Mike Tsui thought he was a god. He tried to prove it to his friends by jumping off a bridge into traffic. Couple speeding sedans and a minivan shouldn’t be a problem for a god, but Mike wasn’t a god.

This was all in the newspaper, but it wasn’t in his obituary. The obituary stuck to the facts: Bright high school student with a future in wood shop. Or maybe the facts were fudged, too.

The real Mike Tsui vanished. The guy whose body burst in a pink cloud on the highway was hardly remembered for who he really was. Even the photos used to commemorate his life looked nothing like him.

But every year on the day of his death, I do my best Mike Tsui. On holidays. On birthdays. Sometimes just on random days, too. I dial his home, and inside my gut I feel the busted molecules of Mike Tsui take shape.

The phone rings. Who’s going to pick up? It’s a game of chance.

It rings again.

It rings a third time, like a bomb jangling in the Tsui home.

“Hello.” It’s the voice of his father. One of my favorites.

“Dad? It’s me, Mike. I’m scared,” I say.

I am an artist, invoking a visceral response. I yank the phone away from my face. The father’s response is the most beautiful. It’s what I chase. Our phones should pop in a dust cloud from all the passion. But what’s important is that I force him to remember the real Mike Tsui, to cut through all those stupid false memories he built around his pain. Fathers are often the most open to my work.

“I was right, dad,” I say. “I am a god. I am.”

And I’m not lying. I am.

—

I’ve been keeping Mike Tsui alive for five years. I’ve gotten to know his family well. Mike’s father got a new job last year. It’s a great job, upper management, office, company car. But something was missing, so I called him at work to congratulate him.

Mike’s sister graduated with an advanced degree in archaeology. Not sure what her plan is, because I’m the one who really exhumes the past. I’m a cave painting in the darkest recesses. Pottery shards embedded deep in her brain.

Sometimes I feel like they’re my family, and they kind of are. I share in their ups and downs. I’m right there with them. Rooting for them. Several times a year I put Mike Tsui back together again. I never want them to forget that feeling.

—

Jodi Hicks had a big imagination. She loved to play in worlds other than this one. Tea parties on the moon. A classroom at the bottom of the ocean. But her father’s handgun had consequences in this world. Her older sister found her in the basement. It was obvious she wasn’t playing possum.

Phone rings in their home. I infiltrate their bubble. I’m in their sanctuary.

Second ring. It’s bait. It’s a trap.

“Hello,” says the sister.

Jodi Hicks reassembles bit by bit. Bone by bone. Matter by matter.

“Sis, wanna play with me in the basement?”

No response from the older sister. The line is cut. Not everybody appreciates art. I bring Jodi back. I elevate her to a former state. I dredge up feelings from the blackest spots. But the sister doesn’t respond. Maybe there were no feelings to begin with.

—

Jodi Hicks is one of my new ones. The newspaper does all my research for me. I call Jodi’s friends from the elementary school, and Jodi materializes on the spot. “What’s the homework?” “Let’s walk to school together.” “Wanna spend the night?” Jodi has many friends. I’m a shepherd here. Herding friendships. Tending wreckage.

I’ve been at this for a long time. I have many mothers and fathers and siblings. And now I have the Hicks. I have whole networks of families. I reassemble them all. I bring everything back from the blackest, coldest abyss.

—

At home, I ask if there’s anything good on TV tonight, but my father-in-law interrupts. “There’s a dog barking,” he says to my wife. “Silence it.” My wife clears the table without saying anything. There’s a feeling that I’m not part of this family, that I’m not even here. It’s totally different with my other families. It’s times like these when I think about the Tsuis and the Hicks.

When it finally happens I hope somebody keeps me alive. It’d be nice for my father-in-law to get a call from me. Would he scream? Would he feel anything? Is there anything here to rebuild? I don’t know. All I know is that it’d be nice to be remembered. It’d be nice to know I was here once.

—

Ryan P. Kennedy lives in Chicago.