Chapter 4: Thursday

Your father does not come to work.

This has never happened. In thirty years. Not for flu. Not for injury. Not for your birth. Not for anything. Your father comes to work. This is what he does. But Thursday morning you arrive and his car is not in the parking lot.

You call his cell phone. It rings six times. Voicemail. You hang up. You call the house phone. It rings twelve times. No answer. You hang up. You stand in the parking lot. The sky is gray. The air smells like snow that has not fallen yet.

You drive to your father's house.

The house is the house you grew up in. Forty years old. Three bedrooms. One bathroom. Beige siding. Brown trim. A front lawn that needs mowing. Nobody mows it now. Your mother was the one who cared about the lawn.

Your father's car is in the driveway. You park behind it. You walk to the front door. You try the knob. Locked. You use your key. You still have a key. Your mother insisted. You never used it. You are using it now.

The house is dark. The curtains are closed. The air smells like coffee and old carpet. You walk through the living room. The furniture has not changed in twenty years. Blue couch. Brown recliner. Television from 2003. Coffee table with water rings from glasses set down without coasters.

Your mother hated those water rings. She bought coasters. Your father never used them. She stopped mentioning it. The rings accumulated. They are still there.

You walk to the bedroom. The door is open. Your father is in bed. He is not asleep. He is lying on his back. His eyes are open. He is staring at the ceiling. He is wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. Work pants. Work shirt. Socks. No shoes.

You say: Dad.

He does not move.

You say: I called. You didn't answer.

He says: I heard.

You sit on the edge of the bed. Your mother's side. The bedspread is blue. Quilted. Your mother made it. You remember her at the sewing machine. The hum of the motor. The smell of thread and fabric. She worked on it for eight months. Your father said it was too much work for something you just sleep on. She said: I like making things that last.

The bedspread lasted thirty years. Your mother lasted sixty-two.

Your father says: I can't smell her anymore.

You say nothing.

He says: her pillow. Her bathrobe. The closet. I have been smelling everything. Trying to find her. But the smell is gone. It faded. I didn't notice when. I just know it is gone now.

He sits up. He looks at you. His face is the face you have known your entire life. Square jaw. Deep lines. Gray stubble. Eyes the color of pavement. But something behind the eyes is different. Something has come unpinned.

He says: I don't know how to do this.

You say: do what.

He says: exist. In a world where she doesn't.

The radiator ticks. The house settles. Outside a car drives past. Regular life. The kind that keeps happening.

You say: you get up. You shower. You eat breakfast. You go to work. You come home. You go to sleep. You do it again.

He says: why.

This is the question. The real one. The one underneath all the other questions. Why continue. Why persist. Why keep weighing dead people when the person who made the weighing matter is gone.

You say: because twenty-one grams leave but everything else stays. You told me that. The weight stays. The meat stays. The choices stay. She made a choice. She married you. She had me. She stayed. The staying is the part that lasts.

Your father's eyes are wet again. This time the wet spills over. He does not wipe it away. He lets it run. Down his face. Into the stubble. Onto the collar of his work shirt.

He says: I miss her.

You say: I know.

He says: I miss her so much I can't breathe right.

You put your hand on his shoulder. His shoulder is bone under cloth. He has lost weight. You did not notice. You notice now.

You say: then breathe wrong. Breathe however you can.

He nods. He wipes his face. He stands. He walks to the bathroom. You hear water running. You hear him brushing his teeth. You hear him using the toilet. You hear normal sounds. Life sounds.

He comes out. He has washed his face. Changed his shirt. Combed his hair. He looks at you.

He says: we should go to work.

You say: yeah.

You drive separate cars. You follow him. The route is familiar. Twenty-three minutes. Four stoplights. One left turn. The same drive you have made a thousand times. The same drive he has made ten thousand times. The drive is a groove worn into the world. You could do it blind.

You arrive. You park. You walk in together. The weighing room is cold. The fluorescent lights are on. Bodies are waiting. A fire victim. A nursing home death. An accident at a construction site.

Your father puts on gloves. You put on gloves. He lifts the shoulders. You lift the feet. You weigh the body. You write down the weight. You tag the toe. You slide the drawer shut.

The metal sounds like a drawer closing.

Your father strips off his gloves. He washes his hands. You wash yours.

Rule six: you keep going because stopping is not an option.

Thursday ends.

Tomorrow is Friday.