a brain injury is not an excuse for bitchiness, she liked telling me, and she could be bitchy too. But she also made me laugh, and forced me to open up, and to think: Why did I storm out of the restaurant? Why was I allowing my self-worth to be determined by a future driver’s exam? What did I really want to do if I didn’t go to college? She was patient enough to wait for my answers, which arrived sometimes hours, or days, later.

  She listened without condescending, told me when I was “full of shit,” and when I needed to “listen to myself,” and never failed to produce her mantra: “This too shall pass.”

  Of course, I probably rolled my eyes, and then Dad would swoop in, as if on cue to explain it, because he loved explaining things even if he’d already told the story a million times, especially if he’d had a few scotches.

  This was the story: King Solomon asked one of his advisers to produce a ring that would have the power to make people feel sad when they were happy, and happy when they were sad.

  The adviser looked everywhere for this ring that Solomon assured him existed. He had six months to find it. The day before his deadline, he went to see a merchant, desperate with his problem. The merchant took a ring and engraved it with the initials for the Hebrew words Gam zeh ya’avo. This too shall pass.

  The adviser was thrilled. But when he brought the ring back to Solomon, the king was crushed. With those words, he realized all of the power, money, and success in the world were fleeting. All of his greatness too would pass.

  Nothing was forever. Not the good or the bad. That was the power of the ring, the magic of awareness.

  The telling of the story provided the necessary time for the words to sink in. Dad was right to make sure we knew what it meant. But it wouldn’t have worked without Mom’s nonchalant setup. He must have known that because after she died, he never brought it up.

  After she died, I understood that life could be snatched up and stolen when you were least anticipating it. But I had ruled out the possibility that it could happen again. I had assumed Dad would be around at least as long as I was.

  I STAYED IN Mom and Dad’s room for a while after the funeral, going through creeky drawers, hoping to find something important. When I checked the area by Dad’s dresser, I almost expected to find him scooping up
the loose change, old receipts, and Megabucks stubs, and stuffing them in his back pocket. This too, he might say if he were there, because now was finally the appropriate time to say it. But he wasn’t there, and I couldn’t stay in his room without thinking of what was missing, so I went into mine and collapsed in the darkness, knowing no one would dare to brave the mess inside.

  As I lay on my bed listening to the buzz of visitors in the dining room below, I closed my eyes and imagined he’d be back when I woke up, that all of this was another convoluted misunderstanding.

  I slept with a pen so I could take notes, just in case either parent appeared in my dreams.

  But in the morning the only marks were splattered on the sheets, mistaken leaks from the ink.

  9

  MARTY WAS DAD’S ATTORNEY AND ONE OF HIS OLDEST friends, and he’d flown in from Florida, where he was prematurely living in some retirement community. I refused to acknowledge him at first. We hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. When we were little, he’d send us oatmeal cookies and Season’s Greetings cards featuring Pomeranians donning reindeer antlers. When he came by after the funeral, he brought two loaves of banana bread and a box of chocolate lace cookies. He was a good man, but I knew that he was also the official bearer of my fate, and I wasn’t ready for that.

  “How’re you kids holding up?” he said, raising his glassy eyes. He was wearing a polyester blend and a mustache, a grayer version of the man I’d seen preserved in an old photo album.

  While I chugged coffee, Marty helped himself and Nate to the scotch from Dad’s bar. Neither of us answered him.

  “The best time for this kind of thing doesn’t exist,” Marty said, finding a seat on the couch. “But I have to tell you, that being said, the timing couldn’t have been worse.”

  He took a sip.

  “Because of me?” I said.

  “No, not because of you, sweetheart,” he said. He looked at Nate. “It just so happens that your dad took out a massive home-equity loan to get out of some other debt, probably to help pay back some loans, some outstanding credit card bills that had spiraled beyond his control. It happens all the time, this sort of escalation. I’m sure he would’ve been able to fix things if he had the chance, but—”