A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents Page 16

  We are quiet. The hospital cafeteria bustles around us. None of us touch the cursory items we bought on arrival.

  I sneak a glance at John. He’s trying to process the information, but his expression is different from Huston’s look of stunned confusion. John looks like he wants to kill somebody. That’s my boy.

  “Huston…” Abigail starts. He looks away from her, shaking his head.

  “What proof do you have?” John asks, his face now resolved.

  “We’ve got Dad’s will, bank records, steno pads and bills dating back to 2005,” I rattle off.

  “That’s not enough,” John argues.

  “What more proof do you need?” Abigail asks.

  “Connie can argue that she and Ray had a certain understanding. She can say they may have lived apart, but they still loved each other and spent every waking moment together,” John argues.

  “Then why would he leave her out of his will?” Abigail asks.

  “Several reasons actually: mental incapacity, undue influence, or that it’s an out-and-out forgery.”

  “Well, how would she—” Abigail starts.

  “Regardless, can you state with one hundred percent certainty that their relationship isn’t like that? That they didn’t spend every waking moment together?” John asks.

  We don’t know our father at all.

  “No,” Huston finally says.

  “And that’s what they’re going to exploit,” John finishes.

  “So what do we do?” Abigail asks.

  It finally dawns on me: “We act like we don’t know,” I say. John nods in agreement.

  “Why would we do that?” Abigail frowns, realizing she’s not going to get to walk into the ICU and drag Connie out by her little white pants.

  “We need to get all our ducks in a row,” I say.

  “He can’t stay here. We need to find a facility near Los Angeles,” Huston says.

  “And the minute you tip Connie off that you know anything, she’ll get a lawyer and start telling anyone who’ll listen that she’s a little old lady who’s the love of Ray’s life. And you’ll all be labeled the gold-digging ne’er-do-well children who never came to see him. Can you even prove that he abandoned you? She could argue that he tried to get in contact with you all these years, to have a relationship, and you had no interest in seeing him,” John says. His voice is confident.

  “Enough,” I say. I haven’t been able to come up with a satisfactory explanation for why Dad abandoned us over the last twenty-two years; I certainly couldn’t do it in a courtroom. And the more I find out the less I understand. It was almost easier when I thought he didn’t love us.

  How do you prove love anyway?

  “John’s right,” Huston says, his head bowed. The table falls into silence.

  “The power of attorney is the key,” John adds, shifting in his plastic chair. We all look up.

  “It can hold up?” I ask.

  “Unless Connie is appointed your dad’s conservator, and by her chronic absence at all the meetings pertaining to his care, I don’t think that’s what she wants. No, that power of attorney means Huston gets to make all the decisions regarding your father’s care and finances,” John says.

  “It seems like there are an awful lot of variables,” I say.

  “But why can’t we—” Abigail tries to cut in. John stops her.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” John finally says.

  Abigail laughs mirthlessly. “Ya think?”

  “I’ve been here for twenty-four hours and I already want to kill myself,” I say, looking from Abigail to John, the smallest of smiles offering to defuse the moment.

  “God, twenty-four hours… is that all?” Huston sighs, softening just a bit.

  “It’s like time has stopped,” I answer.

  “Do you remember when Mom died?” Abigail asks.

  A chill passes over the table. We all remember the worst day of our lives.

  Abigail continues, “That day went on forever.”

  “Literally,” I say, realizing that I’m still reliving that day even after all these years. Maybe it’s about time I stopped.

  “The kids haven’t even missed any school,” Abigail mutters.

  “Not a day of work,” I say, my seventeen vacation days still untouched.

  “It’s not even New Year’s Eve,” Huston adds.

  “It’s so bizarre to think that other people are just going about their business. Going to work, buying groceries or whatever,” I say.

  “And we’re here,” Abigail says, her head dipping, her eyes closing.

  We fall silent again as we yearn for the little, quiet lives that seem so very far away.

  “Why didn’t he just pick up the phone?” Abigail sighs. We are quiet. I take a deep breath.

  “Because every day that goes by, it gets a little bit harder,” I mumble, the words coming from deep below the surface.

  “Harder for whom?” Huston asks.

  “Harder to admit you’re wrong. Harder to admit that the people you left behind aren’t actually better off without you.” I can’t look at him. Any of them.

  “Better off without you,” Huston repeats, his voice challenging. I sneak a glance at John. His eyes meet mine and I will myself not to look away.

  “Every day erodes away at the person you are, and it’s not too long before you begin to forget you were ever a part of anything at all,” I explain, my voice just over a whisper. Everyone is quiet.

  I continue, “I think that’s where the whole Connie thing comes in. Love becomes company and company becomes something you do just to pass the time. So you won’t be alone.” John looks away. My face flushes.

  “All of those pictures,” Abigail says.

  “Not one of Connie. That’s got to count for something,” I say, hoping this will get us back on track.

  “This is not about Connie,” John says, his voice solemn.

  “How is this not about Connie?” I ask.

  “This is going to be about you. The four of you.”

  “But we didn’t do anything.”

  “If you fight back, you have to get ready to be dragged through the mud by someone who doesn’t give a shit about the truth, doesn’t give a shit about ruining your lives. Obviously. She sat in a hospital room holding the hand of a dying man who left her years ago. She turned an entire nursing staff against you and, while she was at it, made all of you believe she was the grieving wife. So… this is not about her. She’s a monster,” John says.

  “It’s about more than that,” Huston argues.

  “Not for them. They’re going to make it as basic as possible, you’re the ones who are trying to evict a little old lady at a time when the husband she loves is dying,” John says, scooting in his chair even more.

  “Allegedly,” Huston adds.

  “It’s not fair,” Abigail says. She sounds so much like Emilygrae I have to swallow a smile.

  “No, it’s not. But, bottom line—you have to ask yourselves if you want to go forward. Forget that it’s unfair, evil and deceitful. Is your Dad worth it?” John says, his hands tight in fists.

  We are quiet.

  John’s words hang in the air. Why are we here if not to finish what we started—what Dad started?

  “I’m in,” I say.

  “Me, too,” Abigail says.

  “What do we do first?” Huston asks.

  “Like Grace said, we get our ducks in a row,” John says. His voice saying my name is a speck of light in the darkness. It just rolls off his tongue.

  “I’ll start making some calls about facilities. There are quite a few around where I live,” Abigail says, gathering herself, taking out her organizer once again.

  Something has begun that we can’t stop. Dad’s too sick. Connie’s too vile.

  The only way out… is through.

  “Where do you live?” John asks Abigail, his pencil hovering over the legal pad.

  “South Pasadena. It’s just south
of Pasadena… kind of by—” Abigail says, writing in her organizer.

  “Right by where Grace lives,” John says, writing something down on his legal pad.

  “I bought a new house on California Terrace last year,” I say, for no apparent reason.

  “I know,” John says absently. I stare at him. He shifts in his chair… not looking at me. You know?

  “So…” John begins again, his voice cracking. Please look at me. He does. Quick. A flash. A glance. He knew I’d bought a new house.

  Huston clears his throat and continues. “So, South Pasadena it is, then.”

  “As soon as Leo gets back, we’ll head back down to LA with the kids,” Abigail says.

  “Where’s Leo?” Huston asks, standing.

  “He’s at Dad’s. Changing the locks,” I say absently.

  “He’s what?” John blurts. Abigail and I immediately see the problem.

  “It’s not a problem,” I start.

  “She’s going to know,” Abigail yelps, terrified we’ve already screwed this up.

  “No, she won’t. She has to act like she has the keys, like it’s her house. How can she ask us for the keys to her own house? And even if she does go to the house and try to get in, who’s to say Dad didn’t change the locks years ago? She doesn’t know. No, we’re good,” I work out.

  “You have to run that shit by me,” John “advises.” Abigail and I nod.

  “I’ll call Manny and tell him not to come up after all. You guys can hold down the fort while we’re gone?” Abigail asks, looking up. Huston, John and I just look at each other. We know we’ve gotten the short end of the stick. Staying up here means keeping up the Big Lie. It also means spending more time with Dad.

  I’m not sure which one will be more difficult.

  chapter sixteen

  She’s not ready to have you come in just yet,�� Nurse Miller advises, as we step back into the ICU after Abigail puts in her call to Manny. We look into Dad’s hospital room, where Connie is standing by Dad’s bedside. Dennis is sitting in one of several chairs in the room, reading a magazine. He looks up as we enter the ICU. I wish we didn’t know about Connie. I genuinely wish she just wanted what’s best for Dad. I try to look and see if Dad’s awake, as he was earlier this morning. It looks like he’s sleeping. That gives me some solace. Dennis approaches our little huddle in the corner like a prince approaching a gaggle of servants.

  “Hey, man,” Dennis says, patting Huston on the shoulder in a bizarre hypermasculine move that’s supposed to pass for brotherly.

  “Dennis,” Huston answers.

  “Dennis Noonan,” he says, reaching his hand across to John.

  “We’ve met,” John says, his hands at his sides. His eyes distant. Dennis’ hand hangs in the air between the two men.

  “Oh… right. Moss. The attorney,” Dennis says, his hand sagging back to his side.

  John looks at his watch.

  Dennis turns to Abigail and gets down to business. “Mom was wondering if you guys could do her a favor and return Ray’s possessions to her. It’d be a big help.”

  “I’m so sorry, Dennis—I left the ziplock bag back at the hotel,” Abigail says, so genuine.

  “Oh, no worries,” Dennis lies.

  “Do you need it right away?” I ask.

  “Mom’s just worrying. I’m sure it’s all the—” Dennis motions around at the ICU. Yes, this has been really hard on Connie, we all nod in agreement.

  “Well, we’ll get it to you just as soon as we can,” Abigail assures him, placing a hand on his shoulder in concern. She’s good.

  Dennis walks back into the hospital room. We watch. He doesn’t tell her that their plan didn’t work. He just sits in one of the hospital chairs and picks up his magazine. Connie doesn’t even bother to look up. Maybe he put her up to this? Or did she put him up to it? I have to snap out of this… it’s ridiculous. I feel like Harriet the Spy. Every second we waste on Connie is time not spent with Dad. A chill passes over me as it dawns on me that I honestly don’t know how many seconds we have left with him. This situation needs to be remedied. And fast.

  “When can we visit with our father?” I ask Nurse Miller, breaking away from the group. Does she work here all day, every day, for crissakes? Couldn’t we catch a break and have someone in charge besides her? The rest of the group looks on.

  “Connie says she’ll be leaving within the hour. I gave her a list of excellent facilities in the area that would be capable of handling Ray’s… situation,” Nurse Miller says, looking at another clipboard. Huston walks over midway through Nurse Miller’s confession that she’s usurped the power of attorney. Again. Abigail and John follow.

  “Nurse Miller, I think it’s time you and I met with the legal department together. I don’t think you understand what a power of attorney means. Can you get them on the phone and set something up. Now. I’ll wait.” Huston speaks quickly and clearly, but I can see that his ears are bright red and his entire body is tense.

  “I understand, Mr. Hawkes—” Nurse Miller starts.

  “I’ll wait,” Huston interrupts, raising his voice. We are silent. Waiting. Nurse Miller turns on her little squeaky white heel, goes back behind the nurse’s station and dials the phone.

  “Hi, Frank, it’s Nurse Miller in the ICU. I have Mr. Huston Hawkes here and he’d like the three of us to meet regarding some confusion with the power of attorney,” Nurse Miller starts. She waits as “Frank” talks.

  “There shouldn’t be any confusion. That’s probably what he’s telling her now,” John leans over and whispers to Abigail and me. I nod up at him, trying not to—well, it’s a toss-up: do I straight inhale him or grab his face and start making out with him just to feel something good? Apparently, I’ve signed on to feel again. Pain seems to be the primary emotion that’s come flooding back during the last twenty-four hours. But with it comes an almost overwhelming urge to feel good again. Being here with my family feels like wrapping up in a snuggly blanket as the chill creeps into a drafty cabin. But what I crave from John? That’d set the entire cabin on fire.

  “I understand, Frank. I was simply—” Nurse Miller is cut off. John raises an eyebrow and gives Abigail and me the smallest of “I told you so” looks. I smile back at him, hoping I don’t look like the twitching mess I feel like.

  “We’ll be there in five minutes, then. Thank you, Fr—” Nurse Miller looks at the phone like something completely alien has caused the line to go dead. No, dearie. He hung up on you. Nurse Miller looks up at Huston with such… disgust. Wow. John’s speech about this being about us comes screaming back. Connie has fooled everyone. I can’t wait until we get Dad out of here and into a regular room. Until we can take him all the way home.

  “We’ll be right back,” Huston says, as he follows an enraged Nurse Miller out of the ICU. Abigail, John and I stand there for a moment in awkward silence.

  “I’m going to check on the kids, see where Leo is and start calling around to facilities near us.” Abigail whispers “near us.” Adorable.

  “If Leo needs a ride, just let me know and I can swing by and get him,” I say to Abigail, as she pulls the organizer out of her purse once again.

  “I will. I will. I’ll let you know if I find anything,” Abigail says. And then she does the strangest thing. She leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Really fast, like she realized what she’d done too late. She stops for a quick millisecond and then gives John a wave and heads out of the ICU. She raises her eyebrows the slightest bit as she looks from John to me. Always the yenta.

  John and I fall silent.

  John rolls an office chair over and motions for me to sit down. I do and watch as he rounds up another chair for himself. In the aftermath of the morning’s events I feel exhausted, but somehow invigorated.

  Maybe I’m just punch-drunk from seeing all those pictures in Dad’s house. A lifetime of wondering and now I finally have some proof that he loved us… that he loved me. I’m not forgettable. Wi
thout the ballast of Dad’s indifference, how high can I fly?

  I watch as John pulls a chair from an empty ICU room. I look into Dad’s room. He’s still asleep and Connie’s at his bedside. I look away. There are a thousand Connies and Tims out there just waiting to fill the void. But there’s only one Evelyn. Only one John. One shot at true love.

  “How are you holding up?” John finally asks.

  “I’m good,” I say, fighting the urge to stand atop this chair and proclaim John as my one true love. Huzzah! Probably not the time.

  “You sure?” John presses. I turn and look at him. We lock eyes.

  Black as pitch. I mean—no difference in color from the pupil to the iris. Pure black. I’ve never seen anything like it. John waits patiently as I assess the rarity of his eye color. Epiphanies seem to not understand that there is a proper time and place for enlightenment. I look away.

  “It’s just a lot,” I finally allow.

  “That’s the understatement of the century,” John says.

  “It’s just…” I spin around in my little office chair, rolling over toward him, overshooting a bit and bumping into his leg.

  “Just what,” he says, steadying my knee. His hand lingers.

  “It’s one thing after another. This house of cards where nothing is solid and yet we keep building, building, building,” I say, gesturing wildly with every “building.”

  “You’re way out of your comfort zone on this one,” John says gently.

  “That’s your big pep talk?” I ask, smiling a bit.

  “No! God, no… I was just saying I understand why it would be daunting.”

  “You never think this kind of stuff is going to happen to you.”

  “I know,” John agrees.

  We are silent.

  “We never talked about him,” I finally say, looking into Dad’s hospital room.

  “Your dad?” John asks, following my gaze.

  “Yeah,” I answer, trailing off.

  “You can only say so much.”