As Halloween approached again, I learned the hard way that the old cliché you hear about the one-year anniversary of a loved one’s death being hard is dead-fucking-on. I’d be out grocery shopping or running errands and for brief instants I could swear I could see him. Someone would catch my eye and something about them – the set of their mouth as they perused a menu; or their gait; or a turn of phrase, like “a couple three” – would remind me of my father so strongly that for a dizzying moment I felt the uncanny sense that he was somehow there. When I got a letter from the Cremation Society a few weeks before Halloween telling me that “the anniversary of a death can stir up many emotions all over again and may come when you least expect them,” I thought to myself “no fucking shit,” and threw the thing in the trash.
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Spirits – a horror story (Part four of five)
Before I called 911, Eli and I went through what we would tell the police. It was an accident. Grandpa tripped and fell. Daddy tried to help. They questioned me and Eli separately, but whatever the boy had seen, he told them the right thing. He was a good boy.
I put him to bed, then went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I vowed to prove my father wrong, to be a better father to Eli than my father had been to me. That Eli would never become like him. Like me. Alcoholism had plagued my family from time immemorial, like some ancient curse. But it would stop here.
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Spirits – a horror story (part three of five)
By the end of that October, I was back up to drinking a handle every three days. I’d stock up every time I went out to buy my father his cases of rum, then stash my extras in the basement, concealing them in the laundry room’s darkened alcove. I didn’t want to give my father the satisfaction of knowing that I was juicing almost as heavily as he was. When I’d finish a bottle, I’d hide it in the bottom of a laundry basket full of Eli’s clothes and bring it downstairs, switching it out for a new bottle and stashing the empty in the darkened alcove. Then I’d smuggle out the empties early in the morning on trash pickup day, while my father was passed out and before Eli woke up.
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Spirits – a horror story (part one of five)
It was bedtime when my six-year-old son Eli whispered, “Daddy, I think your daddy is a ghost now.”
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