The boat pulls in.

Dear Trevor,

 I know you need me, but I am beyond apologies.

 I write this leter at the Laughing Gull. Ezra sits next to me, tapping his fingers on the table. Tap tap tap.

 The boat pulls in. The woman captain is dressed in her best blood. “Why is she like that?” I think to myself. Or maybe I say it out loud, because Ezra answers.

 “Who knows what g—got her to that point. A bill—billion little things. That’s like me asking you wh—why you look the way you do.”

“Why do I what? Look like this? This is who I am. Or who I’ve become. I’ve looked better.”

“Ah. And this is the best she’s l—looked so far. Like she’s dressed for a wedding. Don’t you think she looks lovely in h—her wedding clothes?

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but she looks just rough enough to get me where I need to go.”

“Then come.”

“I’m coming.” My heart pounds as I say the words.  “I’ve just got to mail a letter.”

“Even so, come quickly,” says Ezra.

I will finish this line, stuff this note in an envelope and hand it to Sung-Hee. I’ve gotta run, Trevor.

Your dad,

Hugh

Don’t leave.

Dear Dad,

 Carrying your burden is no big deal from my end. Or Or maybe it is a big deal, but it’s not a heavy load for me. I mean, I took on your shame, but I don’t feel it. Probably because I didn’t do the act that made you feel shameful. So it’s easy for me to carry, I guess. And besides, you took on my fear, so I owed you. It feels good to pay you back.

 The part that sucks is that I helped you get clear of it, right? And in return you’re gonna leave me. I can tell you are. You’ve gone crazy, even if it’s crazy in a good way. I can tell you’re gonna get out of that place, either on the bloody boat or some other way. So now I’ll be without a dad again.

 I still need you. For instance, it was 70 degrees today and you know how it is here in Washington. When it hits 70, everyone acts like they’re in Hawaii and walks around with their shirts off. Guys, I mean. Rhett and a couple of his buddies went to jump off the marina. He asked me to come along. I said no thanks, as nice as could be, and he started calling me a wussy.

 Did he ever consider that maybe I just don’t want to jump off the marina? Did he ever think that I might have better things to do? He acts like I should just drop everything and go jump off the stupid marina, like it’s the greatest thing in the world.

 So I could use you here, to back me up or tell me what to do or maybe gather my squished body from the beach after I break my neck by landing wrong if I actually jump off the stupid marina.

 Don’t leave.

If you do leave, can you at least try to write me a letter when you get to wherever it is you’re going?

 Your son,

 Trevor

Perhaps I could howl for you.

Dear Trevor,

 Huh.

 It’s strange, but I miss this town, even as I sit in it.

 I think of it as passed. Or past. I feel like I’m sitting in something that has come and gone, like a time traveler who is just here to document a completed event.

 Maybe that’s the right word. Completed.

 Can I thank you for your act of taking on my burden? I don’t think so, Trevor. Not in words, anyway. Certainly not in these words, which feel like smoke trailings behind a plane. I have no confidence in their ability to communicate my real feelings. By the time the envelope arrives in your box, you’ll find only the damp evidence of steam.

 Perhaps I could howl for you, but I don’t know how to spell the sound I would make. Let me just say that I feel primitive. Wild. I want to bite something. Ha!

 The hairs on my arm are tingly. When I brush alongside my doorway, my side tingles for a full five seconds. I can feel the rough boards through the souls of my shoes. I can stand on my porch and smell the salt shore, smell Sung-Hee’s fish and coffee, even Sung-Hee’s own sour sweat.

 I want that boat to come in, Trevor. I bet I’ll smell its iron odor when it’s five miles out.

 I picked up all your letters from my table with the thought of rereading them, but I found I wanted nothing to do with the words. I only wanted the feel of the paper on my skin. I rubbed them on my rough, unshaven face and I could smell the oil of your fingers. The oil smells like my own self. I can smell my blood in your blood.

 I want to grow a beard. Is that silly? I’m done with haircuts, too.

 Do I worry about the burden you now bear for me? I don’t. I can’t. My brain has gone native within my skull.

 Dad

I’m no longer willing to wait for you to ask.

Dear Dad,

 I’m no longer willing to wait for you to ask. Therefore, I’m jumping ahead without you. Consider your IOU cashed in.

 I, Trevor Griffiths, officially take on the burden of my father’s shame for anything he had to do with the death of his daughter, my sister, Meredith Griffiths.

 There. That’s it. It’s done. Move on.

 Your son,

 Trevor

Bring on a little blood. That’s something I could deal with.

Dear Trevor,

 I’m sitting here at the Laughing Gull. Sung-Hee keeps coming to my table to try to drip a few more drops of her coffee into my overflowing cup. She’s trying to read over my shoulder. I take a small amount of joy trying to secretly block her view.

 It’s ghostly quiet in the restaurant today. In the whole town. The waves are quiet. The fog is thick. The residents are sequestered in their shacks. “It’s that damn boat,” whispered Sung-Hee. Everyone whispers on these days. “I wish it would hurry up and come so I could get a few more customers in here.”

 Ezra left a few minutes ago after another one of his unsettling conversations. More about forgiveness. When he was signing for our meal, he said, “You’re so inconsistent. Y—you’re more than happy to let me pick up the tab for your fish and coffee.”

 “You offered. And you’re the one who invited me to lunch. I was fine in my cabin.”

 “Yes, b—but you accepted. Now you need to let someone else pay the price for you.” He left in the middle of the riddle. I assume he’s talking about your offer, Trevor, even though I don’t remember mentioning it to him.

 I don’t much like your offer. I liked our earlier bargain better. I took on your fear of Mudgett, then you got a bloody nose. I could handle that more easily. Bring on a little blood. That’s something I could deal with.

 If Ezra stays true to his word and leaves on the next boat, I will miss him greatly.

 Dad

I have no idea if I’m still grounded or not.

Dear Dad,

Mom officially lifted my grounding today. I asked her to put it back.

At work, she’d finally gotten over her embarrassment of me and told her co-worker Don Padgett about the cookie contest. She said Don laughed for 10 minutes straight. “Maybe it’s funnier than I first thought,” said Mom. Then she told me, “And I just can’t keep you grounded, Trev. So we’ll call it done today.”

I got really mad at Mom, which surprised both of us. I yelled, “I should be grounded! You shouldn’t lift it! Why can’t you stick with anything?” Her eyes got really wide and she stuttered out a few animal sounds.

“If you want, you can stay grounded, I suppose. But you don’t have to. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.”

“You’re giving in too easy,” I muttered.

“I don’t think you understand. I’m saying you’re not grounded anymore.”

“I know that’s what you’re saying. And I’m saying that’s dumb. I should be grounded. You should stick to it.” I stomped into my room and slammed the door so hard I knocked a dumb old trophy off a shelf.

I have no idea if I’m still grounded or not. I guess the decision is up to me, which is pretty stupid.

Anyway, the whole conversation put me in a really pissy mood. But I’ll still take your burden from you, Dad. My offer still stands.

Your son,

Trevor

There’s nothing gentle about it.

Dear Trevor,

“People think that forgiveness is a gentle act. There’s nothing gentle about it. At times it’s been the most bloody, violent act in the history of the world.” That’s what Ezra told me. That’s what it would feel like to me, Trevor, to let you take this on for me. To have my blood on your hands. On your back.

I can’t ask that of you. Of anyone. I have no right.

Ezra disagrees. Of course, Ezra is a bit of a nut. I verified this fact with Gordon. “De omni re scibili et quibusdam aliis,” Gordon said.

“Which means what.”

“It means he’s a bloody know-it-all, even about things of which he has no right of holding expertise. He’s annoying.”

“I don’t know. I kind of like him.”

“You would. You’re always seeking for something different. Something more. You should be like me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I have decided I am quite comfortable here.”

“Oh, you are not. You do nothing but complain about this place.”

“Perhaps. But perhaps I like complaining. Perhaps it is the very act of complaining that gives me comfort. Perhaps it is the sheer mediocrity of this locale that makes it so right for me.”

“You may have something there.” I left. I went back to my cabin and took my IOU out to reread it. Then I put it back.

You don’t owe me this much.

Dad

The hard part was apologizing to Mrs. Henry.

Dear Dad,

 Yesterday I had to go back to school. I had to go early and walk by myself from class to class, apologizing to every teacher who ate one of the tainted cookies. I started with Mrs. Fletcher, the math troll. It was weird and made me feel pretty rotten, because Mrs. Fletcher said that I’d hurt her feelings. She clutched her projection monitor in both hands and said, “I thought we were friends, Trevor.” Boy, did that ever surprise me.  

 Mr. Schick was easier, because we don’t like each other and we’re clear on that. He just glowered at me the whole time, then nodded in a kind of military way. I thought he’d say how disappointed he was in me, but I think he only says that kind of stuff in front of a group. Come to think of it, I’ve never spoken to him alone before.

 The hard part was apologizing to Mrs. Henry. Is it bad of me for only feeling sorry about hurting the teachers I like? I knocked on Mrs. Henry’s door and she told me to come in. I walked in and stood by her desk where I confessed my crime and asked her to forgive me. She was quiet for a good ten seconds.

 “I’ll have to think about it, Trevor. You’ve just made a very serious request. And like any good bargain hunter, I don’t want to give in too easily. You wronged me. You’ve made no recompense, other than your confession. And now you want my pardon.” Then she started giggling. “Did you—did you hear about Mrs. Fletcher? She couldn’t stop eating your cookies. Oh, I bet she lost three pounds that day. Oh, what the heck. I forgive you.”

 The giggles took back over. I started laughing with her—the first time I really laughed about this thing that was supposed to be a joke. Mrs. Henry wouldn’t let me leave her class until I could get a serious look to stay on my face. “We can’t let anyone know we think this is funny, can we?”

 Anyway, Dad, I’ve been thinking that this is what you need. Forgiveness. Not the easy kind like Mom or Mrs. Henry gives out. The serious kind. The kind of forgiveness that costs something, you know? More like the way Stephan made Keith’s head pain go away by stomping on his toes. Not quite sure how to do that. I could ask Mrs. Henry. Or maybe you should ask your new guy.

 I’m thinking maybe I could help. Maybe I could take on this burden of yours, Dad, like the way you took on my fear of Mudgett. Maybe you could cash in your I.O.U.

 Your son,

 Trevor

Ezra invited me to lunch at The Laughing Gull.

Dear Trevor,

 I hope the teachers don’t hate you, too. They shouldn’t, even though you’ve challenged them to take a pretty big joke. And as far as your mom goes, give her a little time. Her sense of humor is bound to shine through eventually.

 Ezra invited me to lunch at The Laughing Gull today. I laughed at the invitation. “Have you eaten there yet?”

 “Oh, I—I’ve had worse. Y—you should try the food in a logging camp before y—you start complaining. And the c—coffee’s pretty good.” I couldn’t tell if Ezra was joking or not about the coffee. I followed him down and we took a seat closest to the dock. He stared out the window as if there was something to look at other than fog. I asked him what he was looking for.

 “The boat, of course. She’s c—coming back soon. And when she does, I’m going with her. I w—want you to know that.”

 I smirked. “If you say so, but I’ve never seen anyone get on that boat other than those that get right on the first day. Those of us who wait never go aboard.”

 “I’m getting on. I only stopped here to t—talk to you for a few days. Didn’t you know that? That’s why I’ve been looking for you.”

 That got my attention. I asked him what he was supposed to talk to me about. He said he’d know when I told him my story. So I told him. Everything. I think I talked longer than I’ve ever talked in my life. When I got to the end—I mean the very end—up to the minute I was talking to him right there—he laughed. “No w-wonder you’re still here. You can’t take any of that with you.”

 “With me where?”

 “Onward, of course. But y—you’ve got to leave all that behind.”

 “How do I do that?”

 “Quickly, that’s how. Because she’s c—coming back soon.”

 Dad

This is my second day of being suspended.

Dear Dad,

 I’ve got some time to write you a long letter today, since this is my second day of being suspended from school.

 Only a few minutes after I mailed your last letter, Brian Haase called me at home, a bit frantic. “Trevor! Caulkins is gonna call you any minute! I just got off the phone with him!” Mr. Caulkins is our vice principal.

 “What’d he say?” For some reason, I was way calmer than Brian. I guess because I pretty much knew this was coming.

 “He said I was suspended for two days! My mom is really pissed! I gotta go!”

 I hung up the phone and jogged into the living room to tell Mom. I still figured it would be better for her to hear it from me first.

 “Mom, I gotta talk to you.” She closed her book over one hand and looked at me. The way her mouth was opened and her eyebrows were pushed together, I could tell she was waiting for me to confess something. She just didn’t know what. “The vice principal’s gonna call any minute, because I’m gonna be in trouble at school.”

 “What did you do?” She pulled her hand out of the book and closed the book shut, losing her place.

 “You know those cookies me and Brian made for the cookie contest? We kind of put Ex-Lax in them. And the teachers—”

 “You what?”

 “We put Ex-Lax in the cookies we made. For the teachers.”

 Bang. She exploded. I was surprised how mad she got and how fast she got there. She kept yelling “You had no right,” and yelled how I might have sent someone to the hospital. She was right in the middle of her rant when the phone rang, which didn’t help. I answered it.

 Caulkins asked me if I knew why he was calling. I said I was pretty sure I did. He asked if I’d like to tell him why. I lied and said I would. Then I told him. He let me know how sick some of the teachers had become, especially Mrs. Fletcher, who I guess spent most of the evening in bed, although I bet she actually spent most of the day in the bathroom. After he told me I was suspended, he asked to talk to my mom. I handed her the phone and listened. She said yes a lot and thanked Caulkins for calling. I bet she really wasn’t very thankful.

 Mom was a bit calmer when she got off the phone, but she was really mad. She acted like I’d done something dangerous. Then she grounded me for two weeks, which seems about right to me. I didn’t mind, really.

 I go back to school tomorrow, because this is the last day of my suspension. All in all not too bad. I hope the teachers don’t hate me, though. And I’m glad it helped you.

 Your son,

 Trevor

I hope you don’t get in trouble on my account.

Dear Trevor,

 I can’t believe you did it. I mean, I believe that you did it, but what you did was an unbelievable act. Smart? Stupid? Mean? Irresponsible? I don’t know. But bold as all hell, boy.

 I hope you don’t get in trouble on my account. “On my account.” A strange set of words, don’t you think? But so true, here. I feel like I’m spending heavily and counting on you to cover the cost. More of my vampiristic nature.

 That said, it worked to a reasonable degree. If your story didn’t take my mind off my plight, it at least provided a little entertainment. Perhaps that’s the best I can hope for. And now I get to sit in suspense, waiting to hear what happened to you. That suspense is a gift of great distraction.

 I’ve had another distraction as well. That newcomer to town that Sung-Hee and Dr. Jones gossiped about came to call on me. I was lying in my bunk when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to this man I’d never seen before.

 “Can—can  I borrow a cup of sugar?” he said.

 “Sugar? You’re joking, surely.”

 “I am. Can—can—can I come in?” I stood back and let him enter. He’s of medium height, about my age, I suppose, but gone much softer than me. His hair is black—or perhaps very dark brown—and, oh, windswept I suppose is an acceptable way to describe it. A scruffy beard doesn’t quite succeed in giving shape to his great double chin. He wears a dark blue suit, but not well. No tie. The suit somehow manages to make him look slobby. He’d likely be better served by a flannel shirt and a pair of work pants. I can imagine him wiping grease off his hands after emerging happily from underneath a car.

 “I—I’ve been looking for you,” he said. He couldn’t seem to get a sentence off without stuttering.. “Name’s Ezra. Ezra Ledford. Hear you—you’ve been looking for me as well.”

 We sat then and swapped our stories. Ezra came to town a few weeks ago. He’d recently retired as a high school teacher and was working abroad, teaching English in Hong Kong. One day he was lunching on fish at his favorite local restaurant when a bone stuck in his throat. “Next thing I knew, I was stepping off a plane into this place,” he said. “But it’s not so b—bad. Been in worse. T—taught school at a logging camp that was nothing but m—mud. Least it’s not cold here. I hate b—being cold. Why’ve you been looking for me?”

 I told him I had no real agenda, other than searching for a way to keep busy.

 “I encourage you to get one,” Ezra said.

 “One what?”

 “An agenda.”

 Trevor, I like this guy. He’s interesting. Not sure why he’s interested in me. Not sure if he’ll remain so. But for now, I like him.

 Let me know what happens with the cookies.

 Dad

We made the cookies. One with this stuff called Ex-Lax.

Dear Dad,

 I got your letter too late. I didn’t come home after school yesterday. I went home with Brian Haase. We made the cookies. Both batches. One with this stuff called Ex-Lax and one normal batch. We brought them to school and entered them in the cookie contest. We hoped we could make sure that only Mr. Schick got the Ex-Lax cookies. But when we showed up at the teacher’s lounge, this pep club girl named Sophie Johnstone just grabbed both plates from us and said, “Ooh! These look yummers! Good luck, boys!”

 Brian and I promised each other we wouldn’t tell anyone what we’d done. I kept my part of the promise, but I’m not sure Brian did, because I heard whispers all day long.

 We never actually saw any of the teachers eat the cookies, but they definitely did. “Did you hear about Mrs. Fletcher?” Rick Jarvis asked me at lunch. “She left math to go to the bathroom five times. The last time she never came back.”

 “Oh, crap,” I said.

 “Exactly,” said Rick, laughing. “Serves her right. She’s such a hag.”

 Mrs. Henry got into the bad cookies, too. I’ll probably burn in hell for that one, because Mrs. Henry is beyond innocent. She’s a force of good. Luckily, she didn’t eat too many. Or at least she didn’t get the runs too bad, because she lasted the whole day.

 Mr. Schick got it bad. Donnie Joad told me he heard that Schick went to the hospital. I’m know that’s not true, but in P.E. he already looked bad, and that’s my first period. He barely made it through Bible class. He excused himself three times. The third time, he didn’t even say anything. He just got up and ran. Brian Haase burst out laughing and a couple of other kids snickered, too. I heard that Mr. Schick tried to go home after lunch, but too many other teachers had already left early, so he had to stay all day long. That’s how I know he didn’t go to the hospital. Brian has P.E. near the end of the day, and he said Schick looked liked a zombie. Schick declared an open play period and then went and sat on the bleachers near the boys’ locker room. Brian thought this was awesome. I mostly did, too, but I’m pretty sure we’ll get busted.

 Now I’m home, wondering if the phone is gonna ring. Wondering if I should tell Mom what I did now, or wait to see if we get caught. Either way, it’s a gamble, right? If I tell her now, I’ll definitely get in trouble, but probably not quite as bad, because she’ll like that I told her ahead of time. If I wait, there’s a slim chance I might never get caught, but if I do, I’ll get in more trouble.

 I think I’m gonna take my chances and hope we don’t get busted. Wish me luck.

 I hope this helps distract you, Dad.

 Your son,

Trevor

I kind of longed for her to scream at me.

Dear Trevor,

 Don’t get into trouble for me. Especially for this. I don’t want any more shame piled on.

 Thanks for telling about your mom missing me. I’m not sure if it helps.

 A few months ago, when your trouble with Mudgett was making you vomit, you told me how your mom would make you feel worse when she’d baby you and call you her “poor dear.” That’s what Ev’s quick forgiveness felt like to me. It made the shame that much harder to bear.

 I kind of longed for her to scream at me. To hit me. To scratch my face and leave a horrible scar that I’d have to bear. Take a baby’s weight of flesh out of my backside. But Ev has never worked that way. She’ll take the sins of the world on herself to avoid causing anyone pain.

 Trevor, tread carefully around the cookie business. Cookies can be dangerous. Get a teacher sick and you could torch your school career. A vengeful teacher can make a kid pretty miserable.

 Dad

I can shock you, too, if that’s what you want.

Dear Dad,

 I think maybe you’ve got the wrong idea about Mom. I think you remember her wrong. She’s not sitting around crying all day. When she gets weepy about the past, it’s more about you being gone than about Meredith being dead. She misses you. I don’t think she’d miss you if she was still pissed at you.

 I could ask her, if you want, if she’s forgiven you. If that’s what you’re worried about, I mean. Is that what you’re looking for? Someone to say, “That’s OK.”

 I can shock you, too, if that’s what you want. I was gonna tell Brian that I didn’t want to join him in the cookie contest plan. It seems kind of mean to me. And I’m pretty sure we’ll get in trouble. But if it would help you, I can do it. Because Brian’s got a plan:

 We go to his house after school on Wednesday. We make the cookies. His mom has this recipe for three-layer brownies that he says are amazing. We just mix in one extra ingredient. A laxative. That’s a kind of medicine that you take when you’re constipated. It totally gives you diarrhea, which I guess is what you want if you’re constipated. Then we make another batch of the cookies that are normal. We pack both kinds of cookies to school. We make sure Mr. Schick gets the diarrhea cookies and we give the normal ones to everybody else. Then we watch as Mr. Schick poops his pants.

 It seems like a pretty good plan. The only problem is that if you look at the names of the other kids who signed up for the cookie contest, they’re all girls from the pep club. They’re like the nerdiest girls in school. They all wear hairbands. Then at the bottom of the list, you see Brian Haase and Trevor Griffiths. If something goes bad with the cookie contest, who are you gonna blame?

 That’s why I said no to Brian. But if it will help you, Dad, I’ll do it. It’s not like Mr. Schick doesn’t deserve it. So after I mail this letter, I’ll call Brian and tell him yes.

 Your son,

 Trevor

Do something irresponsible to slap me out of this hangover.

Dear Trevor,

 If I were to talk about this to your mother, what would I say? She knows what happened. She knows I was there, in charge, when the future of our baby girl was eliminated, when your mother’s own joy stopped breathing.

 It’s strange how quiet tragedy can happen in real life.

 If I could have fought and lost, it would be so much easier to bear. If I’d been bloody and battered, laying half dead next to the all dead baby body, it would have been easy for Ev to forgive me.

 I’m wallowing. I know it.

 I thought this purgatory—if that’s what you call this place—would slowly scrape this burden off of me. But I took it with me into the woods and packed the whole thing back out again. Now I sit with it on my front porch. Maybe it’s like my hunch. Is that what you call it? My lump? I mean, if I were a hunchback, my deformity would be this lump of shame. I’ll take it with me everywhere. It will burn along with the rest of my bones in hell. Maybe it will make heaven a bitter place for me forever.

 I can’t imagine going to heaven, being surrounded by perfect people, and still walking around, hunched over with this crap on my back.

 Enough.

 Trevor, distract me. Tell me about the cookie contest. Shock me. Do something irresponsible to slap me out of this hangover.

 I remember when Keith was little and he’d bang his head on the kitchen counter. He’d whimper about his injury. Steffan would walk up to Keith and gleefully stomp on his foot. Keith would howl with pain and grab his smashed toes. Between sobs, he’d say, “Whadja do that for?”

 “You should thank me,” Steffan would say. “Now your head doesn’t hurt.”

 That’s what I need, Trevor. I need a pain so great that it will make my head stop hurting.

 Dad

Most things are somebody’s fault.

Dear Dad,

I know I asked you to tell me all this stuff, but it’s a lot to handle. I feel like you should be telling this to Mom, not to me.

I guess I knew most of it—the basics at least—but I never really felt it before, you know? And it’s weird to think about Meredith like she was a real baby. Before your letters, she was a name out of an old story. And she was a tombstone. Or a name on a tombstone. That flowery little stone in the children’s section at Washington Memorial that we visit with Mom once a year. Mom still puts baby flowers on the grave. Baby’s breath, I think it’s called. I never thought about how weird that was until I wrote those words just now. Baby’s breath.

Maybe it’s too early to ask, but I’m wondering if you feel any better. I had this screwy idea that if you talked about what happened, you’d have some sort of weight lifted off your shoulders. Anything?

In movies about stuff like this, people always say things like, “It’s not your fault!” Then they shake the person by the shoulders and everyone cries, then look out at a sunset or stare out a rainy window or some moody crap like that.

But I think maybe it was your fault. Most things are somebody’s fault. We try hard to work things out so no one has to take the blame, but maybe on this one you do need to take the blame. I mean, you screwed up.

So now what?

Your son,

Trevor

Death got covered in equipment.

Dear Trevor,

Sorry it’s taken me a few days to respond to you. No excuses worth noting here other than it’s taken me that long to find the gumption to finish this story.

Back on that day, the next fifteen minutes were the most mind-bending of my life. Ev walked upstairs, still angry with me. I could hear what sounded like your mother crying in the distance and I thought, “What could she possibly be crying about now? All I did was watch a football game.” Then I heard her voice, still soft from upstairs, but broken with sobs, telling me to call 911.

I knew right then. At least that’s where my imagination went. I imagined the worst–that our little Meredith had stopped breathing. I picked up a cordless phone and dialed. The operator came on and asked my emergency and I told her just that–that our baby had stopped breathing. She calmly said an ambulance was on the way and asked me to describe what had happened. I said I didn’t know. Then I ran upstairs.

Ev was trying to breathe life back into that tiny baby. The baby wouldn’t have it.

I was glad for the operator on the phone. I needed someone to talk to other than Ev. I laid out the scene for her until the paramedics took over our house. From that point on, things got really technical. Death got covered in equipment. Bulbs and tubes and monitors. It seemed more official that way.

Your mom cried for days. Weeks. I don’t know if I ever did.

We had a funeral. The saddest of sad days.

We went on to fill our house with four more kids. You included. That stopped the crying pretty well. Nothing takes your mind off a dead child like a house full of chaotic joy.

Then I died. And here I am. It all makes a kind of sense. I fixed the problem by replacing Meredith four times over. I paid my debt in a sense. Now I’m serving my time. Least that’s how I see it.

If your mom had asked to have 10 more kids, I would have said yes. I would have said yes to almost anything.

Dad