A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents Page 13

  “What should we do?” I finally ask.

  “Well—” Abigail starts, looking into her purse at the ziplock bag: wallet, keys and wedding ring. I follow her stare toward the bag.

  “You can’t be serious,” I say. Abigail shrugs her shoulders.

  “Let’s go in,” Leo blurts, undoing his seat belt and beginning the contortions necessary to get out of the third row.

  “Are you two nuts? We can’t just go in,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt and turning around. Leo kneels between Mateo and the sliding door of the minivan. Mateo stares at him as his little hand rests gently on Leo’s.

  “Look, she’s not here. She’s already at the hospital. We have the keys,” Leo answers, with that shoulder shrug that is supposed to make me feel like the crazy one. The crazy one who doesn’t want to break and enter. I raise up my armrest and turn my body all the way around.

  “Are you trying to get three strikes?” I ask, my mouth tight.

  “Very funny,” Leo says blithely, still completely unused to anyone telling him no.

  “We can’t go inside someone else’s house just because we have the key,” I argue.

  “It’s not someone’s house. It’s Dad’s house,” Leo says, Mateo’s hand still on his.

  “And Connie’s. A woman who… well, let’s face it, we’re not her favorite people right now. What if she’s just at the corner market getting some, I don’t know—orangey lipstick and hard candies? She comes back only to find us rummaging through the house she thinks we’re going to kick her out of? I can’t see that going over very well,” I argue. Abigail is oddly quiet.

  “She’s definitely on her way to the hospital,” Leo answers.

  “You can’t know that,” I say.

  “We need the documents,” Abigail reasons.

  “And I need a million dollars, but I’m not going to break into Donald Trump’s penthouse to get it,” I say.

  “It’s not there anyway… it’s tied up in real estate,” Leo says.

  “Well, why don’t you just hack his computer and find out,” I mutter.

  “Already have… that’s how I know,” Leo says, casing the joint.

  “Look, Griffon Whitebox—” I start. Leo immediately ducks and looks around furtively. Convinced no Feds are tailing him, he looks back at the house and then at me.

  “It’s not breaking in,” he argues.

  “When we have the key,” Abigail finishes, holding up the de-bagged keys. Dad’s keys. The keys are anchored with a worn leather fob. Dad has a keychain? I guess he would have to. It’s weird to think about how many things he must have that I’d have no guess about. I shake my head and return to the crime at hand.

  “Fine, but you’re the one who’s going to have to explain to your husband why your kids have a criminal record,” I say, opening my door and stepping out of the minivan. Leo follows.

  “You are such a drama queen,” Abigail sighs again, stepping out of the driver’s side.

  “I’m a drama queen. We need those documents stat! Let’s break into the old lady’s house stat!” I scoff, stepping aside as Mateo and Emilygrae unlatch themselves and start climbing out of the minivan. I take Mateo in my arms and put him down on the patch of grass next to his Tio Sticky Fingers. Mateo unsheathes his little plastic sword and stands at the ready. Leo starts to sing the theme song to Mission: Impossible under his breath.

  “This is not funny,” I say.

  “Loosen up,” Leo says. He looks back and mimes holding a gun, darting along the pathway like an international spy. I imagine Connie in some upstairs bedroom watching all of this unfold. What a bunch of idiots we must look. Evie stands next to me watching Leo and Mateo as they head toward that long porch. Abigail and Emilygrae walk around from the other side of the car.

  “She’s totally not home,” Evie says.

  “Et tu, Brute?” I say, smiling just a little.

  “What?” Evie asks, focusing fully on me for the first time.

  “Julius Caesar,” I say, placing my hand on her shoulder.

  “Latin?” she asks, starting up the pathway. Leo and Mateo are waiting by the door.

  “It’s Latin, he’s Roman. Very good,” I say, noticing that Leo has rung the doorbell. Mateo looks around wildly, whipping his little sword to and fro. Unbelievable.

  “Et tu? Brute?” Evie asks. Doesn’t say two words to me all morning and now she wants to make conversation about Roman emperors? I’ll take what I can get, I guess. My mouth is dry. I keep checking the street for cars. I have no idea what kind of car Connie drives, so every car is a possible heart attack.

  “What it means is ‘Even you?’ or ‘You, too, Brutus?’ When Julius Caesar was murdered, those were allegedly his last words. Brutus was his friend, well up until he stabbed him to death, I guess. So people tend to say it when they feel betrayed by a close friend,” I explain, wondering if Abigail is going to call me out for scaring the children… you know, in the midst of the already-in-progress felony.

  “Well, you are the Edmund. You’d know a thing or two about betrayal,” Abigail says as we all walk up the long pathway.

  “Shh, we’re busy breaking into someone’s house,” I snap back. Abigail exhales deeply, pats Evie on the back and gives her what I can only describe as a “knowing smile.” As if she’s had to tolerate my brand of crazy far longer than poor Evie could ever understand. Abigail might as well be laying a duct tape boundary down the center of our room. Again.

  “Hello? Connie?” Leo calls, knocking on the heavy wooden door. Emilygrae and Mateo peer through the long side panel windows that frame the door.

  Leo looks back at all of us with a “Well?” kind of look on his face. Like he’s tried reasoning with the castle folk, but we’re going to need that battering ram after all. Abigail steps forward holding Dad’s keychain. I lunge at the doorbell once more and ring it. And ring it. And ring it.

  “She’s not home. I told you she wasn’t home,” Leo says as Abigail tries the first key. No go. She flips through the keychain, trying key after key like Russian roulette.

  Click.

  Abigail looks over at us as she pushes the heavy wooden door open with a loud creeeakkkkkk.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, hoping it hides my terror. This is how a billion horror movies start, after all. Creepy door creak and everything.

  “Connie? It’s Abigail—Ray’s daughter?” Abigail announces, once we’re all inside. The heavy wood-paneled foyer is impressive. So impressive it can harbor six interloping criminals in total comfort before they meet their certain doom.

  We all stand in utter silence. My heart is beating a mile a minute. I look around at our little ragtag group. Hilarious.

  “This is nice,” Leo says, looking up the sweeping staircase.

  “Looks exactly the same,” Abigail whispers, looking my way.

  “Why are you whispering if no one’s home?” I ask.

  “LOOKS EXACTLY THE SAME,” Abigail almost yells.

  I wince. “Jesus.”

  “Not in front of the kids,” Abigail warns.

  “You mean, while we’re breaking and entering there can be no taking the Lord’s name in vain… yeah, that makes sense,” I say, following Leo, the twins and Evie into the living room.

  I stop. Just as they did. All of us staring at the same thing. I choke back the emotion and look back at Abigail. She looks as stunned as I feel.

  A large marble fireplace takes up most of the far wall of the living room. Sitting on the fireplace mantel are… pictures of us. All of us.

  I approach the fireplace, all fear of Connie forgotten, as I try to understand what exactly I’m seeing.

  The picture frames are worn and the glass is smudged, making the pictures beneath barely visible. They obviously haven’t been dusted in some time, but that doesn’t take away the enormity of what we’ve stumbled upon.

  Our entire childhood. Just slightly different. We had similar pictures in our house, and while these look like they are from th
e same rolls, each portrays a different moment from the same day. The shot after the shot. Like seeing our memories from another vantage point. An idea so radical it takes me a second to really mourn what having two parents would have been like. I am speechless.

  I reach up and touch the top part of a frame. Just checking—it’s real. The room is so quiet. All I can hear is the creaking of the hardwood floors as we take in the… well, the shrine. I had always secretly hoped something like this existed, but I was sure he’d forgotten us. I’d have staked my life on it. I’m overcome with sadness and, startlingly, with sympathy. For Dad.

  I walked away from this family for five years. At the end of that time I was a shell of the person I used to be. Dad was gone for twenty-two years and chose to look at those he abandoned every morning before he took on his day. How hollow must he have been? Or am I just… Could he not have been affected? How do you just walk away… and stay away? What could that do to a person? I shudder at the person I was becoming: the haze of numbness that was taking over my life, the loveless relationships… wait… wait… my heart clenches. Loveless relationships? Dad married Connie days after Mom died. I ran to Tim because he was nothing like John. The growing similarities between my father and me have begun to make me hyperventilate. I breathe in and close my eyes for the briefest of seconds. The smell of dust and… his trumpets.

  And there they are. Standing in the corner of the living room, looking like some elaborate Dr. Seussian pipe organ. That smell—like a cork-spit-and-brass combo, unmistakable. I’m immediately zoomed back. I look away. I… I just can’t take it all in.

  I turn away from the trumpets and face the shrine once more. The six of us move around the room as if it were the Louvre. We keep a safe distance from the masterpieces, our hands safely in pockets or clasped behind our backs. We look at these pictures with an awe usually saved for the masters.

  Baby pictures. Huston in his Little League uniform. Leo in floaties in some backyard pool. Me at the piano, curling over the keys, unaware my picture is being taken. Abigail at a tea party surrounded by her dolls. The entire family—even Mom—in the middle of some hike, all of us in hiking boots and shorts. I’ve never seen that one before. I go in closer. Abigail moves on to the next one, making room for me. Mom and Dad must have asked someone else to take it, because there’s Dad, with Leo on his lap, looking out from behind his golden curls. Mom is standing with her arm around Huston, Abigail and I standing in front of them. God, we look happy.

  There’s one of Mom and Dad sitting on some batik-slipcovered couch. Mom’s languidly resting her legs over Dad’s lap as he does his best to entangle himself in her. They smile wide at the camera.

  “They used to sit like that all the time. Remember?” Abigail whispers, staring at the picture.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. I had forgotten, but when we were young, there was never a time when they weren’t touching, hugging or caressing each other. It was, of course, humiliating as a kid to have parents who were so “gross” with each other, but now? Their love continues to confound me with its mixture of utter tragedy and quieting beauty.

  Propped against the framed photos are new pictures of Abigail’s kids. Evie’s school pictures. The twins’ pictures from when they were born. Abigail’s wedding photo. More proof of Abigail’s fascination with Dad through the years. But proof it might not have been as unrequited as we all thought. Abigail takes her wedding photo down from the mantel and brings it closer. She lowers it so the twins can get a look.

  Leo moves in behind me to stare at the hiking picture. I see him touch the frame as well. We’re so sure this isn’t real. So sure we’ve somehow stumbled upon an elaborate fantasyland where Dad… remembered us.

  I can’t take any more in. I turn away from the pictures and face the other side of the living room. I clap my hand over my mouth.

  A large brown mohair couch sits under the front window of the house. The curtains are drawn and they’ve definitely seen better days. A patterned chenille wingback chair sits with its back to us. Right next to it are two pairs of shoes. Worn-out loafers. Slung over the back of the wingback chair is a grayish Members Only jacket. I didn’t know they even made those anymore. On the coffee table is a stack of magazines, mostly car and airplane stuff. Next to the magazines is a little rubber-banded pile of business cards—at the top: an optometrist. All around the magazines are various glasses, bifocals, trifocals and even a magnifying glass, which is resting on a car magazine. It looks like he must have started sleeping down here, maybe the stairs got to be too much for him. That must have been hard on Connie.

  There’s a little blanket and sheet along with a couch pillow stuffed into the creases, like it’s been slept on. Another pair of loafers sits on the floor next to the couch. The giant television sits on the other side of the living room, the focus of all of the remote controls—lined up neatly next to all the various glasses. Abigail and Leo have both turned around. We all just stand there. Taking it in. Letting it wash over us.

  There is a smallness to this life. To the person who lives here. Everything contained in one little part of such a huge house. It kills me. My enormous, larger-than-life father living in this tiny space.

  “The documents,” Abigail says quietly, finally breaking her gaze away from the couch.

  “He must have an office or something,” I say, looking up the stairs, wanting to get away from here. Not look at it anymore. It’s all so wasted. So much time wasted.

  “Leo, can you watch the kids while Grace and I see if we can find the office?” Abigail asks, heading up the stairs.

  “Yeah, sure. We’ll do a little exploring of our own,” Leo says, heading into the dining room, with its dusty, heavy furniture. I start up the creaky stairs behind Abigail and pass the crucifix—the frightening staircase guardian from my childhood.

  “That thing stills scares me,” I say, climbing the stairs.

  “It is a tad gory,” Abigail concedes.

  As we climb the stairs to the second floor, I notice a mahogany sculpture of the Madonna and Child hanging on the wall of the landing next to the crucifix. A little spot on the Madonna’s forehead has been worn off, along with a matching spot on the child’s forehead.

  “I didn’t know Dad was religious?” I observe, pointing at the Madonna and Child.

  “Sure, he was always Catholic,” Abigail says, coming up behind me.

  “What happened here?” I ask, pointing at the two spots that are worn off.

  “That used to be in the hallway of the old apartment, the one right outside Mom and Dad’s bedroom? He used to rub it every morning,” Abigail explains, now standing next to me.

  “Why?” I asked. Mom and Dad only baptized Huston. Looking back, it may have been more Dad’s doing than Mom’s. After that she took a stand: if/when the rest of us should want to explore religion, it should be our choice. Abigail chose Episcopalian aka Catholic Lite in her teens and has never looked back. She still wears a tasteful silver cross around her neck even today. Leo dabbled in the usual carousel of Hollywood religions: Kabbalism, Scientology, Tibetan Buddhism, Vedantism and Wicca—finally settling on admitting that he simply believes in a “higher power.” Before Mom died, Huston described himself as agnostic. By the time of her funeral, the only baptized Catholic in the bunch had denounced God altogether. My relationship with spirituality boils down to a hope that there’s something out there that unites us all. I’m basically a believer in the Force from Star Wars.

  “It was part of his prayers, Grace,” Abigail says, staring over at me with disdain, her little silver cross shining.

  “I get the distinct impression you’re judging me,” I say.

  “I am judging you,” Abigail shoots back as she continues on.

  We reach the top floor and walk through what was probably Dad and Connie’s bedroom at one point. The bed looks tired and wan with a faded comforter lying flat over the bed. The pillows are depressingly thin. There is a thick layer of dust over everything. Abigail
moves on to the next room.

  “Grace? In here,” she calls from another room.

  I walk down the long hallway and into one of the rooms at the front of the house.

  Abigail is bending over the large wooden desk.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” she says, holding up a picture of Mom. It’s an older picture taken when Mom was probably in college. It looks professionally done. She looks so retro 1960s in it: Peter Pan collar, helmet hair and dainty closed-mouth smile. Not the woman I remember. But probably the woman Dad fell in love with.

  “Where was this?” I ask, entering Dad’s office and taking the picture in hand.

  “Right here,” Abigail says, pointing to a prominent space on his desktop.

  “That must be a little awkward for Connie,” I say, setting the picture back down right where it was.

  “You think?” Abigail says, opening up the top right-hand drawer.

  “Any luck?” I ask, looking into the drawer. It’s filled with stacks and stacks of steno note pads, each page containing a list of some sort. Abigail takes the top one out and hands it to me while she searches for the stuff we actually came for.

  “This is definitely the place,” Abigail says, opening up another side drawer. I flip open the steno pad and it reveals a list written in spidery handwriting of what looks to be Dad’s monthly bills. Telephone, water and power, mortgage… The list is neat. A $19.47 telephone bill pulls at me. I close the steno pad and just stop. I stare at the old picture of Mom.

  My entire personal family history is being ripped apart stitch by stitch. We were the first thing Dad woke up to and the last thing he went to bed thinking about? Why didn’t he just pick up the phone? What made him want only photographs of us and not the real us? I know the answer all too well. Real love means getting hurt and sometimes it’s easier to just like people. When they leave, you don’t want to rip your heart out or wish they’d had the courtesy to do the honors before leaving.

  Oh wait… they do.