“I know. You told me that already.”

I release and look down at him. His gaze moves back to his toes.

“Look at me,” I say.

He doesn’t.

“Max, look at me.”

He finally looks up and into my eyes for about two seconds before shifting his eyes to the right. Two seconds of eye contact is pretty good for Max.

“This is probably the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do in your entire life,” I say. “But we’re going to do it together. I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Finally, he says, “I see his face sometimes. At night, when I’m trying to fall asleep.”

“Daddy?”

He nods.

I see his face, too. Blank. Dead. One eye a quarter open, pupil dry as bone.

“Does that feel good?” I ask. “To see him?”

Not an ounce of expression. “No.”

His answer tickles the back of my neck, not in a pleasant way.

“Are you missing him?” I ask.

He surprises me by not answering. Instead, he turns and plods away, dragging his feet as he leaves the room. My impulse is to go after him, comfort him by saying how much I miss Riley as well. But I can’t do it.

Maybe later I will, when I build up the proper calluses allowing me to lie to my son with grace and conviction.

And what a depressing thought that is.

Five

Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin

Colin walked up the stairs inside his mother’s house, stepping with care around endless towers of crap on every riser. His mother would claim each pile to be full of things with which she could never part. To Colin, it was all junk, most of it not even worth donating to the Salvation Army. Some piles were lumps of old clothing, most having belonged to Colin’s father. Three shoes here, a pair of faded corduroys there, a bathrobe and collection of tighty-whities there.

But most of the piles on the stairs were rectangular and towering just enough that any forceful brush against them would topple them, like a gigantic Jenga game. Stacks of old hardcover books, tabloid magazines dating back to the eighties, shoeboxes with decades-old photos inside, and even empty Tupperware containers. Empty containers. Those puzzled Colin most.

The upstairs landing was no better. Nor was the hallway, nor any other area in the house. Crap was everywhere. Colin sometimes wondered if his father’s heart attack had been a blessing for him. Easier to die than to untangle this mess.

“Where are you?”

“In my room,” his mother replied.

Colin stubbed his toe on an end table lying on its side in the hallway. He cursed and was tempted to kick it in frustration but decided to let it go. The end table didn’t choose to be there after all.

He rounded the corner into his mother’s bedroom and saw her at her vanity, a set once owned by his mother’s mother. Mahogany finish, tri-angled mirror, and a delicate, needlepoint-topped stool. His mother was facing the mirror, applying lipstick, a creamy silk robe cinched loosely around her bony frame.