In the midst of the pandemic, I asked Mom if she wanted me to come back. I was tired of instant noodles and the ceaseless Ithaca cold. She said she was sick and I said I knew and I got on the next train covered in latex and a black wool coat. I remember walking up the front stairs and having a thought I’d never had before: our home looked as if a child had drawn it; square, four windows; two stacked on top of each other, brick red topped by a triangle roof, the door smack in the middle which for some reason was blue.

Anyway, she’s dead now. Found her in the hall at the top of the stairs, inches where I was halfheartedly scrubbing a black sticky film from the banister. If I work too hard, plaster rains from the water damaged ceiling and makes my scalp itchy. There are trash bags full of moldy clothes, napkins, painter’s paint and blackened dust. The worst of it is the urine from the cat litter that no one changes.

We need more paint, my Dad said, coming from his room. His Polish accent hadn’t waned since he’d been back. Dad’s almost the width of the door frame; his salt and pepper hair brushes the brown spotted crown molding, sweating so much his nipples don’t protrude through his shirt. Thirty minutes tops, he explained.

He loved little lies; we both knew the round trip to the hardware store was an hour; it was the only place we’d risk going. Whenever Dad asked for help he meant he wanted an attendant. I would stand there holding screws or tape or paint brushes while Dad did the work. Bored, I’d give suggestions; hold the board this way or screw into plaster that way. We’d fight until Dad did it my way, proving me wrong, bringing me to the verge of tears, holding down remarks I really wanted to say under my tongue. I haven’t forgiven him for not being there when she died, arriving only in time for the funeral. I don’t think he ever saw her body.

I’m busy, I said, showing him my blackened hands. It seemed to be enough. He left without a word.

Now that he’s gone, I don’t have to pretend to be busy. I went into his room and dove onto his bed. He’s always had the best bed; perfectly soft and taut, a cloud on box springs. I spread my arms out like Christ. Fuck my hands, I thought, wiping them on a GoPro manual from a crumpled pile of manuals and packaging. Dad’s clothes were littered around his suitcase; unclear if they were coming out or going back in.

The drawer on his nightstand was ajar. I’d often go through it while he was gone. Never since he’d been back. Though we were cleaning everything out, it seemed like fair game.

Sifting through the drawer, I found mostly papers: Mom’s medical bills, mortgage payments, statements about Mom’s 401k. This was, as we’d come to call it, the “estate.” The deed to the house, in Mom’s name alone. Dad’s passport. Some credit card debt he’d racked up on the Costco card. A rubber thing that looked like a condom minus a bag. A business card that said PTSD specialization dated 1998. Lots of coins.

I felt something hard and metallic and my heart dropped. A gun, I thought, pulling out a Rolex. It had three watch faces on it, all arrested in time. I almost dropped it, it was so heavy.

Fuck, I thought. It was probably a fifty thousand dollar piece. I couldn’t believe his greed. Not only was he here for the inheritance, but he’d come back for the watch. He could have sold it, taken some of the burden off her care.

I want to say I weighed the consequences of stealing it, but I didn’t think for a second before I put it in my pocket.

Wading through the trash of the house, I entered my room, the enclosed porch downstairs, attached to the side of the house. Let’s fucking go, I yelled, putting the watch on my wrist and flexing in the mirror like I was a rapper. I stood two inches taller on the clothes and trash below my feet. Hunnid on my wrist, eighty on my wrist, I rapped, recording myself on my phone. The watch was so big on me I’d intermittently have to put my arm down to stop it from sliding towards my elbow.

I sent the video to my friends. Lmao, they chorused. I felt guilty for flexing, like I’d been a grave robber, like I’d been my father. Is it real? one friend asked.

I tried to set the watch but the hands wouldn’t budge. Obviously I wouldn’t know how to control such opulence, which made me wonder how my Dad did. He’s a beast, he farts when we eat. He taught me to swear. I wondered who he wore the watch with, how he came into possession of it. How had we struggled to care for him when he lost his delivery job, how he lay in his bed every day until he left.

I cranked the winder as hard as I could. The more muscles I used, the more I wanted it to be real. I pulled and pulled until it snapped. The crystal fell on the floor. I picked up what didn’t sink into the trash: a hand, some gears. When I picked up the dial, a sticker fell off, revealing the brass underneath, oxidized by time.

Oh, I said, holding the carcass.

I couldn’t hold back the tears. I cried knowing I couldn’t ever ask him what it was or how he got it. He’d have to admit to the fraud, and I’d have to admit I’d stolen. I looked for the other hand, but it was buried in the trash. The only way I’d ever hold it again was throwing it out. I’d created another secret between us, one more thing I couldn’t know about him.

I thought about the before, how when he immigrated, with my Mom, after he got his first paycheck, he must have gone to Canal Street and bought the watch with the most faces. It was probably the first time he’d felt American — that he could have hope and a house and a wife and a fence and family. Maybe he’d always wanted that. A home if you will.

I picked up my mattress, dragging it through the living room, up the stairs, over the clothes and napkins and papers and urine and paint, into my childhood room, now fully white. Ripping the painter’s paper taped to the floor, I placed the mattress under the painted-over stars that I told my Dad I’d taken off, brown with age, that used to glow, that I used to pray to for better school days, where my bed used to be before all of this.

Lying down, staring into ceaseless purity, I waited for the sound of the car backing into the driveway. I’d help out, I’d be better, I thought. I’d do him the favor.