I was consumed by thoughts of him, just as I had been years before, but the mystery surrounding him that had existed then wasn’t present anymore. I knew the placement of his veins and the threads of his DNA, the pattern of his freckles and every word he would say. For so long, I had wanted to learn him, to be educated in his psychology and research his philosophies. Becoming a scholar in Cal had made me a student in myself. While I was average at best, it was an achievement to care enough to open the book. Still, I lacked the motivation to focus on myself as much as I examined him. He was by far a more interesting subject. With Cal graduating to bigger and better things, all that was left to study was me, a course I was failing.

Why when I surveyed myself did I always find my father? Why did collections containing each of his lectures line the bookshelves of my mind? Why had he written me in his image only to revise the rules for himself? Why didn’t I have the courage to edit my own story?

Everyone was moving forward while I remained behind, holding onto the pain of my past to protect myself from the promise of my future. I understood loss, I had been born into the immensity of it, but I didn’t understand why I felt compelled to continue to live within it. Perhaps I was a better fit for the fruitcake factory than Rosie had been. Shocked until I was numb, I would revisit the stasis I had existed in prior to loving Cal. The doctors would drain me of emotions, and I could function like I had when every day was gray, and life was simple. I would wake up, read a book, run a racket, drink some Club and turn in for the night. My greatest worries would be the Cubs, Vlad and survival, external variables that were easier to cope with than the internal maelstrom of feelings that had stirred in my system. Therapists would spend hours scrubbing my brain until I was more disgusted by thoughts of Cal than I was with myself for not following him. I would come home to pace the floor and perch on the foot of my bed. Rosie would be alive with Cal, and I would take his place instead.

Sliding my wallet and cigarettes into the pockets of my pants, I responded to the knock on the door. For so long, I refrained from telling Maks where I lived, not wanting him to see evidence of our cohabitation and assume relations. Weeks after Cal left, I realized there was nothing keeping me from having my cousin come to my apartment, and though I would never admit it, I liked when Maks was around. He quieted the walls’ cries for Cal.