The Father-In-Law

Your head already felt like a suitcase that was overflowing and couldn’t be zipped. You didn’t need one more thing to stuff in there. But that had to be his footsteps, it just had to be.

“B, is that you? What do you want?” you shout upstairs. Why was he here? HOW was he here? Was he in his first room, trying to find something, his crooked glasses he would constantly tape together, or that misplaced document that Emre had been looking for? You didn’t even know if you believed in ghosts. You were taught all your life that halloween is bad, ghosts aren’t real except for the Holy Ghost, Amen. 

You truly don’t have time for this. You don’t have time for a ghost in the house! You have three small kids, a language to learn and a husband to please. Don’t even get started on the house, you’ve already given up on that. You grasp for something - anything - that will make this feel less real. You remember reading once that sweeping away bad spirits is a tradition somewhere. Was that in China? Yes, a Chinese New Year tradition. But it’s October now, less than a year since your father-in-law passed, and it feels wrong to think of him like that - like a spirit to be swept away. You call upstairs again, “BURAK, I SAID: IS THAT YOU??”

Irritated, you refold the pile your four year old knocked over as Batman earlier that morning before preschool. You roll your eyes as you aggressively fold, thinking he would be upstairs, stumbling around, trying to plug in the computer and watch his old Turkish soaps. When he was alive he only ever left his room to eat in the kitchen (never the table!), or to drive somewhere to help someone else, but never help you, never your husband Emre, never your kids. Why did he live here again? “It’s complicated,” Emre always said. And you, the ever supportive American wife, just went with it, no questions asked, secretly relieved he was tucked away at times, trying desperately not to resent that it was him living here and not one of your own parents, an ocean away in Tennessee. That’s how you felt for a long time, anyway. Before he got sick.

As you carry the pile of Batman’s pajamas and socks to its rightful place you hear a loud clunk. This time something fell from down here on the first floor, closer to you, the office it sounded like. “Shit, not again,” you mutter. “Of course he’s knocking something over. Classic Burak. Couldn’t just do a normal haunting, could you?”

You slowly set the clothes down, and creep to the hallway. You stare at the now office door, his old room. The room you and Emre moved him down to after he was diagnosed and couldn’t go up the stairs anymore. What fell this time? you think. It was a loud bang and now your head is reeling. He usually knocked over small things, a book here, a picture frame there. “It’s because you’re a hoarder,” Emre had joked. “We have too many things, of course shit is going to fall over.” 

The first time you mentioned to him that his father was here with us, as something “else” now, that you heard him when you were upstairs cleaning, he told you, “Of course you suddenly felt cold, upstairs IS colder.” No, this was different. Another time you tried to convince him was when the alarm kept beeping incessantly but only right by his old door. “Time to change the BAT-TER-Y,” your husband just sang.

You tried to tell him yet again last week. “Your dad is here. He’s…he’s in the kitchen,” you had whispered. Emre looked up from his phone, his eyes tired. “About time he showed up for dinner,” he joked. “I’m serious,” you admitted. “Jenn knows a medium, maybe she could come over?” Emre was even more agitated by this notion. “Scam!” He went back to his phone, cussing in Turkish under his breath. You didn't catch every word but heard "Baba" a few times, understanding it was directed towards his dad and his own unresolved grief.

But you can't stop. Not with the footsteps you keep hearing. Not with things out of place in the kitchen. Not with the stray cat who keeps scratching at the door of the house and even managed to get in once. It’s too much and you don’t know what to do.

Do you check? Do you dare open the door to see what just fell? You’re a grown up, you can do this, you tell yourself. Yet you remain frozen in the hall. You muster up every ounce of courage you have to check inside the room. Your heart pounds in your chest as you slowly reach for the door handle. The door creaks open and you slowly peek inside. There it is. The chair. On the floor. You quickly close the door and back away from the room, the same place he passed on from this realm, as they say. You don’t know what to believe.

You want to scream, but all that comes out is a heavy sigh as you come to terms with your true feelings. You never thought you'd miss him. Never thought you would care if he moved on. But things happened so fast and now here you are, chasing him, now a ghost apparently, wondering why the three of you couldn’t resolve things towards the end. You’re disappointed that Emre will never get honest answers to the burning questions he never asked, sad your children couldn’t get one last hug and frustrated he still keeps moving your tea and hiding your coffee. So many missed chances eat at you as you take a deep breath and slowly fall to the floor, trying to ground yourself before you confront his ghost, for real this time.

“I don’t know how to do this with you - dead or alive!” you finally let out with your eyes closed and a slight shake in your voice, glad the kids are in school right now. “I know it’s you, and I know - “ you swallow the lump in your throat. “I know things ended suddenly. I’m sorry for that. We thought we had more time.” 

You stop and look around, giving him a chance to respond, somehow surprised by the silence. He was always so stubborn, always interrupting you. Now the silence haunts you. HE haunts you. In that quiet moment, you realize something. You forgive him. Or maybe you’re just letting go of the anger. Either way, you feel the weight shift, like a long-forgotten burden lifting from your chest. Annoyance now turned regret, as you process your grief it’s your chance to clear the air once and for all. You continue to speak out, feeling that he is there and can somehow hear you. 

“Why are you still here? Is it to say goodbye, or something else? Well I didn’t get to say what I needed to say. I'm going to say it in English, too, so just bear with me. It’s ok, Burak. Everyone is fine. And…I’m sorry, for everything. For always getting on to you about towel drying the dishes with that stupid old rag. For yelling at you that time you broke the crock pot. For arguing about leaving cups on the table. No wonder you stopped eating with us.” You offered a half smile, trying to hold back tears. “And I forgive you, I’m sure Emre does, too. He just needs a little more time. And some answers from you, if you can somehow show him, since you never had the chance. Please just…be at peace now. Be at peace.”

Suddenly, you hear a soft scraping from the room. You jump up, your back against the wall, terrified. It sounds like fingernails scratching, long and slow, and you cover your ears until it's over, still in shock. The scraping stops. The only sound now is your heart beating out of your chest and your rapid breaths. You slow your breathing down and bring your hands in front of you. When you finally feel ready, you slowly tiptoe closer to the room. Your sweaty hand opens the door again, more slowly this time. You peek inside and stare at the chair, your breath shallow and mouth agape.

His chair is sitting by the window again, perfectly positioned as if he were still there, watching the world outside. What just happened? Surprisingly you are no longer afraid. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or heartbroken.

“You’re ok. Everything is going to be ok.”