I love my four-year-old son, I honestly do. But lately, he has scared the crap out of me. He has wedged a deep fear into my soul. Now, before you jump to judging me, allow me to explain. My wife and I welcomed her parents into our home about six years ago. Gramps and Grammy were both in their mid-sixties and not doing so well at taking care of themselves. We did not want them in a senior care facility.

Everything was going fine up to last Tuesday. That evening, I stood at my son’s bedroom door and watched him kneel at his bed and pray. “Dear Lord, please bless Mommy, Daddy, and Grammy.” He paused, looked up at the ceiling, then added, “And goodbye to Gramps.”

Naturally, I was dumbfounded. Why goodbye to Grandpa? Gramps had been doing fine despite his seldom bouts with dementia. It wasn’t like Gramps had been wondering off or anything. Just a few times forgetting why he went into a particular room or where he placed something. And now here was my son, Nolan, saying goodbye to Gramps in a prayer. I wanted to ask why, but figured it could wait until morning.

When morning arrived, I heard Grammy scream from behind their bedroom door. Her husband of forty years was dead. It wasn’t easy for me to sit at the kitchen table and not drill Nolan. But I held my tongue. My wife, Grammy, and I had to deal with a horrible situation.

The funeral came and went, leaving us with a void. Each night Nolan said his prayers and each night I stood in his doorway. He said his prayers without a further goodbye until two nights ago.

“Dear Lord, please bless Mommy, Daddy, and…” Nolan went silent and looked up at the ceiling for a good ten seconds. Then he turned his head back to return to his prayer. “And goodbye to Grammy.”

Yes, I was thinking the same as you are now. Grammy? Will she be dead in the morning? I watched Nolan climb into bed, pull his covers up to his chest, where he turned and smiled at me. “Goodnight, Daddy.”

It so happens the next day was Saturday, and I always rise late on the weekends, but not this time. I hardly slept at all. Several times during the night, I looked in on Grammy. Each time, she was snoring and appeared to be okay. Come morning, I rushed into her room. She was standing near the foot of the bed, half naked. She yelled a few choice words; I apologized and turned to walk out. She sighed and clicked her tongue in disgust; I suppose. Before I cleared her doorway, I heard a loud thump. Yes, the thud was her body landing on the floor. Dead as dead can get.

My wife cried all weekend.

Come Sunday night, I stood in my son’s doorway and watched him drop to his knees. “Dear Lord, please bless Mommy and…” His eyes turned to the ceiling again. I held my breath. “And goodbye to Daddy.”

My knees buckled, my legs shook, my lungs screamed for air even as I sucked in gulps of it. I braced myself against the doorframe and glared at the little fellow as he climbed into bed. He pulled the covers up to his chest, where he slowly turned his head and smiled at me. You little shit, I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. Maybe because I suddenly believed he had a connection with God or the Grim Reaper. Either one was more power than I could ever hope to have.

I walked gingerly over to him. My goodness, I didn’t want to upset him in any way whatsoever. “Son, why did you say goodbye to me in your prayer?”

“I don’t know, Daddy.” Once more, he turned his gaze toward the ceiling. “When I looked up there…” he paused and pointed a finger upward. “I felt I had to say goodbye. That’s all.”

I took a step back and stared at the ceiling. Painted eggshell white, no cracks, no signs of any supernatural being clinging to his ceiling fan. All looked fine. I scolded myself for even glancing at it. I hugged my son, long and hard, and kissed him goodnight. “I love you, son. I honestly, truly love you! Goodnight.”

Come morning, I was surprised and delighted to find myself breathing. Nolan was wrong. Or was he? Grammy hadn’t died during the night. She hadn’t dropped dead, no pun intended, until after she rose from the bed and began dressing. I pinched myself and looked at my reflection in the dresser mirror. I looked alive, felt alive. I had to be alive!

I kissed my wife and son goodbye and said I had to go to work. My wife was upset with me for not taking bereavement leave for Grammy. I explained I would work a double shift and then get a couple of days off. She did that click of the tongue her mother liked to do and grunted. I kissed her once more on the cheek and hurried out the door. Double shift indeed: I had no plans to return home until after midnight.

I worked four hours over. The other four hours I killed, pun intended, at Compassionate Bar & Grill. Yes, that was the real name of the joint, and boy was I in need of some compassion.  

I didn’t drink in excess, but sure was tempted. Every so often, I would pinch myself and engage in conversation with the bartender or a nearby patron, hoping I wouldn’t die in the middle of a discussion.

I walked through the front door of my house at precisely 12:01 a.m., feeling pretty good in more ways than one. Daddy hadn’t died! I was prepared for my wife the moment she met me in the kitchen. “Wow, honey, I sure had a tough day at work. So good to be home.” I reached out to pull her to my chest. She took a step back as if I reeked of alcohol. No doubt I did.

“You think you had a tough day!” she screamed, throwing her hands up to the air like she was dancing with the Holy Spirit. “You had a tough day? Let me tell you, buster…” she refilled her lungs. “I have been here alone dealing with the death of my parents. And this afternoon I found the mailman lying dead on our doorstep!”