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emptiness of their Palm Pilots and SUVs and baggy jeans? Look around, Mom. Generalized grief is a fleeting emotion, like lust. It’s a trend, just some weak shared moment in the culture, like the final episode of some TV show everybody watches. It’s weightless. You wake up the next day and wonder when the next disaster is scheduled.
    “But real grief…oh, God.” He cocked his head and stared at his mother. “Real grief weighs on you like you can’t imagine. The death of a father…is the most profound thing I’ve ever experienced.” Edgar’s eyes seemed to be tearing up. “It’s hard to get out of bed. And you want me to take a test? Play softball? Are you kidding? There are times when I can barely breathe. I can’t…get over it. And I don’t want to. The only way to comprehend something like this is to go through it. Otherwise, it’s just a number. Three thousand? Four thousand? How do you grieve a number?”
    His voice was a whisper. “So…yes…I have chosen to focus my grief on one individual. On the death of my father.” He shrugged and looked down at the carpet. “And you know, frankly, I guess I expected a little more support from you.”
    “I…” Carla looked from Steve to Remy and back. “I…”
    Remy squeezed his eyes as tight as they would go, and then openedthem again. Still here . Except for Steve, who apparently sensed that the potential for humor had faded, and backed carefully out of the room.
    Edgar wasn’t finished. “Ask yourself this: what separates me from some kid whose father actually died that day?”
    “The fact that I’m alive?” Remy asked. Even to him, his voice sounded like it was coming from another room.
    “Fair enough,” Edgar said, without meeting Remy’s eyes. “Okay, now let’s take that kid, the one who actually lost his father, but is somehow coping by getting consolation from his girlfriend or from drinking or from writing poems. Are you going to tell him he isn’t grieving enough ? Are you gonna tell some poor kid doing his best that he should feel worse about the death of his father?”
    “No…” Carla shook her head. “No. Of course not.”
    “Then don’t tell me I shouldn’t be devastated by the death of my father just because he isn’t dead! I mean…Goddamn it, Mom. All things considered, I think I’m doing pretty well…. Do you know there are kids out there getting high every day? Kids selling drugs. Is that what you want me to do?”
    “No, of course not.” Carla started crying; this had always been her deepest fear for her child, that he would use drugs. “We don’t want that. Do we, Brian?”
    Remy just stared straight ahead. Honestly, he’d rather have Edgar smoke a little weed and acknowledge that Remy was alive, but he knew better than to say so.
    “I’m sorry, honey,” Carla said. “I’m sorry we got divorced and I’m sorry about your father.”
    “Thank you.” Edgar straightened the black armband. “Thank you. That means a lot to me. It really does.”
    They all stared at their shoes for a moment, and then Carla held out her hands. Edgar stood, walked over, and melted into his mother’s arms. They cried together. Remy watched them from across the roomand found he could imagine another life in which he’d never met either of them. Carla looked up at Remy then and wiped her eyes. “Well, Brian. I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell him your news.”
    “I suppose,” Remy said.
    Carla put her hands on Edgar’s cheeks. “Honey, your father has got a new assignment at work. And he’s going to be gone a lot. In fact, he’s taking a trip very soon. I know this is a bad time, with you so upset over his death, but he’ll be back. He promises. Don’t you, Brian?”
    “Yes,” Remy said. “I promise.”
    Edgar looked up at his father, and Remy worked to place those eyes, and then it hit him. When Edgar was a little boy, you couldn’t get him out of the tub. He’d spend hours in there, lying on his