Sorry to Disrupt the Peace

by Patty Yumi Cottrell

  You have to believe in what you’re doing.

  I hope you understand what I have done.

  It’s possible I have lied about a lot of things, but everything I have said here is entirely true.

  I hope you understand.

  40

  When my adoptive brother died, he didn’t leave anything for me, not even a letter addressed directly to me, just a document for anyone to read, and addressed to whom? No one in particular. What he left was for the people in need, the people who needed actual help, troubled people with failed organs and missing eyes and ears and tissues, I want to give it all away.

  The morning of the funeral, I kept rereading his document, and I was astonished that my adoptive brother thought I might be bipolar or schizophrenic. I kept reading that part about myself, over and over, I ran my finger across the computer screen, and I touched the word schizophrenic. The oil from my finger caused the word to shimmer psychedelically. I kept searching for the parts where he wrote my name, Helen. I touched my name and made it shimmer. It was so reassuring to read Helen this or Helen that. I exist. In someone else’s world, I exist. I wanted to run around in a park or on a hilltop and shout to people, I was in his life! I played a major role, fuckers!

  I would have to show it to my adoptive parents, or perhaps they had already read it, there was no way to know, but at the funeral I would ask them. At the funeral, I told myself, would be the appropriate place to ask. One step forward. Two back. One back. Two forward. A few minutes after reading his document for the tenth time, I was proved wrong when I said he didn’t leave me anything. He left behind my pamphlet, and when I opened one of the brand-new closet’s drawers, there was something in shrink-wrap. I picked it up and examined it. Bitches Brew by Miles Davis in vinyl form. I knew he had left it for me, and me alone. Tears came to my eyes. At six in the morning, I heard doors open and close, people padding into the bathroom. I heard people talking. I heard someone get sick in the bathroom.

  I checked my email and read a message from my supervisor, he said he wanted to talk to me on the phone and he would call later today, that hopefully I would be around. Perhaps more importantly there was an email from Professor Kim. She wrote to say how sorry she was for my loss, but she had never met my adoptive brother. She had three assistants, one for research and the others for teaching, and they were all female. She didn’t have any auditors this semester, and she had never heard his name before. She closed by asking if there was anything else she could do.

  For a long time, I looked out the window at the depressing tree. I had moved the plant and desk fan to the floor. The few things he had left behind, I arranged simply, perhaps my greatest talent. Then I began to sob again. The hysterical sobbing person returned and when I looked in his closet mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. An ugly vein the size of a child’s thumb burst in the middle of my forehead, so it looked like there was a wrinkled worm underneath my skin. As I stared at myself in his closet mirror, I remembered two stories I heard my adoptive mother tell Chad Lambo in the living room the first real day of my investigation. At the time I couldn’t process them, but now they made sense, and the stories animated the person everyone thought he was and wasn’t, the stories brought him back to life. I liked stories like that, stories that would make me feel as if I understood something about him. When I think of them, I thought, I see a ghost and the traces left all over a person’s life.

  It was the summer of college graduation for my adoptive brother’s friends, and everyone came home to relax and see their families before starting new lives. Everyone met up at a bar in our neighborhood, an American Legion hall-like place. Almost everyone from his favorite time in Catholic elementary school was there. When I think about his life, I’m sure that third grade was his best time, the time he could be who he was and exist comfortably. That night, in his early twenties, his friends drank the tavern’s entire supply of beer. And he paid for everyone’s drinks that night, everyone in the bar, even strangers who happened to stop in for a drink. The bartenders worked very hard, it was said, and besides paying for everyone’s drinks, he left everyone who worked that night an enormous tip.

  The second story was more recent. A week before he ended his life he told my adoptive mother that he was going to a ball. For once, she didn’t have to ask him a lot of questions, he simply went into great detail about what it would be like. He said the women would wear gowns and gloves, the men would be in tails and top hats. Ice sculptures were set out. Someone dropped off a few swans that would parade around. An octet would play, then a jazz band and maybe even a swing band to cap off the night. Everyone would dance. He would find the ugliest girl who appeared to be alone, and ask her to dance. After he asked her, in a certain light, she would become very beautiful. They would waltz. He described platters of shrimp cocktail set on ice trays, roasted duck with orange sauce, and a chocolate fountain. He would eat white rice. There would be vats of white rice cooked and warmed exactly the way he liked it. Men would play croquet on the lawn, women would whisper in clusters in the bathroom. He told her he rented a tuxedo for the occasion. He said he went to the mall and bought black dress shoes and shoe polish. My adoptive mother told him how happy she was for him. She was overjoyed. When she asked him when the ball was, he said the evening of September 29th, the night he killed himself.

  41

  At seven in the morning, someone knocked emphatically on the door, which frightened me; I felt how wide my eyes were opened. I was sitting up in the bed, already dressed. I decided I would attempt to play the good adoptive daughter, I would go along with whatever my adoptive parents said, even if Chad Lambo asked me to do something, I would do it without complaint or questioning or criticism. I would shut my mouth.

  Helen, said my adoptive father through the door, I need you to do something for us.

  What’s that? I said.

  I almost said, Sister Reliability, here to help.

  We need you to take your brother’s car and go pick up a package from the photography department at the drugstore near the café.

  Why can’t I take your car? I said. Then I remembered, no questions or complaints!

  Can I come in for a second?

  Before I answered, he opened the door, came in, and sat down at the desk. I noticed he was fully dressed in funeral garb, a white dress shirt, black pants, black shoes. I smelled shoe polish, most likely applied late last night.

  How are you this morning? he asked.

  Instead of exchanging pleasantries, I gestured toward the computer, then asked him if he had looked at the document. My adoptive father’s face became very sad.

  We read it a couple days ago, he said. We had no idea how sick he was.

  What do you mean by sick?

  Mentally ill.

  Why wasn’t he seeing a therapist then? Did you know he wanted to die?

  My adoptive father began to shake; he was shaking and then he bowed his head down. Tears rolled off his face into his shirt and before long, his white dress shirt was soaked with dark circles and patches like lakes and ponds. I was stunned. There was silence, he always spoke at a delay, outside of time, until he looked up, and his eyes looked directly into mine.

  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 driv
ing, 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.

  The tank’s full, he said. The morning of his suicide, some automobile specialists came and picked up the car. They took it somewhere and cleaned it all out. Then they dropped it off here. When I got into the car and sat in the driver’s seat, it was like a brand-new car. It was like nothing had happened. It must have all been a dream. I tricked myself into thinking that. But I couldn’t wake myself up. Then I knew it was real, it wasn’t a dream or a nightmare. He’s dead. My son is dead. The specialists told us it wasn’t difficult to clean. In their estimation, they have cleaned up much worse. It wasn’t that messy. He was always so careful!

  I thought I was going to throw up. I started to retch, which caused my adoptive father to go to the door. Before he left, he told me the funeral would be at nine o’clock sharp, and that I didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to, that he and my adoptive mother would understand. We won’t force you to go, he said.

  That’s exactly what Uncle Geoff said. Is he even my real uncle?

  Uncle Geoff is your real uncle, sighed my adoptive father.

  He shut the door firmly.

  42

  Everything lined up, I thought, everything planned, nothing decorative left, nothing on the computer except that one thing, his death was of a beautiful design. His hope must have been that the hospital would come as soon as possible to collect the organs and tissue-matter before things congealed and stopped working.

  Compelled by my own sense of the ethical, I took the keys and money and went downstairs and into the kitchen, which was empty. I heard the water flow into and out of the pipes upstairs, everyone was showering and flushing. I helped myself to a slice of bread, untoasted. I had no choice, I, Sister Reliability, had to do this thing for my adoptive parents. It must have taken me half an hour to convince myself to go into the garage, and once in the garage, into his car, the site of his suicide. I saw a small version of myself above, watching my body slide into the black gleaming car, that terrible death machine!

  You’re doing fine! said the small version. Get in all the way!

  His legs were much shorter than mine, so I spent a minute adjusting the seat. When I put the key into the ignition, the radio blasted on, a loud and aggressive heavy-metal song. Did he like heavy metal? Is this the music he listened to as he drove to the hospital? I shut it off. Whatever mess he left behind had been expertly wiped off and cleaned up, I said to myself, and they didn’t bring it back until it looked and smelled brand-new.

  When people like my adoptive brother come into your life, I thought, you are very lucky and, at the same time, very unfortunate. People like him can’t be helped, because they don’t want help, they are disgusted by our help. In the end, he had enough.

  He once told me that he wanted good things for the people in his life, and for strangers.

  If he had lived a little longer, he would have turned thirty.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, I was astonished at how content I felt in that immaculately clean and artificially scented vehicle. It was his last place, I thought, and a real place of rest for him. Of course he killed himself in his car! Throughout my investigation, I had underestimated the power of his car as a meaningful object. He left it to my adoptive parents in sellable condition. He also attempted to leave his organs, his eyes, his tissues, his skin, his beautiful, immaculate skin to people who wanted to remain alive. And his skull did not blow apart, because he was so careful, the thinking organ extinguished in a matter of seconds.

  I arrived at the drugstore. I told them I was there to pick som
ething up for Paul and Mary Moran. It took the woman behind the counter a long time to find the package. She was a pleasant older lady, tall with long, bright white hair; I thought it was nice that she seemed to enjoy her job. She handed over a comically large envelope, almost the size of a door. I peeked into it, then I asked her if she knew him.

  What do you mean? she said.

  The person in the posters you developed, I said, did you recognize that person?

  She told me she never pays attention to the content of whatever she develops; she focuses on the task at hand. I thanked her and left.

  Back in his car, I opened the envelope and lifted out THREE HIDEOUS POSTERS of him, my adoptive brother, including what must have been the most recent photograph, the one from his birthday dinner, and also the photo from the department store, the picture with the three of them posed around the fireplace, only my adoptive mother’s eyes were focused on the camera. The third and final picture was one I had never seen. It looked like it might have been from his high school graduation portfolio, he was dressed in his usual blue polo, posed in front of his brand-new car, kneeling down, hugging the family dog close to his chest. Both now dead, I thought. That poster was especially morbid. I understood that the posters were to be displayed prominently at the funeral, and then what would happen to them? Where would these posters go? I might offer to take one with me back to New York City, I thought, and set it up on my side of the shared studio apartment. I looked at the dashboard clock.

  It was a bright sunny day, almost like the beginning of summer. The sun heated up the black vehicle quickly, causing me to sweat. The funeral was to start in half an hour, and instead of driving home or to the church, I saw a grocery store not a block away. I went in and picked out a large chocolate sheet cake for after the funeral. Set inside the grocery store was a little flower shop. I had some money left over from what my adoptive father gave me, and I decided I would use that money to buy new flowers, to replace the ones I had killed. I could even pitch in some of my own money, I thought. There was a gay man at the counter, and an older woman who was small with curly black hair and glasses that sat on the tip of her nose. They helped me select a wonderful and diverse arrangement of subtle flowers that I knew would do nothing but brighten and cheer up the drab and depressing ceremony. The brightness of the flowers would cancel out the dark and morbid poster display, I thought.