A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents Read online

  “He wrote letters,” I admit.

  “Letters?”

  “With just two words. I’m sorry.”

  John looks away with a cynical laugh.

  “What?” I ask. John shrugs me off, looking anywhere but at me.

  “What?” I press again.

  “It was about him. He’s sorry?” John asks.

  “Right, he’s sorry.”

  “So what?” John asks, his face reddening.

  “So what?” I ask, growing angry.

  “You write to the love of your life over and over again and all you can say is you’re sorry?” John says.

  “He’s the one who screwed up,” I say, trying to figure out where John’s going with this.

  “I get that,” he says.

  “What would you have said?”

  Without missing a beat, “I love you.”

  I shrink back. The words. The eyes. The man. John looks away.

  We are silent.

  “Do you think about your biological parents at all?” I am panicking, trying to derail the conversation completely.

  “What’s to think about? They left me at a firehouse when I was nine hours old. End of thought,” John says, shifting in his chair.

  “The why,” I say, my voice soft.

  “That way lies madness,” John says.

  “But if you don’t think about it, you bury it and you find yourself five years later dating guys named Tim,” I ramble on.

  “No, you found yourself dating guys named Tim,” John says, his eyes steely.

  “Not anymore,” I say, looking away.

  John is quiet.

  “Some people just go to therapy,” he finally says with the slightest laugh.

  We’re quiet. I think about the letters. What would I have said? My breath quickens. I look up and see John as if for the first time. Whenever I looked at him in the past, I would find myself trying to memorize the lines of his body so I could remember him when he left. I couldn’t help committing him to memory. As I take him in now, my breathing slows. Instead of tracing and retracing the lines and sinews of his body like multiplication tables, I allow him to make an impression on me at a cellular level. As his DNA absorbs into mine, I finally understand that people can be permanent if you let them. I take in a full, whole breath and exhale.

  “I love you,” I say, clear as a bell.

  John turns his head and meets my gaze.

  “I love you,” I say again, a little louder.

  I can see him yielding, his shoulders lower, his face softens.

  “I love you,” I say again, inching closer.

  I watch as he steels himself, building the walls once more. I strike before he can finish the job.

  “I love you,” I say again, reaching out my hand, across what once felt like a great divide, and placing it on his.

  John is quiet. Hesitating.

  “Where’s Huston?” Leo breathlessly asks, appearing out of nowhere next to John.

  “What?” I ask. John stands. Clearly I’m going to have to kill Leo.

  “Huston? Where’s Huston?” Leo asks again, his messenger bag slung across his chest.

  “He’s in with Nurse Miller and the legal department. Again,” I say, standing.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. What I want to say is “Any last words?”

  “I brought th—” Leo starts, opening his messenger bag.

  “Abigail, right?” Dennis approaches our group once again. Saved by the… well, saved by the bottom-feeding grifter. Not quite a bell, but a close second.

  “I’m Grace,” I correct. My voice flat. My eyes dead. Leo turns around, sees who it is and immediately backs up.

  “We’re going to take a break. Maybe head down to the cafeteria. You’re welcome to go in,” Dennis offers. How generous.

  “Thanks,” I say, coolly.

  Connie walks out of Dad’s hospital room, passing right in front of us.

  “Did you ask him if he had the keys?” Connie calls to Dennis.

  “They’ll get them to us as soon as they can,” Dennis answers, smiling benignly at us—letting us know what’s expected of us.

  “He’s right there. Can’t you just ask him?” Connie motions at Leo.

  “Mother, that’s not Huston.” Dennis laughs, walking over closer to her.

  “Course it is.”

  “That’s… Sir, what’s your name again?” Dennis quickly asks.

  “Leo. Leopold Hawkes,” Leo answers, his face red.

  “That’s the little one, Mother,” Dennis oozes.

  “The little one?” Connie sniffs, looking up at Leo, the giant of a man.

  “The youngest one. The—” Dennis cuts off, raising his eyebrows. Leo shrinks back as it becomes clear that Dennis is trying to jog Connie’s memory about Leo being the “criminal” he told her about.

  “Oh… that’s right,” Connie says, as they quickly exit the ICU.

  “Takes one to know one,” Leo says, his voice tight. John and I try to offer Leo a smile.

  “Sweetie… you’re nothi—” I start.

  “I know… I know,” Leo quickly agrees.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” John says, sitting back down.

  “You’ll be here… when I get back?” I ask, turning around, as Leo continues on into the hospital room.

  “I’ll be here,” John answers. Not going anywhere.

  “Okay,” I say almost to myself. As I walk away, John sits back down in the office chair, bending over slightly with his elbows on his knees. I look back to see that he’s dropped his head into his hands.

  When I get to Dad’s hospital room, I wonder if he’d understand if we told him we figured out his puzzle. Maybe it wasn’t a puzzle at all. Dad probably didn’t plan on having a stroke. He probably thought he’d die suddenly, not linger, like we all wish we would. He set this whole thing up, so after he died we’d get everything.

  Except him.

  I meet Leo in Dad’s room. Dad seems to be sleeping pretty soundly, so we sit down in the two hospital chairs against the far wall under the big window. Leo digs in his messenger bag and pulls out the mahogany sculpture of the Madonna and Child.

  “What? Wait… why?” I stutter, watching him pull the giant wooden face of the Virgin Mary out of his bag. Leo stands up, holding the Madonna and Child, as he looks for a place to hang her.

  “I just thought… you know, it might help,” Leo says, his voice quiet, his eyes darting. I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure how much of a believer I am, especially since Mom died. But knowing that Dad is devout in his beliefs is helping me. Knowing his fear is being diluted just a bit by his belief in the afterlife, or Heaven, or whatever, has calmed me somewhat.

  “Heyyy,” Leo says, noticing that Dad is watching him.

  “He’s up?” I ask, standing up and moving to Dad’s right side. I lay my hand on his shoulder, knowing full well he can’t feel it.

  “I brought this from your house,” Leo says, holding up the Madonna.

  Dad raises his still-restrained hand and lifts two fingers up. Two.

  “Two?” I ask. Dad struggles to look over at me.

  “Two?” Leo asks.

  Dad raises his arm again and once again lifts two fingers. My mind races. Two. Two. Two. The Madonna and Child and…

  “The crucifix,” I blurt, seeing the landing of the staircase at Nana Marina’s house clearly in my mind. “Two. Two. They’re together. They’re always together,” I say to Leo.

  I rush over to the other side of the bed and ask it again, “The crucifix?” I ask Dad, remembering Huston said he answers yes to everything. I just… I think I’m right. John comes over and stands in the doorway to Dad’s room. Watching.

  “The crucifix?” Leo asks. Dad watches Leo intently. I dig wildly in my purse and pull out a black pen and draw a large cross on the back of my hand.

  “The crucifix?” I ask, holding up my hand. Dad raises his restrained hand and pulls mine close to his face.

>   Dad nods yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

  “Yeah?” I say, knowing it’s not a real yes, but, for the first time in twenty-two years, I feel like I’m talking to my dad. We’re connecting about something. I’m back at the piano, looking up to him for the downbeat. I have to do this for him.

  “I can go get it,” I say to Leo.

  “Yeah, yeah… I’ll stay here,” Leo answers, taking Dad’s hand.

  I dig into Leo’s messenger bag and find the newly minted set of Dad’s keys. I grab my purse and walk out of Dad’s hospital room, ready to speed over to Nana Marina’s house, grab that creepy crucifix right off the wall and bring it back. John shifts his body so I can pass and looks down at me.

  “I know it’s not real. I know he says yes to everything. I just…” I admit.

  “I’ll come with you. Maybe see if we can gather up some more documents,” John offers.

  “You’ll drive?” I ask, continuing out of the ICU.

  “I’m sure as hell not driving in that buckboard you call a car,” John says.

  “Thank you… thank you—not about calling my car shitty, but you know—” I say, opening the door to the ICU and heading out into the maze of the hospital. John keeps up with me while we make the various lefts and rights that have burned themselves into my brain.

  The elevator dings open and Huston looks up from inside.

  “I think Frank from Legal finally set Nurse Miller straight,” he says, stepping out into the hall.

  “I’ll draft a letter on the firm’s letterhead confirming the conversation,” John says, his arm blocking the door from closing.

  “Thanks. Where are you guys off to?” Huston asks, as the elevator door bangs against John’s arm.

  “Leo brought the Madonna from Dad’s house and Dad said there were two,” I explain, pressing the one button.

  “Dad said there were two?” Huston asks, stepping back into the elevator.

  “He held up his fingers. Two fingers,” I explain, holding my fingers up as proof.

  “I thought I might be able to find some more documents,” John adds.

  “I can’t believe he did the two-finger thing,” Huston says, almost to himself. He rides down in the elevator with us.

  “I asked him if he wanted me to get the crucifix, you know—they’re always together. Two…” I explain, as the floors ding by. Huston nods. “And he said yes… that that’s what he wanted.” The door dings open on the ground floor.

  “But, Grace, you know—” Huston starts.

  “I know it’s not real. I know he says yes to everything. I just… thought it could help,” I say, finally finishing the original sentence.

  “It’s a good idea, Gracie,” Huston says, his voice softening.

  “Thanks,” I say, starting out through the lobby, the tears clogging my throat. The bizarre zigzaggian reality of my grief is still a mystery to me. One minute I’m fine and the next I feel like screaming. One minute I’m okay and the next I feel the pain is never going to end. The last time I had these feelings I shut them down. I can’t let myself do that this time… however tempting it is.

  “I have a meeting with Dad’s lawyer in twenty minutes. I’m going to make sure he’s up to speed on what’s been going on. Hopefully you guys can find some more documents,” Huston says, walking us on out into the parking lot. I’m on a mission.

  “We’ll do our best,” I say, keeping pace to John’s car. Huston falls back as John and I continue.

  “I’ll have my cell phone on,” Huston yells.

  “Okay!” I say, over my shoulder.

  “John?” Huston calls. John turns around and walks over to Huston, while I continue. I don’t know what they say to each other, probably some “Take care of the overly emotional girl” kind of shit. Emotional, my ass—I just don’t want to dilly-dally in the parking lot any longer than I have to. If that makes me “emotional,” well, so be it.

  “You coming?” I yell to John over my shoulder. He quickens his gait and falls in next to me.

  “Do you even know what I drive?” John asks.

  “Uh… you were driving that—” I shift around in the parking lot.

  “It’s this one,” John says, beeping a shiny black Cadillac Escalade unlocked.

  “It’s not ostentatious or anything,” I say, climbing into the immaculate front seat.

  “Hey, I’m a poor foster kid from the projects… allow me my little luxuries,” John says, starting up the engine. He revs it for effect. We both laugh, then stop, self-conscious.

  We are silent as we wind through the streets of Ojai—a city whose natural beauty is completely lost on us. I look over at John with his left arm curling over the steering wheel, his body leaning as he drives. I think about his hand curling over mine.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I say, crossing my right leg over my left. Closer. I want to be closer to him.

  “No problem,” he says, glancing quickly over at me.

  We are quiet again.

  “Here it is,” I say, pointing to the Blue House.

  “Okay… just wait… let me stop the car first, Gracie,” John says, putting his arm across me—holding me back from leaping out of the moving SUV. Now I get why Abigail does it.

  We walk up the pathway. I’m still nervous about going in, thinking that Connie and Dennis are hiding in the bushes somewhere ready to jump out and accuse us of breaking and entering. At least the kids aren’t with us this time.

  I try the keys in the door one by one. John peers in the side panel windows and walks the full length of the porch, taking in each side of the house. Then I realize, like an idiot, it’s probably the newest key on the chain.

  Click.

  I push the door open as John walks back over and follows me inside. I quickly close the door behind us and John checks to make sure it is locked—just in case Connie and Dennis stop by.

  “The office is up the stairs,” I say, walking through the foyer and on up the stairs. John stops in the foyer and takes in the living room. The room I can’t even look at. He stands there, almost stepping in, but not. I see him scanning the entire room: the picture-shrine mantel, the coffee table filled with bifocals, magazines and rubber-banded business cards. The sad little couch bed with the pair of old shoes at the foot.

  “The office is up here,” I say again.

  “There are no pictures of Connie,” John says, still looking into the living room.

  “That’s what we were saying,” I say, peering in from the foot of the stairs.

  “It’s just so wrong,” John says, shaking his head.

  “I know… The office is up here,” I repeat again.

  “Yeah… yeah, right behind you,” John answers, finally turning away from the living room, looking sad.

  I stop at the landing and take down the crucifix. It’s surprisingly heavy. A lot heavier than I thought. And older. This has definitely been in the family for a long time. John passes me and heads up to the office. I hold on to the crucifix and go up the stairs behind him.

  “In here?” John asks, motioning down the hallway.

  “Yeah,” I answer, walking to the office. Two. Dad told me two. That’s not a yes. But it’s not nonsense. It’s a clear sign that there’s someone in there. He knows he can’t speak and he’s devised another way to get across that he wants both pieces of iconography. There’s someone in there. This doesn’t have to end… we might be able to save him.

  “Your dad has a pretty impressive portfolio,” John says, kneeling on the floor. He’s digging deep into a file cabinet that’s inside the closet.

  “We need to hurry up,” I say, standing at the door.

  “Brokerage accounts… Oh, holy shit, he’s got a Fidelity mutual fund, you couldn’t even get into one of those for a few years,” John says, flipping through file after file.

  “Are you serious?” I say, taking the piece of paper.

  “Did you know your dad came from money?” John asks, looking up from the page after page of assets.


  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, grabbing a canvas tote bag from the closet and kneeling down. I set the crucifix down and stack huge piles of papers in the bag.

  “But you said you guys were on welfare growing up,” John says, looking up.

  “We were,” I say.

  “Ah,” John answers.

  “Yeah,” I cluck, fighting off emotions I still don’t know what to do with.

  “Here,” John says, holding the tote bag a little wider.

  “Thanks,” I say, looking up from the closet floor. He kneels down next to me.

  “You okay?” he asks, the bag getting fuller.

  “No,” I say, tears starting to well up. I can’t stop them this time. I’ve been numb for so long that this pain is bubbling up through every new crack in my foundation. The walls are down, and like an angry mob with torches and pitchforks, my emotions are getting ready to storm the castle whether I like it or not.

  “Okay… okay… just…” John takes the bag and leans it up against the closet door. I sit back on my haunches, my head in my hands.

  “I’ll… just give me… shit… I’ll get it together,” I plead, wiping away the rebellious tears.

  “No one is asking you to get it together,” John soothes, moving closer.

  “We don’t have time for this, we have a job to do.”

  “Okay, let’s make a deal,” John says, brushing the hair out of my face—strands getting caught on my now wet cheeks. He spends time swiping them back behind my ear.

  “What?” I ask, snot bubbling out of my nose. John wipes my nose with the sleeve of his coat.

  “I think you’re right in a really shitty way. There isn’t time for this and it sucks. This whole thing… all of this with your dad has been hijacked—and it’s not your fault,” John says gently, keeping his hands on the sides of my face.

  “What can I do?” I ask, sniffling.

  “Okay, here’s what we do. We get the crucifix back to your dad, the documents back to Huston, and get ready for whatever happens at the hospital.” John stops, lifts my face up and looks me right in the eye.

  “Okay… okay, I can do that,” I say, gathering myself. Breathing. Breathing.

  “Okay,” John says, wiping the last of my tears away. So soft.

  “I can do this,” I say again, focusing in.

  “I know,” John says, pulling me closer.