One night, as he grunted and whimpered in his sleep—fighting death with all the force with which he fought life—we sat side by side on the couch and watched TV reruns from our youth: That ’70s Show and Friends and The Simpsons. When Benny drifted off, numbed with exhaustion and meds, he slipped sideways until his head rested on my shoulder. I stroked his shaggy red hair, as if he were still my baby brother, and felt profoundly at peace despite it all.
I wondered what my brother was dreaming about, or if the medications he took robbed him of dreams altogether. And then I wondered if the loss of another parent would set Benny off again. If it did, who would I have to blame this time?
“Don’t be afraid,” I whispered. “I’m going to take care of you.”
He opened one eye. “What makes you think that I’m the one who needs taking care of?”
And then he laughed so that I knew he was joking, but something about this unsettled me anyway. As if Benny recognized something inside me that was also inside himself, something that had been inside our mother: how close I was teetering to that edge.
* * *
—
Our father died abruptly, slipping away with a soft rattle of his chest and a convulsion of his limbs. I had assumed we would have a moment before he died—the movie deathbed scene, where my father would tell me how proud he was of me—but in the end he wasn’t lucid enough. Instead, I gripped his frail hand until it grew cold in mine, wetting both with my tears. On the other side of the bed, Benny rocked back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.
The hospice nurse tiptoed back and forth, waiting to nudge us toward the inevitable next steps: doctor, funeral director, obituary writer, lawyer.
At a loss, I did what I knew how to do best: I tugged my phone out of my pocket and took a photo of our still-entwined hands, something to document this final thread of connection before everything was irretrievably gone. Almost without thinking, I uploaded this to my Instagram, #mypoordaddy. (Thinking without thinking: Look at me. Look at how sad I am. Fill this hole with love.) Within seconds, the condolences started rolling in: So sad 4 U—what a touching photo—Vanessa DM me for virtual hugs. Kind words from generous strangers, but they felt about as personal as the letters on a movie marquee. I knew that within seconds of commenting each person had already moved on to the next post in their feed and forgotten me.
I shut the app down, and didn’t open it again for two weeks.
We were alone now, Benny and me. We only had each other.
* * *
—
Victor flew out for the funeral and held me while I cried; but he had to fly back immediately in order to attend a political fundraiser for his mother, who was being groomed as a VP candidate for the upcoming presidential election.
I was still in San Francisco, dealing with my father’s estate, when Victor called me a week later. After a few minutes of benign small talk, he dropped his little bomb: “Look, Vanessa, I’ve been thinking, we should call off the wedding.”
“No, it’s OK. My father wouldn’t have wanted me to postpone. He would have wanted me to go on with my life.” There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end and I realized that I had misunderstood. “Wait. You’re kidding. You’re dumping me? My father just died and you’re dumping me?”
“The timing, I know…it’s bad. But waiting would have made it worse.” His voice was strangled. “I’m really sorry, Van.”
I had been sitting on the floor in my parents’ bedroom, sorting through old photo albums; when I stood up a cascade of pictures came tumbling out of my lap. “What the hell? Where is this coming from?”
“I’ve just been thinking,” he began, and then he stopped. “I want…more? You know?”
“No.” My voice was ice, it was steel, it was fury. “I don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about at all.”