A black and white photograph of my father and his brother in their early 20s sits in my dad’s office. Always clean-cut, my father’s blond hair is trimmed close to his head. His younger brother, Michael, towers over him, brown hair slicked back. The contrast between them is stark, though their matching blue eyes and lopsided smiles tell you they’re brothers.
My father doesn’t often discuss his younger and only brother, who passed away about 24 years ago. I didn’t understand this until my family sat down to watch FX’s The Bear. The show follows Carmen Berzatto as he takes over his brother Mikey’s Chicago restaurant after Mikey dies. “Carmy” must rebuild the business while facing his loss.
My parents, two siblings, and I cringed in our family room when Mikey’s death was first mentioned in the pilot; all eyes tried and failed not to look at my father, who only cleared his throat. We returned our eyes to the screen and continued the dance of nondiscussion.
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I kept wondering if I should turn off the TV — until I heard my father laugh.
When Carmy’s restaurant caters a birthday party, a family friend approaches him and says, “Carmy? I thought you killed yourself.” “Nope,” he replies, “that was my brother.” My father erupted in laughter at the exchange, causing my family to jump. Usually, nothing tends to elicit more than a loud exhalation from his nose. We took this as permission to continue watching.
Ten hours later, we finished the first season.
(Spoiler alert: If you haven’t watched the show yet, cue it up and come back to this later.) The season concludes with Carmy opening a note from Mikey containing the family’s spaghetti recipe. When Carmy cracks open one of the tomato cans Mikey had left behind, he finds wadded-up cash buried inside. A frenzied scramble by the whole kitchen staff to open every single can ensues.
The scene brought me back to a sweltering July day when my family waded through our own tomato sauce.
It was last summer, and we were tasked with cleaning out my grandparents’ house to get it ready to go on the market. In my uncle’s room, we found well-worn sweatshirts, guitars with broken strings, even the toothbrush his mother could never bring herself to throw out. We brought these items to our father and let him sit with them.
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After about an hour, my siblings and I joined him outside. We huddled together for a few moments despite the stifling heat. This seemed like a breakthrough. Dad had finally let himself remember his brother and now he’d be ready to talk about him.
I still believed this a few months later when a neighbor recognized me while on a walk near my house. She had known my uncle. She had letters from him, she mentioned, if my dad wanted them. The tattoo of a sun on her arm reminded me of my uncle’s tattoo — a large Celtic cross on his ankle, which I’d glimpsed in a photo.
I ran back home with ignorant confidence. I told my father about the letters, but he brushed the gesture aside.
I did not know, then, how to persuade him that this was his spaghetti recipe. I understood at that moment there would never be anything we could do to take away my father’s pain. Watching Carmy grieve, I’ve realized that my father’s silence does not indicate lack of grief, but the depth of it.
Though we finished the first season of The Bear that day on the couch (and binged the second season in similar fashion), my father’s journey is not over. I cannot force letters into his hands. I can only wait for the moment he wants to wade through that tomato sauce.
Season Three is just beginning.
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, you are not alone. Dial 988 or 1-800-273-8255 for the Lifeline. Text HOME to 741741. Visit 988lifeline.org or nami.org.
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Meghan Keefe is a recent graduate of Boston College, now living in Chicago. Send comments to [email protected]. TELL YOUR STORY. Email your 650-word unpublished essay on a relationship to [email protected]. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.