I was half-dreaming when I heard the key turn in the door. I checked my watch; it hadn't been much more than two hours since the Austin call. Cocoa beat me to the door and wrapped herself around him. I could see it in his face, the wound of death. And I waited for what Chris needed to hear first.
       “What happened?”
       “Your dad killed himself.”
       “He…where’s my dad?”
       “Asheville.”
       “Where is that?”
       “North Carolina.”
       “Who told you?”
       “Your Uncle Dave.”
       “What else did Dave say?”
       My head is numbing. I want to answer questions. I want to know something, anything about anything. It’s then I realize I really know very little: Where did the bullet pass through his body? I wince; I assumed Dan shot himself through his head, but I don't know that. I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t make myself form the words. Or maybe I thought asking that kind of question was just morbid—what difference did it make? He’s still dead. I realized I assumed a lot of things instantly in the changing channels of my mind. I assumed the head because that’s what my father had done. I was six when my life shattered for the first time.
       “Did he leave a note?”
       “I'm not sure of that either.” My dad didn't, I think to myself. But, I want to know something that will stop the bleeding. Both my children look gray. Cocoa's eyes are fixed on nothing; the hope that Chris could fix everything has passed. She stands swaying, holding his hand in both of hers. It's the face of unbearable loss, and now the words are real for all of us. It's a cold evening, and Chris is still standing in the doorway.
       I push the door shut, as I stroke his cheek. Moments pass and no more words fill in the space between us. Just the sound of breathing, and as if a dance we breathe together. I break the silence.
        “Would either of you like some hot chocolate?” My words sound stupid. Like it would be a normal thing to say after the words your dad is dead. Shit, what are normal things to say after your dad is dead? They both shake their heads. When I was six in 1957 and I heard your dad is dead for the first time, it was followed by, “Do you want to go to Disneyland?”
       Missy, your father just placed a rifle in the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing his brains and your whole world to shit! What are you going to do next? Even at six the words sounded silly. But I repeat my question about hot chocolate again, shaking my own head. Shit. Even with practice I don’t know what words should come next.
       No, they don't want any damn hot chocolate. I make it anyway. I want to see my hands move. I want to swallow, and breathe. I want to draw air deep inside me. At six I went to Disneyland. I rode the Peter Pan ride and believed the neon-painted ping-pong balls were really stars, and that I was in heaven. It wasn’t Peter Pan I was looking for, it was my dad—maybe they had taken me to Disneyland to see my dad. He would tell me everything would be okay. My dad couldn't be dead; I loved him too much. I finished the amusement ride but refused to leave my seat. Tiny six-year-old fingers couldn't be pried from the safety bar, and after a little whispering, the doors opened again to Never, Never Land for a second trip. I wasn’t a bad girl, I just couldn’t get up. I couldn’t find my dad and everything else was moving way too fast.
       I turn to the kitchen and notice how dirty it is. I chide myself, fingering a dust ball. “I’m a better housekeeper then this,” I tell no one. I spray wood cleaner on cabinets that aren’t mine, I wash prints off windows that haven’t been cleaned in years. I hate living in an apartment. I guess our divorce came at a bad time economically as well as emotionally. The house we owned together was worth twenty percent less than when we bought it 11 years earlier. Dan smiled when he handed me the papers. “It's all yours, kid,” was all he said. It took one year and three price reductions to sell it. Papers were all I walked away with at closing. Breaking even was at least something, I told myself. But this apartment was cramped, and my goal was a townhouse, something I could manage. No more lawns, fence repair, or spa maintenance. We needed a simpler life, or at least I did.
       Chris walks down the hall towards the room he temporarily shares with Cocoa. He had been in favor of the apartment, he told me it would be big enough for the moment; being at school, he’d only need a little space, so a third bedroom would really be a waste. Within seconds he's back, jacket zipped, holding a map. Dan's road Atlas, the one Dan used for years when looking for the place that would make him happy, was folded open to reveal the state of North Carolina.
       “Where are you going?” I ask. Crystal-clear blue eyes are piercing as he answers.
       “I'm going to get my father.”
       I can't take it in. “What?”
       He repeats. “None of the answers are here. You and Cocoa stay, I'm going to bring my dad home. I’ll be back in a few days.”
       “Chris, it’s raining.” Shit, I can't keep it together. Shitty, rainy, cold night, and he's heading out in a burnt-out Chevy Cavalier to bring his father home? “You can’t take your car on a trip that far!”        “I’m not. I’ll take the Maxima. The other car is still here when you two need to go out.”
       “What do you mean bring him home? Are you going to prop him up in the front seat?” Even I’m startled by the tinge of anger in my own question.
       He stops with the faintest hint of a smile. “No…he can drive if he wants.”

       Cocoa suddenly shrieks, “Wait! Chris, I'm coming too!” She startles me and I catch my breath. She reaches for Chris as he winces. But her color is back. It’s the moment it's all right to touch. I wrap my arms around them both with muscle. I hold what's more precious than air. I breathe against Chris’ chest, taking in the scent of Cocoa’s hair. Isn’t it like him, the glue, the lead. I shake my head.
       “Chris, we're all going,” I answer, as I look up into his face. “We're all going. Give me some time to shut things down, find a spot for Tom. Give me two minutes. I’ve got to call work, two minutes and we'll all go together.” He pulls away, then protests.
       “Mom, I need to do this, this is about me and Dad. I need to do this alone.” Locked in my arms, I tell him my truth.
       “Chris, you can’t leave us here, Cocoa and I need you as much as you need us. Chrissy, we’re in this life together.” He nods, as tears sweep out from under his fringed lids. I feel his muscles relax, and he takes Cocoa’s seat on the couch as she darts to her room to pack. I guess these are the right words after all. The words that are said after your Dad is dead.

       Your Dad is dead, and now we’re going to get him.