He Hid Himself in Every Room So I Could Survive Him

They orbit.

They bring food no one wants.

They offer to carry chairs that do not need carrying.

They ask, “How are you doing?” in voices that mean please lie to me if the truth will make me cry in front of everyone.

Ellen came with her husband, David, and two of the grandkids.

Mark came alone because his second divorce had finally become official in January and we were all still learning not to ask him where somebody was.

Luis from next door stopped by with tomatoes and ended up staying because Frank wanted to argue with him about whether the Cardinals had any chance at all this year.

Frank had good hours and bad hours.

That afternoon started as a good one.

He sat at the table.

Ate half a sandwich.

Corrected Mark on the porch rail.

Asked Ellen’s daughter how school was going.

Mocked David’s new mustache.

For almost forty-five minutes, if you squinted hard enough, it looked like an ordinary Sunday.

Then Ellen said, “Mom, where do you keep the ice packs?”

And I answered, “Top freezer shelf, left side.”

She opened the freezer.

And there it was.

One of Frank’s notes.

Taped right to the lid of a plastic container.

This one needs more thyme. Don’t let Nancy pretend otherwise.

Ellen froze.

Then she peeled it off and read it again.

“What is this?”

My stomach dropped.

Frank looked up from the table.

Mark reached for the container and found another note underneath it.

Eat this one first. Good for rough days.

The kitchen got quiet in a way I had been dreading without naming.

Ellen turned slowly toward Frank.

Then toward me.

“How many are there?”

Frank took a sip of water.

“A few.”

“A few?”

I stepped in before he could answer.

“It’s fine.”

Mark was already opening cabinets.

Of course he was.

His hands moved when his nerves did.

Within a minute he found the flashlight note.

Then the batteries.

Then the list by the medicine cabinet.

Ellen found the tabs in the folder drawer.

David, looking like he desperately wanted to evaporate, pretended to become fascinated by the paper towels.

Luis stared at the floor like a gentleman.

The grandkids were in the den, thank God.

Ellen held a yellow note between two fingers as if it might disintegrate.

“Dad.”

Frank met her eyes.

“What is all this?”

He answered plainly.

“I’m trying to make things easier.”

Something moved across Ellen’s face then.

Not just sadness.

Something messier.

Anger, maybe.

Or panic looking for a cleaner outfit.

“This is not easier,” she said.

Frank said nothing.

“This is you planning your own disappearance.”

Frank said nothing.

“And leaving Mom with a house full of reminders and instructions and—” Her voice cracked. “And chores.”