heaven's postal service

cw: implied death, mental health, substance abuse

The drunkard, the angsty teen, the depiction of an angel thriving inside of a picture frame, the bratty child, the squeamish toddler, and the go-nowhere-generation very much adult (or so he justifies) 25-year-old, all sit at the rustic now worn-down mahogany dining table with very-imagined, pleasant silence...

That, a damned fantasy; the only silence they’d ever receive is one of awkwardness, haughty glares, and bombastic side eyes. It hadn’t been all that bad, four, distant years ago. As of now, the most feasible solution remained only to stay separate, which had been (unfortunately) ruled out. Why, may you ask? Oh! For they were ‘a family,’ avoiding potential calls from child service shit said to take the children away due to their ‘parental neglections,’ and in turn, give you an orange jumpsuit and a pair of connecting metallic bracelets. Next thing you know, you see a person with the most dignified slick hair and shiny monocles glaring of distaste and apprehension at the door of your house, making demands all of a sudden (trespassing, if you will).

Though, another reason for its ineffectiveness was a silent promise made by both Greg and Mr. Jais, the adults of the family. The men who hadn’t had any biological connection to Mrs. Jais (previously Mrs. Piolet, and even prior to that, Ms. Li). Alas, they were the only ones to see Mrs. Jais in her dying moments. That indeed, Mrs. Jais wanted for the family to stay one (though she was cut off in her last words to the dismay of both, it was well understood of her expectation). Not only but also if done otherwise (which Mr. Jais would’ve happily complied to, sending all but Greg to foster care) Mrs. Jais’s ghost would haunt him for the rest of his years before his hellish departure with her sweet, susceptible smiles. Not that she hadn’t done so for Mr. Jais already.

The tension in the air was interrupted by a frank statement, “I’ll warm the broth once more...” by Greg, the 25-year-old. Mr. Jais sarcastically chuckled, “Sure, Hobo; all you’re good for anyway,” under his reeking breath. Greg’s gotten used to it by now. Fiona, the middle-schooler, scrunches her face up and out of nowhere starts tearing up, otherwise known as the ‘crybaby,’ of the family. She’s joined by Haru, who’s now hungry-sleepy-bored... one of those three. Kenji’s throwing a fit, having his crossed arms and red cheeks evidently expressing his fiery as a discontinued public, maturing elementary schooler. Mr. Jais, ‘head of the household’, sits there, doozy after the 3^rd glass today. He’d obviously broken the first promise he made to Greg, not to drink in front of the children. Three is acceptable though, more on the lower range per his mental convulsions. Greg’s... fed up.

Cursing under his breath, Greg quickly hides any evidence of the spill that just occurred as he walks into the kitchen. He’d hoped that if Mr. Jais had heard, he’d been too drunk to give a shit about a particular noise. After wiping away the countertop that had had liquid all over its marble surface, he gazed back at the dining table (a considerable distance away) to ensure his relief, in hopes not to attract Murphy and his damned law. Not that it was Murphy’s fault anyway; his real problem lay with Mr. Jais. Mr. Jais’s current preoccupation lay in his priority however (or rather Greg’s emphasized request) to stay awake for the duration of the evening, or at the bare minimum, dinner- Greg’s starting to regret asking such. Greg’s overseen groceries for the time being now, more urgently working his part-time shift with integral purpose enlisting for any supposed opportunities he finds. If you thought Mr. Jais, the drunkard, mind you, took care of the cooking, I’d escort you to the doors of reality with no hesitation. Greg wouldn’t have missed that opportunity for a lifetime, either.

He, Greg, I mean, is mostly in charge of such. ‘If not ‘I,’ who would,’ he’d prefer to put it. It wasn’t Fiona, Kenji, nor Haru’s problem that they hadn’t the fortune to have a loving environment with both parental guardians. At the beginning of Mr. Jais's inevitable relapse, Greg had taken much of his frustration out in efforts to purposefully spice up Mr. Jais’s meals to an unfavorable degree, but he’d soon accustomed himself to the occasional grunts of satisfaction that Mr. Jais would spurt out on times he’d ‘proclaimed his soberness,’ and resignment to his past habits and whatnot. After having taken up this much responsibility from Mr. Delusional, Greg hadn’t the slightest mind to take on another one. And yet, here he was, having zoned out into the bags of groceries he’d gotten with his last savings, and how little there was in comparison to before when Mrs. Piolet started to meet Mr. Jais more and more often. Almost to an unfathomable stage where Greg had started to doubt their friendship’s length. Right, he’d be.

The relationship Greg and Mr. Jais shared was quite... intricate. Fabrics of memories long affected the once stable bond they’d had. Even I, writing this, doubt of its existence but must put faith in fellow Greg and his words. Trust me; I would've asked Greg to elaborate on his claim that things were, as he’d put it, ‘pleasant.’ Greg’s a peculiar guy, in his head half the time and passive-aggressively disappointed in everyone around him in the other. Nevertheless, I liked Greg. Nice guy. I think you’d like him too. Mr. Jais... he, however, he’s something else. I can empathize with him though- losing the love of your life just like that-- (don’t question how- being single from the dawn of time) ... it’s rough. His continuous derailing of daily function itself is significantly harmful though. His addiction’s gotten worse time and time again, and by far, the period nearing her death day tends to affect him the most. It’s coming around that time (rather, it is this time) and while Greg won’t admit it, he’s particularly worried. That one day, he’ll wake up and he won’t hear a jeering gibe, “Get at it Hobo! Go get a job, go get outta this place, you loafer!” I suppose that was Mr. Jais’s ways of love, or even if it wasn’t, it had become familiar as of now. Nevertheless, I suppose Greg wouldn’t have been able to withstand a day missed of such grown toxicity. Greg wouldn’t admit it though. I think you’d understand that by now.

Maybe, just maybe, things were better when Mrs. Jais had been present. Maybe Mr. Jais had been too madly in love to make any comments about his ‘disgraceful son,’ or that if he’d mentioned such in front of Mrs. Piolet at the time, her impression of him would’ve significantly worsened. Not that it was all that bad, but Mrs. Piolet’s emphasis on moderation while drinking (if not drinking at all) was required for her to even arouse a sense of trust in whomever she’d interact with. Even so, things played out at the universe's command, I suppose. I remember that one time when Mrs. Piolet found Mr. Jais’s hidden storage of drinks he’d scavenged days before.

---

“Stan... uh- where do you keep your appliances?” Mrs. Piolet had asked, holding back her question or rather emphasis on how overwhelmingly distraught the entire kitchen had become ever since Greg started learning to cook. Having pots, pans, spatulas, et cetera- all scattered across the countertop like it itself was alphabet soup was unbearable to Mrs. Piolet. However, she held on to her tiny bits of sanity and called out to middle-aged Stanley Jais, her new neighbor. New’s quite an unfitting word nowadays... they’ve visited each other for at least a month, constantly. Not having seen Mrs. Piolet was concerning; hinting at some misfortune happening to her, a sign of how a mere acquaintance started growing steadily but rather quicker than expected.

Greg didn’t expect it. Half the time, he’d barely give any thought to her recent appearances... Greg would have held his horses and locked himself in his bedroom for all he’d care. He’d understood when to shut up and when not to, which was straightforward at the time in comparison to now: speak when spoken to, otherwise put a sock in it. After Greg was labeled as a ‘below average kid with learning imparities,’ every word Stanley Jais had directed towards Greg was one of snickered hostility, with a side of irritation and more simply put, ‘pissed off.’ And of course, Greg would adopt his father’s ways of passive-aggression aggression. But I digress.

It had been eight in the morning when Mrs. Piolet entered. Her pursed lips at the sign of the door unlocked upon her entry had already hinted at Mr. Jais’s forgetfulness, most likely due to his job’s stress pile. Mr. Jais had been 'sleeping' she presumed; Greg most likely had packed for school himself at a decent age of sixteen. Greg hadn’t bothered to try at school much; Mr. Jais usually never bothered to care due to his loss of faith. Greg had left his report card on the countertop which had had some gravy spilled over from the night before. Beautiful, cursive A’s, all over its contents. He’d hoped that Mr. Jais would look back at it amidst yelling at him for his mess, but he never got to. Mr. Jais, on the other hand, left the groceries on the table, and never left his room for the past two days, only to grab a pint of ice cream (his signature ‘cheat’ food) and make a gallon of coffee to sustain himself.

Having seen the house and its distraught state, Mrs. Piolet almost immediately started to fix up its condition, sorting everything with the utmost care. After sifting through the appliances and food that had indeed needed to be kept in the fridge for its maintenance, she came across the dampened paper. A bit revolting, I won’t hesitate to admit, and she wouldn’t either. I think you understand by now.

And after seeing the As and Bs lined up neatly, she’d almost opened the door to Greg’s room as if he were there, to give him a big hug (which Greg would soon get used to) but was stopped by an unfamiliar ‘clink.’ Its disposition was clear enough; an ironic, sharp contingent of dented, shattered Bud Lights, hiding underneath a crevice of the countertop’s edge, where the rug almost hid it away. Almost. After examining the exterior (mainly in denial) Mrs. Piolet decided to calm herself and not take rash action as the dignified lady she was. Mr. Jais had brought her a lot after Mr. Piolet’s passing, more than Mr. Piolet himself could provide for her to which she was immensely grateful. Even though, the thought arose considering the relationship between the Stanley she knew, and this newfound side to him.

It was in no question to Mrs. Piolet, informally known as Jiu, that Greg would have gotten such into the house; impossible, she deducted. How was she to make sure of Greg’s safety and Stanley’s sanity? By confronting the man himself- if he were to have left the door quite oddly open, he was in the house. Maintaining her composure, she headed towards his room. After knocking to no sound, she discreetly came in to see Mr. Jais, in a decently drunk state, sprawled over his bed like a dead man.

“Stan-”

“Oh— is that you, Jiu… darling, come over and take a seat,” he said, motioning towards his office chair, the only seemingly decent seat to sit on. Slightly taken aback by his usage of wording, Jiu did as he said, looking at him with the glimmer in her eyes that had always shown her emotions, whether she wanted herself read or not.

“Stan, what is this? Talk to me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Piolet’s concerned! Fret not, I have everything- most everything under control… care to join me?” hazily pointing towards an unopened bottle in what seemed to be an endless pile shoved in his nightstand’s drawer.

“Stan.”

“Why are you so rigid, Jiu? Go on, take a sip,” Stanley said, now, starting to crack open the bottle and urging awfully closer to Mrs. Piolet.

If you think Mrs. Piolet was pissed, you’d be very much right. If you thought Mrs. Piolet was slightly uneasy, hesitant, and fearful, you’d be fairly correct. But mind you, Jiu doesn’t give up that easily. She had a strong hand, knowing what she did next. Briskly taking the alcohol out of his hands, she clutched them with newfound strength.

“Come.”

Don’t worry, she wasn’t about to escort themselves out into the wonders of the world with a drunkard left pocket. She escorted him to the living room feeling as though his room gave off unneeded, negative energy. Mr. Jais started to get what’s known as the ‘sleepies’ after a clear sign of the alcohol’s aftereffects kicking in. Mr. Jais didn’t say anything after that. Immediately, as he sat on the living room’s couch, a wave of shuteye overwhelmed him to a degree that he couldn’t say anything anymore. He didn’t remember it, but he’d sleep in Mrs. Piolet’s lap before somehow waking up in his bed, in his tidy room, with one less bottle than he’d previously had.

Later, when Greg would enter and see both adults, she would give him a big hug, but Greg would soon enough understand its context as well as its hidden one. In a way, Greg had known then and there that Mr. Jais needed her, but obviously, didn’t say anything as he wouldn’t dare come off as a marriage counselor or compatibility predictor, much less interested in his father's happenings himself. His position in such was far from that and he wouldn’t dare culture a melodramatic Disney ‘kid-friendly’ (love solves all!) mindset.

It was interesting to see them, though. Further, when Mrs. Piolet was to officially be Mrs. Jais, the events leading up to such didn’t bother Greg as much. He’d grown to like Jiu, far more than Mr. Jais (whose relationship they both shared was still iffy). Missing her even more, Greg gazes back at the soup that he created, the one that Mrs. Piolet taught him in the early stages of her arrivals. She had been the one to introduce him to his… hobby of cooking, which soon he himself had to forcefully carry on. So is the irony of life, Greg surmised.

---

He came back to the table, ignoring the hurling assaults; Mr. Jais had started again. Almost instinctively, he took upon himself one of those unopened bottles, looking at Mr. Jais the way Jiu would. It wouldn’t be the same, they both knew, but somehow this gaze shut Mr. Jais up. The children sitting at the table for the most part understood when not to interfere, these being such moments.

“C’mon, get up.” Mr. Jais mumbled hazily in response but took Greg’s help getting out of the dining room and towards the same couch as before, an antique of their house now. Looking over all the splotches, expecting the couch cushions to lose a spring and pop out as they do in cartoons, Greg hurried over and took a nearby blanket, draping Stanley all over, covering his older frame. He's started to let out whisked sobs now, taking Greg’s hand and falling into yet another one of his trances.

“Jiu… why did you go- why did you leave me? Why couldn't you have stayed longer? No, no, but you're still here! Right, Jiu? Did you move back to your old house, elsewhere? Couldn't you at least have told me... maybe send some mail from time to time...” No response. He’d cry himself to sleep, Greg close to his side. Once unconscious (which didn’t take much time) Greg went back to the table, sitting in his chair and resuming as normal. This was routine, except the room hushed down quite a lot in comparison to most. Fiona seemed much duller in comparison who’d gotten over her moodiness soothing Haru down with numbing caresses. Kenji focused on the aromatics the soup gave off and started eating feeling as though starved, deserving better.

Greg took the bowls of both his and Mr. Jais's and set them off to the side in the refrigerator. Once all the children settled themselves, everything would calm itself down. Weekdays ensured that all the children were sent to their respective grades, daycare being one of them, and it would once again be both him and Mr. Jais, once again as before. Different, though, one heart scratched and another dented in permanent damage.

Once everyone including Mr. Jais had been put to bed in their particular rooms, Greg came back to his own, the room he’d had since 16 years of age, after having moved and met his father’s lover. He has, in a folder packed far away, the paper-lined soggy grades from that time, and the empty Bud Light that Mrs. Piolet- Jiu, had taken from Stanley’s storage. Stanley didn’t know it, Jiu didn’t know that Greg knew, but he’d seen her with it. Late, sleepless nights, she'd gazed back at the bottle wondering if to take a sip. To have the roles flipped, imagining herself in a romantic distraught state as she’d seen Mr. Jais that day.

Greg knew that she’d wondered about Mr. Jais’s reaction if she hadn’t been that mentally capable. Sparse nights when he’d slept once more after their marriage, she’d come to Greg’s room to sit there, observing him, dreaming and enacting such scenes. It was her way of coping.

Writing was his.

---

Dearest Jiu,

Hi. He hasn’t gotten better, worse, since it’s the day of your passing. He misses and loves you dearly, as always. I know you’re looking over him, but I remind you to take care of yourself as well. I’ll make sure he’ll keep up. It’s… hard, but that’s what comes when he’s loved such an intensity.

I… miss you too. What does heaven look like? I know you can’t tell me due to some planetary restrictions, but I doubt you’d mind trying. Maybe you could respond for once? Send a sign, all that stuff- whatever works best for you. Does heaven’s postal service work the same as Earth’s?

Please help me- help him.

Sending love,

Greg