Death Steps Back a Pace

We finish eating takeout at midnight. Stomachs churn with apprehension as we move closer to the end of this strange day, our first without you. We’ve brought weed and melatonin and essential oils from as far as the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to California. By the time we’ve found a spot away from the others, I feel dizzy; sedated. We spread towels across the trampoline you bought us when we were kids and anchor them against the wind with our bodies. Your favorite daughter, second-born, has brought home photos from the Colorado mountains. She shares them in the dark as another form of self-medicating; the glow from her phone is consoling. Midway through a story about a black bear she encountered on a hike, a bulky mass protective of its cub, she cries. I pull my little sister close and a deluge of hot, blistering tears drench my shirt and sting my shoulders. It hurts, but I don’t show it. Her tears spread as far as my chest. I have trouble breathing. The air gets caught in my lungs, but even then, I don’t show it. You’d be proud, I think, and I resent that. I look up overhead and the Moon is your eye, yellow and floating, caught between the protrusion of a rainwater gutter and the neighbor’s roof. I blink and the Moon blinks back, a vestige of your wavering mind. I see it and wish for the Sun. My eyes close to avoid your unbearable stare, its accusations, but images worse than the Moon appear. You’ve taken residence behind my eyes, punishing me for my imagination, for my ability to dream, an ability I inherited from you. Forms and figures appear in my mind so lifelike, so fully realized, I mistake their arrival for anamnesis. Your life becomes my life. Your death, my death. Again and again and again. 2 Eventually, the weed or melatonin or essential oils take hold and my first day without you ends. — I am wandering through the many prickling, desiccated grasses of a California woodland when suddenly, Death stands before me. “I’ve come in search of you.” There’s a burden in my chest, a pressure. I cry to relieve it and Death, embarrassed, steps back a pace. “Nevermind,” he says. “I’ll try you later.” — I awake on the trampoline alone, ensnarled by a tangle of terrycloth and linen towels left behind by the others. One is coiled around my ankle; another, at the bend in my elbow, functioning as a makeshift pillow. In their exhaustion, my siblings have left me to confront the disorder alone, but I’ll make do. I squint and cast my eyes downward, avoiding the blinding light of the newly risen Sun, sweeping away the weed and scattered ash spread across the trampoline. What a waste, I think. What a waste. It’s been years since I’ve camped here overnight, suspended aboveground by the trampoline’s polypropylene mesh. It wasn’t my idea as a kid, not something I begged your permission to do. The idea was your own, something you’d done yourself at my age. At your urging, we went out to Harbor Freight during Black Friday weekend and bought the trampoline at a discount. “It's not just for us. You can share it with your buddies, invite them over to jump.” I was ten. We planted it at the rear of the house, in-between the lemon trees you 3 let me buy from Home Depot, near enough to the pool so we could jump into the water. We started with seat drops, landing in a sitting position with our legs stretched out before us. Weighing substantially more than me, you’d time your jump to coincide with mine, launching me high into the air, higher than I could ever hope to reach on my own. Once we got the rhythm down, we moved onto mastering the flip. “Just do it. Easy as that.” You leapt into the air, a rush of wind messing your hair, the gold chain you always wore falling into your open, smiling mouth. As your body sailed forward, I could feel the sensation of your weightlessness, awestruck by that brief moment when the world turned upside down, before you landed back on your feet, upright and steady, the trampoline's rebound lifting you gently up and down. “Don't be afraid.” I took your place at the center of the trampoline, then mustered the courage to attempt the same jump. The trampoline responded to my every movement, launching me up into the air. At the apex of my jump, I copied your movements, leaning forward, arms thrown behind me. For a split second, I thought I’d succeeded. I could taste the exhilaration of flight, but, unlike you, I couldn't shake my fear. “No!” you cried out. “Don't hesitate!” I couldn't maintain my balance. Midway through the jump, suspended in the air, my body stopped turning. I failed to complete the flip and landed awkwardly, turned completely upside-down. A sharp pain shot through my neck. Tears welled up in my eyes, but you knelt beside me, so I willed the tears away. 4 “It's alright, Jake. Fucking up the jump is part of learning. Trust me — you’ll get it. You'll see.” You knew how brief it was, that childhood spell, and how little life afforded. You were right. I got it, eventually. — From outdoors, the house is silent. The others are probably in bed. I think of going back to sleep, but the Sun is in my eyes, it keeps them open. In a state of semiconsciousness, I collect the towels and our belongings. And then, without thinking, I jump. I jump off the trampoline and levitate, suspended in the air, weightless. It’s nice above the Earth. A few glorious moments of buoyancy pass before the heaviness returns to the pit in my stomach, my sagging shoulders, my aging face. Gravity drags me down to Earth and I make impact like a falling star, quickly and with force. I stick the landing; I’m sore, the ground lacks the trampoline’s give, but I’m still whole. What a stupid thing to do. I take a moment to reorient myself and feel the individual blades of grass licking at my feet, still wet with morning dew. The sensation is pleasant and cool. I know I have to move, but I allow myself to linger, sinking further into the grass, the soil, this familiar feeling, until each extremity is cool. Once, when I was eighteen or nineteen, I stepped on a large, desiccated thorn that had broken free from trimmings of the lemon trees. The thorn became lodged in my foot; my torn skin, instead of hanging off the outside, folded inward towards my sole. I was already a man, but still, I was your son. You sat me down and removed the thorn. With a pair of tweezers, you pulled back the skin that had folded inward. With rubbing alcohol, you disinfected the wound, then bandaged me up. It was strange. These weren’t the soft, delicate feet of a child, but the 5 large, rough-worn feet of a man. And yet, you held them in your hands with care, the way a father should. Eventually, the Sun alters its position in the sky and everything from my face, to my hands, and my feet grow hot. The blades of grass begin to warm, broiling gradually into something lukewarm and irritating. I’m forced to move forward, stepping from the grass onto the pavement surrounding the pool. The porous, air-entrained concrete sucks the excess moisture off my feet. Footprints remain in the pavement, briefly, before drying and evaporating into nothingness. It’s hot. I’m too hot, but I can’t bring myself to go indoors. Mercurial and off-balance, I pick a spot in the distance and stare at it, steadying myself as I brace for yet another rotation of the Earth. I’m afraid if I fall forward, the ground will swallow me whole. — I wander in circles around the green-tinted pool and hear the others making sounds in the house. I remain outdoors to give them time in the bathroom, the one in the front, trying my best to forget that someone will eventually have to use the vacant one, the one in the back, the bathroom where mom found you, naked and dead in the bath. “She didn’t see him.” Not mom, obviously, but your daughter, the youngest, the baby and fourth-born, the one we’ll do our best to protect. She was sleeping in her bedroom down the hall when it happened, her blameless, child’s eyes shut sweetly against the night. “She didn’t see him.” Your favorite son, third-born, the charmer of the family. He repeats this the first night I 6 arrive, reminding me again and again. Your favorite son, my lookalike, an improvement on the first — He was there and where was I? I was someplace else, refusing to answer your calls. “I could tell as soon as I saw him.” A wavering voice, cracked along the edges — baby brother. “He was gone.” — On my sixth revolution around the pool, it occurs to me that someone else will have to take care of it now that you’re gone. It was my chore before I left, years ago when I was younger. You never taught the others how to balance the pH levels, how to measure the alkaline and chlorine content. How could you be so short-sighted? The pool will turn greener the more time passes, overtaken by algae, transforming into a bacterial breeding ground more quickly than anyone else could imagine. The pool is green, but you’ve only been gone for one day. Why is it green? Why is the swimming pool green? The pool is green and I don’t know why. I don’t know why you let it happen. I swear, I don’t know why. Panicked, I rush into the garage and find four remaining gallons of chlorine. I rush back to the pool, dumping them all into the water. My technique is sloppy. I forget your advice, pouring from too great a height. Drops of chlorine splash off the surface of the water, landing on my clothes. The shirt I’m wearing is black; the chlorine bleaches it white. It’s ruined, 7 all ruined. There are questions, so many. In bed that night, I ask them: Why didn’t you shock the pool instead? — Why shock your children with the loss of their father, so soon before his time? Why not shock the pool and kill bacteria instead? I have so many questions, all of them unanswered. I fall asleep and the second day ends. — I am wading through the trickling, crystalline waters of the San Joaquin River when suddenly, Death appears along the shore. “I’ve come in search of you — again.” I fall upon my knees in a shallow section of the river and send up a fervent prayer to the Holy Virgin. Death steps back a pace, nodding. “Your prayer to the Holy Mother has saved you.” — “I told your dad I had a headache and he ran me a bath.” “Mom called him a pussy and a cunt.” “It was your brother, always stressing out your dad.” “It was mom, she’s always such a bitch.” 8 “Your brother, he doesn’t —” “Mom, she always —” “And where were you, huh?” “Where were you?” “I don’t like baths. I went to bed, so he took one instead.” “Mom let Dad run her a whole fucking bath, then told him she was going to bed.” “I woke up in the middle of the night and he hadn’t come to bed.” “I was awake and I heard mom screaming.” “Thank God for your brother. He took charge when I couldn’t.” “The lights were off. The water was cold. Dad’s eyes were open.” “You’re lucky, Jacob.” “Be grateful you weren’t here.” — Three days in and your favorite son is perpetually high. I wonder when he’ll come down. He says he’s fine, he’ll be okay, but he feels he let you down. “I came home late that night,” he says. “Mom started in on me like she always does, screaming at me to get a job, and Dad stepped in to calm her down.” I watch my brother’s face go slack and feel him slipping away to another place, another time. “They were always fighting, but that night, they were fighting about me.” I should say something to ease his suffering, to assuage his guilt. I try, but he doesn’t hear me. “Dad had such a shitty life.” Our sisters display a more functional form of grief. They busy themselves by going through old photos and put on brave faces for the friends and coworkers who arrive periodically with food and their condolences. I don’t know these people and their presence angers me, so I 9 leave it to the girls and avoid them. The youngest has continued to attend school remotely. I guess she prefers to keep busy. There are tears, there’s no question of them missing you, but your girls seem better at coping than your boys. They’re less self-pitying, less concerned with conversations predicated on voicing their sorrows or remorse. I cry where the others can’t hear me. It dawns on me later that these private moments are only possible because the others do the same. — In the middle of the night, before the Sun has risen on our fourth day without you, I’m startled by the appearance of Death at my bedside. “Why are you here?” I ask. “I’ve come in search of you.” There’s a weight on my chest, a pressure, but nothing I do can relieve it. I look down and see Death’s hands pressed against me. “Why didn’t you warn me?” Death bends down to whisper in my ear: “I warned you countless times. There were signs,” he tells me. “The Messengers.” The heaviness in my chest increases. “You left and made the choice to ignore them. Think back. My messengers were clear.” — For the rest of the week, I remain trapped in my bed, alternating between fever and chills. The virus has infected us all, but I experience symptoms more severely than the others. I have difficulty breathing and can barely move my body. Quarantined and semiconscious, my only visitors are Death and his messengers. “I don’t recognize them.” 10 Death points to the clutter in the garage, the glass pipe in your hand, your mood swings, and your bloodshot eyes. In my weakened state, I can almost taste the bitter tang of paint thinner and burnt plastic, remnants of the hidden world that claimed you. “My messengers have come to you for years.” Death's voice resonates softly, his words laden with sorrow and regret. “Have you truly failed to recognize them?” I bow my head in silence, forced to concede to Death. I had seen them, dismissed them, and turned a blind eye to their significance. The dark, cloudy green pool water infested with algae and bacteria. The buildup of thorny, desiccated branches beneath the lemon trees I planted as a child. Mom’s sudden, vitriolic hate towards you. Each of these a messenger. And now, Death stands before me, reluctantly carrying this final message of unfathomable loss. “That’s why I came in search of you,” he says, his voice a gentle murmur amidst echoes of regret. “So you might finally accept my message.” In truth, Death had been considerate. He'd warned us all of his arrival, of your addiction, of your vices, years before your departure. The signs were there, scattered across time. If only I had seen them. — Time passes and the virus runs its course. My siblings and I separate once more, returning to our lives away from home. As I go, I carry Death’s message forward and vow to recognize the messengers when they appear; to listen to their warnings; to recognize the signs. But in this moment, as I stand at the precipice of understanding, a gentle breeze stirs the branches of a lemon tree. Leaves rustle, whispering, like a secret being revealed. Beyond them is a glimmer of the Moon, milky-white and shining. The Moon is your eye, suspended in the sky, and it winks in my direction, beaming. I recognize your messenger and hear its promise of 11 forgiveness; of renewal; of life still left to live. I’ve learned to recognize the signs, to read meaning in the disarray. Dark clouds drift across the nighttime sky, obscuring the Moon from view. I wait. A while later, it reappears, reflected across the tranquil surface of the pool. I extend my hand to touch the image of the Moon and, for a fleeting moment, just before the image ripples and fades, I feel your own hand reaching out beneath the water, pressing back against my own. You will always be with me. I stand, step back a pace, then go.