On his third birthday, he took a deep breath and yanked it off with one pull. He looked in the mirror. “My ears are better now,” he said.
I hugged him and kissed his ears. “You have the best ears.”
The mommies and daddies cheered, and everyone ate cake. Vanilla cake with lime-poppy frosting. It’s been his favourite ever since.
~
I was four years old when Mommy Jenny gave birth to Dead. Only he wasn’t called Dead then.
It was Daddy Kent’s turn to be named father. Mommy Tara had flipped a coin when she learned she was pregnant, and Daddy Neal got to be my official father. At home, for real, both the daddies are equally my daddies, and Dead’s daddies.
The mommies and daddies say that the two mommies are equally mommies to both of us, but that isn’t true. Even though they don’t mean to, the birth mommies are more attached to the child they carried. Like that time I cut the back of my head on the edge of a dresser because I’d been jumping up and down on the mommies and daddies’ bed and there was lots of blood everywhere. Mommy Tara held my hand all the way to the hospital. She held it so tight, as if she wanted her skin to meld with mine, the bones of our hands to mesh together, her life to become my life. No-one had ever held my hand like that.
My brother never hurt himself. At least, not physically. When he was three years old, he jumped off the roof and landed on that bush with the pink flowers. The mommies and daddies were furious. They were so scared that they forgot not to get angry like that, especially not at him. They shrieked and screamed and yelled and blamed each other for not keeping a better eye on him. But he didn’t even have a scratch.
The mommies and daddies wanted to bring him to the hospital, in case he’d broken some bones or had some other internal injuries, but he wouldn’t go. He didn’t want doctors and nurses prodding him. He didn’t want to be in that big place full of people he didn’t know and who didn’t care about him. Already, all these tense emotions were too much for him.
“Stop it,” I said, as gently as I could, tugging at their clothes. “You’re hurting him.”
But it was too late. He ran into the house and disappeared. That was the first time. We didn’t see him for a whole week. He’d snatch food without anyone seeing him do it. In the yard, there’d be these spots where the earth had been upturned and then neatly patted down. Daddy Neal dug them up, and, sure enough, there would be my brother’s stinky little turds.
One morning everyone came down to breakfast, and there was my brother, waiting to be served. Mommy Jenny, his mommy, celebrated his return by making blueberry pancakes. We never found out where he’d been hiding. We never asked. We didn’t want him to disappear again.
But my brother never slept in his bed again. He’d discovered that he liked disappearing. He’d hang out with us during the day, but most times we would have no idea where he spent his nights. After that first week, he always showed up for breakfast, so the mommies and daddies stopped worrying.
Sometimes, at least once a week, he would crawl under my sheets and fall asleep with his head pressed against my stomach. Sometimes we wouldn’t sleep, and we’d talk all night. We’d destroy the world and build it back up again, but better. There would be no guns. No animal laboratories. Children could be mayor. Instead of driving cars people would walk everywhere and talk to the animals. There would be no asphalt or concrete on the ground, only earth and grass and sand and rocks, and we could go barefoot everywhere. There would be no police, but lions and elephants would keep everyone safe. Instead of planes, dragons flew in the sky. We wouldn’t have to go to school and we’d never grow up and we’d be ourselves for our whole lives and we’d live forever and no-one would ever say or do anything mean.
Now that he’s Dead my brother still sleeps with me occasionally, but we don’t talk like that anymore. He says, “I live there now.” I want to say, But you’re right here. He’s not really, though. Even when he looks right at me, his eyes focus beyond me, at a place only he can see. A better world.
~
The mommies and daddies don’t want to have pets. We love them anyway, but we resent it. When I grow up, I’ll have a house of my own and Dead will stay with me and we’ll have lots and lots of animals – dogs and cats and birds and hamsters and turtles. There will be no cages, and everyone will get along and have fun and play, and no-one will ever hurt anyone.
Especially Dead. No-one will ever hurt Dead again.
~
It’s Dead’s fifth deathday. Only two years to go, and Dead will be officially dead! His skin is ghostly white now, from lack of sun.
After his death, we stopped celebrating his birthday. It’s what he wanted: “The important day will be my deathday,” he’d said five years ago. The new tradition is that Mommy Jenny makes his favourite cake, and Dead wears a party hat, with an elastic string under the chin to hold it tight and a propeller on top. The hat is blue with big red stars and yellow swirls. It’s always the same hat.
That’s all he wears. Since his death, he’s given up on clothes. Even when he was alive, my brother had trouble keeping his clothes on.
People remember the date. Some years, there’s even a little item about it on the news or in the papers, with a picture of my brother. It’s such a tragedy, they say. Nobody bothers us or calls or anything on Dead’s deathday itself. There are reporters who call or ring the doorbell, but they always do it a few days in advance. On that date, friends and family respect our grief and privacy. So we don’t have to pretend to be unhappy or anything. We can party with Dead and have all the fun we want.
The five candles on the cake are lit. We cheer, urging Dead to blow out the candles and make a wish.
Dead takes a deep breath and holds it in, grinning, his cheeks all puffed up. Deathday is always his happiest day. His eyes are wide open, and he looks at everyone around the dining room. Just when I think he’ll blow all that air on the little flickering flames on top of the candles, his chin drops on his chest, and he lets all that air fizzle out.
He gets up and leaves the room.
Daddy Neal says, “Hey, where’s Jenny?”
We all follow Dead. He walks up the stairs. The door to his bedroom is open. No-one ever goes there anymore.
Mommy Jenny is sitting on the bed, crying. Dead stands next to her, wearing only his party hat with the propeller.
She hugs him and smushes her face on his chest. Her tears get smeared all over Dead.
I’m angry at Mommy Jenny for ruining Dead’s deathday. I wanted to have fun with my brother on his most special day of the year. I want to be the one hugging him. Only I wouldn’t be crying, I’d be laughing and Dead would laugh along with me and we’d eat cake and we’d lick the frosting off each other’s fingers and everything would be okay.
~
I’m making sandwiches with Mommy Jenny. We each make one. She makes a tomato sandwich with lettuce and mayonnaise. I make a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. I slice a banana into circles, which I put in the middle of the sandwich. There’s too much banana to fit in there, so I eat the rest.
We leave the sandwiches on the counter, and then we each go off to bed. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” says Mommy Jenny.
In bed, I wait for Dead. But he doesn’t come. I wish he visited me more often. Once or twice a week isn’t enough. I sleep better if he’s there with me. When I do fall asleep, I dream of Dead’s perfect world. In the perfect world, Dead is outside playing with me and a whole family of dogs.
The next morning, Dead doesn’t join us for breakfast. But the sandwiches are gone. He doesn’t eat with us every day anymore. Even when he does, he’s silent. He’s always smiling, but I’m not sure if he really sees us. It’s been months since he last spoke to me. Sometimes I forget the sound of his voice, and that makes me sad.
~
Mommy Jenny is yelling at Mommy Tara and the two daddies. “How could we do this to him?” She shouldn’t be yelling like that. She swore never to hurt Dead.
Mommy Tara says, “It’s too late to go back and change it. It’s what he wanted. It’s what he needs. We promised.”
Mommy Jenny: “No! He’s still young. He can have a whole life. A normal life. He’s getting worse! When’s the last time he even spoke to anyone? He used to spend time with us, but for the past year – it can’t go on like this. I won’t let it.”
Daddy Kent: “He’s getting older. It’s a phase. All kids do that. Carve out their independence.”
Mommy Jenny: “I can’t believe ... When did you become such an idiot? He should see someone. Hell, we all need to be in therapy. We’re crazy! All of us!”
Daddy Neal says, “Calm down.”
Mommy Jenny says, “Don’t patronize me! He was only five years old! It was a game, a whim. He didn’t know what he was doing! We were stupid! How could we let a little boy talk us into this? This crazy, stupid idea. I can’t let him ruin his whole life. He’s my son.”
The mommies and daddies don’t know that I’m listening. They think I’m in bed, sleeping. Instead, I’m lying on my stomach on the floor in the hall upstairs. They’re in the kitchen, with the door closed, but they’re louder than they realize.
I feel a weight on my back. Dead is here. He rests his head between my shoulder blades. His fingers squeeze my arms.
Daddy Kent says, “We’re all his parents. All of us. Not just you.”
“Fuck that. He’s my son. My son!”
There’s a loud crash.
“Don’t touch me!”
There’s another crash.
“I’m leaving. I’m through with this family. You’re insane, all of you, and I’m not going to let you destroy my son’s future!”
Mommy Jenny erupts from the kitchen and stomps up the stairs. I barely have time to rush back to my room and close the door.
Where’s Dead?
~
The police come with a warrant. Mommy Jenny is with them. I haven’t seen her in five weeks.
Since she moved out, I haven’t seen Dead either. No-one has. At first we feared she’d taken him, but he’s still eating the sandwiches I prepare for him every night.
Once, I made the sandwiches and stayed up all night. At dawn, I had to pee. When I came back the sandwiches were gone.
The police tear the house apart. They look everywhere. We all keep silent, glaring at Mommy Jenny.
But the police don’t find anything. They don’t find Dead.
Mommy Jenny yells, “What have you done to my son?”
Daddy Kent says, calmly, firmly, “Our” (he puts a lot of emphasis on that word) “son died years ago.”
The detective apologizes. “We had no choice. In a case like this we have to follow up on any lead.” He leans in close to Daddy Kent, slips a card into his hand, and whispers, “If you need to press charges against her, or file a restraining order, call this number.”
In a loud voice, Daddy Kent answers, “That won’t be necessary. This is an ordeal for all of us. There’s no need to make it even worse.”
There’s hatred in Mommy Jenny’s eyes.
~
Daddy Kent and I make the cake together. He makes the cake itself, I prepare the frosting. Vanilla cake with lime-poppy frosting. Dead’s favourite.
It’s Dead’s sixth deathday. We haven’t seen him for months, not since Mommy Jenny left, but we know he’s still here.
He never misses his deathday. We really want him to come out. We’re not sure if we should call his name or just wait silently. We compromise and whisper Dead occasionally.
We even invited Mommy Jenny. His mother. Everyone would forgive her if she came back. She doesn’t show up, though.
Neither does Dead.
We wait up till midnight, then we all go to bed. No-one has eaten any cake.
I cry myself to sleep.
In the morning, there are only a few crumbs left on the table.
~
Dead didn’t want to go to kindergarten. But the mommies and daddies forced him to.
This is what Dead told us the day he died: he lost a tooth, and he bled, and the other kids made fun of him; the teacher saw the kids make fun of him, and she didn’t do anything to stop it.
That’s it. That’s all that happened. It sounds so innocent, only it’s not.
Even before, my brother couldn’t play with other kids. Not without getting hurt.
Already, my brother feared to be with anyone but us.
Already, my brother had begun withdrawing from the world.
Always, other people hurt him. They weren’t especially cruel, but my brother was especially sensitive. How could you warn the whole world about that? Why would they care?
We cared. The two mommies. The two daddies. Me.
“Don’t make me go back. It’s too hard. The outside world is too hard. I want to be dead,” my brother said. “Dead to the world. Let me be dead.”
He explained what it would mean, him being dead: dead, but still with us.
The mommies and the daddies listened to my brother’s every word, because to them he was a real person. They knew that the world wasn’t right for everyone, or that some people weren’t made for this world. They were different, too.
“Please,” he said. He didn’t cry. He was strong. He didn’t try to blackmail the mommies and daddies into agreeing. “Please help me be dead. It’ll be our secret. Our secret game, and nobody else will ever know.”
No-one had spotted him coming back home after he disappeared from school. At five years old, he’d already been training for this for most of his life. He was so good at it. It could work.
~
I ring the doorbell. The door opens, and there’s Mommy Jenny.
I’m prepared for her hatred. Instead, she looks sad. She steps back and motions me inside. Her apartment is small. It’s just one room. Everything is neat and tidy. Too much so – like nobody real lives here.
“Do you want some juice?”
“How about tea?”
“Sure.” She pours water into the kettle and puts it on to boil. “Look at you. You’re a young woman.”
“Sixteen.”
“When I saw you every day, I didn’t really notice you growing up. What I saw was the little girl in my mind.”
We wait for the water to boil. Mommy Jenny pours the tea.
Finally I say, “You have to come back.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“You’re being selfish, Mommy Jenny.”
“You don’t know what it’s—”
“Dead hides all the time now. He needs you.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think he needs anyone.”
“Well, I need him, and because you left him he won’t come out anymore. We promised none of us would ever hurt him. Ever.”
“Promises aren’t always forever.”
“That’s something adults say when they give up. When they don’t want to be bothered by their responsibilities anymore. When they’re selfish. I never want to be like that. Dead needs all of us to be better than that.”
“I’m sorry about the police. I won’t do anything like that again.”
“That’s not enough. It’s his seventh deathday next week. Monday. He’ll be declared dead. Finally. This should be his best party ever. Don’t ruin it. Not again. Come back. Please come back. Make the family whole again. I’m angry at you, but I still love you.”
Shit. I’m crying.
I yell at her, “Don’t you have anything to say?”
She looks away. She keeps her head turned away from me.
Eventually I leave.
~
For Dead’s seventh deathday, I want to make the cake all by myself. Daddy Kent hugs me and holds me for a long time. “Of course,” he says.
So I take out the recipe and mix the ingredients and do everything the book says. Meanwhile, I talk to Dead like he’s right here with me in the kitchen. I tell him about school. I tell him about how silly the boys are around me now. I
tell him about this girl I like, Indiana, but that I’m afraid to tell her because, what if she doesn’t like me back? Nobody knows this.
When it’s done baking, I take out the cake and wait for it to cool. Not too long, though; I want it to stay extra moist – the way Dead likes it. Then I spread the frosting all over it. I put on lots. When I’m done, I clean the bowl with my finger and lick the leftover frosting. It’s so good.
I bring the cake to the dining-room table, where Mommy Tara and the two daddies are waiting. I take seven candles and carefully arrange them on the cake. I turn off all the lights, and then I sit down. I strike a match and light the candles.
We join hands.
“Everyone close your eyes and clear your thoughts.” I say that. The séance was my idea. “O Dead, we call upon you to visit the living. Those who love you wish to celebrate your death with you.” I repeat those two sentences three times.
“Dead,” I say softly. Again and again, until it slides into a chant. The adults join me. It becomes a round, with that one syllable overlapping with itself, every voice at a different rhythm, in its own pitch. Some of us sing the word in a light staccato; others stretch out the vowels, the bookend Ds subtly punctuating the ethereal flow. No two singers are quite in synch. Yet ... It’s lovely, as if we’d practiced for months. But we’re improvising this part. That one syllable, taking on infinite resonances.
We keep singing, and together our voices grow more and more beautiful.
NOCTURNES
There’s fiction ... and then there’s this stuff. Although these nocturnes (as I call them) are stories, to my mind they don’t quite obey the conventions of prose fiction. Most of what I write in this mode winds up being integrated into my collaborative project with visual artist Rupert Bottenberg, Lost Myths (whose online component can be seen at lostmyths.net). In fact, I’ve sprinkled a few Lost Myths in this section, and a few pre-Lost Myths texts in this “nocturnes” mode were illustrated by my collaborator and posted on the website. Some of those earlier nocturnes were even performed and integrated into our live show.
Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes Page 6