A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents Page 22

  “It doesn’t even feel like we’re in the city at all,” John adds, taking in the skyscraping Carolina cherries that surround the entire property.

  “That’s what I was going for,” I answer.

  “So, you swim?”

  “Well…”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” John is genuinely shocked.

  “I just never had the time,” I admit.

  “We have time right now,” John says, checking his watch.

  “To what?”

  John eyes the pool again.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of breakfast,” I say, starting back into the house.

  “All you have in there is some bullshit kefir and blueberries. Not quite the breakfast that’s going to tempt me,” he says. I turn back around and find John half-naked, his shirt in a puddle next to the patio table I’ve never sat at once.

  “What are you doing?!” I blurt, unable to wipe the smile off my face.

  “I’m going swimming,” he says, shedding his pants one leg at a time.

  “I have neighbors,” I say, staring. Staring. Staring.

  “You said yourself that you built this with privacy in mind,” he says, now pulling his boxers down. He’s enjoying this far too much. Shit, I’m enjoying this far too much.

  “Not naked privacy,” I say.

  “Naked privacy?” John laughs, kicking his boxers into the perfectly tended lavender.

  “It’s a valid concern.” I laugh, unable to stop myself. John gives me one last look and launches into the pool with what can only be described as a “hoot and a holler.” I immediately look over at the neighboring houses. Not one peeping neighbor aghast at my… naked privacy. John bursts through the water’s surface, his black hair wet and slick.

  “You coming in?” he says, dipping under again. I clutch at my robe, my eyes dart around the backyard. I start for the pool house.

  “Let me just get my bathing suit,” I try, running along the pavers to the small cabana I’ve never been in that holds the bathing suit I’ve never worn.

  “Gracie, I’ve already seen you naked. The jig is up,” John yells from the pool.

  “Yes, you’ve seen me naked, but Owen and his grandmother haven’t, so…” I trail off, my hand on the door to the pool house. John goes underwater again, I can see him swimming toward me. My hand stops. He’s almost here. One more stroke and he’ll break the surface. I breathe in the crisp air. Time slows. I watch John under the water and I’m overtaken with an overpowering need to feel alive. I am alive. I yank my robe off and launch myself into the pool, cannonballing just next to the love of my life.

  “It’s about damn time,” John says, laughing, as we both come up for air. The water feels amazing. This pool has been here for a year and I’ve never gone in. The overarching metaphor of this is not lost on me at all.

  “You’re a naked pool bully,” I say, swimming over to him.

  “Naked pool bully?” John repeats, laughing. John easily envelops me as I float into him. He steadies himself against the tiled wall and holds me close. I wrap my everything around him as I try to stabilize myself.

  “So, you in need of a pool boy?” John says, as the water laps around us.

  “I’m being serviced by a nice gentleman already but thank you,” I say, kissing him.

  “How else am I going to earn my keep around here?”

  “I’m sure we’ll find another way,” I answer, fervently hoping Owen and his grandmother can’t see what John does next.

  “Any sign of Connie and Dennis?” I ask, setting my purse next to the folding chair in Dad’s room at St. Teresa’s. I’m holding my Casio keyboard and a cup of tea. My hair is still wet from this morning’s pool rendezvous. I feel like I’ve just gone from fifth gear on the Autobahn to a crashing halt. But, strangely, both are equally life-affirming.

  Dad’s dressed in a striped polo and sweatpants and seems to be sleeping soundly. His color looks better, but he’s definitely losing weight. I don’t want to ask if he’s getting better. I don’t want to ask if his body is finally absorbing the nutrients that are being pumped into that ever-present feeding tube.

  “No, no sign of them,” Abigail answers, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Where are the kids?” I ask, thinking the room feels a little stuffy. I begin to tap out the first notes of Miles Davis’ “So What.” Ba-dum… Ba-dum.

  “Manny took them all to the Rose Parade,” Abigail answers, her foot tapping.

  “Why haven’t Connie and Dennis come to see Dad?” Leo asks, flipping the page of his Wired magazine.

  “They’re not interested in Dad. She made that perfectly clear,” I whisper, not wanting Dad to hear. I continue playing.

  “What was he thinking?” Leo whispers, violently flipping a magazine page.

  “I wanted to make sure he has these,” Abigail says, rummaging through her purse. She pulls out the ziplock bag from the hospital with Dad’s wallet and his wedding ring. Abigail takes Dad’s wallet out of the bag and sets it in the drawer of his bedside table. Right next to the Bible. We probably don’t have to worry that these cloistered nuns are going to skip off with Dad’s wallet. Abigail digs deep into the ziplock bag and pulls out the wedding ring. She holds it out with a look of repulsion.

  “What should we do with this?” Abigail says, dangling the ring on her finger.

  “Have Frodo take it back to Mount Doom,” I say, picking my tea up off the ground and taking a sip. Abigail whips the ring around, throwing it to Leo.

  “ ‘I will take the ring, though I do not know the way,’ ” Leo recites, holding the ring.

  “First The Godfather and now Frodo? Who’s the nerd now?” I ask, setting my tea back on the ground.

  “Oh, my God,” Leo yells.

  “What? What?” we say, immediately jumping up to Dad’s bedside.

  “No… no… the ring,” Leo says, examining the inside of the band.

  “Jesus H. Christ, you scared the shit out of us,” I say. “I thought for sure he saw Dad convulsing or something.” Abigail walks over to Leo.

  “What about it?” Abigail asks, now standing over Leo.

  “RAYMOND AND EVELYN HAWKES: MAY 26, 1968,” Leo reads. Abigail puts her hand over her mouth. Abigail has had to share her birthday with Mom and Dad’s anniversary her entire life. Needless to say, it’s been a difficult affiliation.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, my Casio keyboard almost falling to the ground.

  “He’s wearing…” Leo says, almost to himself, lovingly closing his hand around the ring.

  Each day, another piece.

  “Good morning!” A nun buzzes into Dad’s room. She’s so tiny her brown habit seems to swallow her whole. Her olive skin and dark features are framed by the stark white band of her headpiece.

  “Good morning,” we all respond.

  “I’m Sister Carmella, I’m Raymond’s day nurse,” she announces, her Spanish accent lilting, so Dad’s name sounds like Ray-mawnd, stressing the second syllable. She makes his name sound so lovely, I can’t bear to tell her he always liked to be called Ray.

  “Nice to meet you,” Abigail responds. Leo and I nod hellos.

  “How’s our patient?” she asks, checking all of Dad’s machines. He rouses, opening his eyes and taking in the room.

  It’s surreal to look at Mom’s and Dad’s love affair from this vantage point. Epiphanies come fast and hard when you’re watching someone fight for his life. Someone you love.

  And he loved me.

  I began this journey wanting to convince Dad I didn’t need him. That I was Mom’s kid. Now I know that because I’m Mom’s kid—because I’m their kid—I’ll honor them by never walking away from great love ever again.

  “If you could please wait outside, I’m going to change your father’s linens and diaper,” Sister Carmella asks. My father’s diaper.

  And just like that, epiphany time is up.

  I stand. Leo, with Dad’s wedding ring still in his close
d hand, follows Abigail out into the hall.

  I walk into the hallway. The Lady in Red is sitting beneath the statue of the Virgin Mary. She waves. I smile back. I crane my neck to see if her old-lady posse is assembling. Not yet.

  The glass doors open at the entrance and Huston walks toward us down the long hallway. He’s wearing a pair of pressed jeans, a crisp white T-shirt and a navy blue cashmere sweater over the top. Even his casual dress is contained and efficient. His LA Dodgers baseball cap is pulled low. He notices us and gives a quick wave. He slows his pace as he approaches.

  “Any sign of Connie or Dennis?” Huston asks.

  “No,” I say. Abigail and Leo are shaking their heads no.

  “So they kept to their word,” Huston says to himself.

  We are silent.

  “Dad’s wedding ring? We should send that back to Connie.” Huston eyes Leo’s now open hand.

  “It’s Mom and Dad’s,” Leo says, letting Huston read the inscription.

  “Ray and Evelyn,” Huston reads. We all nod. Huston hands the ring back to Leo, takes a long, slow breath and takes off his baseball cap. He runs his hand through his mussed hair and replaces the cap. He’s been doing that his whole life. It’s amazing how little we change.

  “Ray and Evelyn,” Abigail repeats.

  “Why didn’t they just… They should have just stayed together,” I sigh. Quiet.

  “Okay, he’s all ready,” Sister Carmella says, sweeping out of the room with a plastic bag filled with… well, filled.

  We all anxiously stream back into Dad’s room, away from the oppressive quiet of the hallway. Dad’s awake and watching the pre–Rose Bowl game specials on a small staticky television. He looks happy. Like this is what he’d be doing if he were home. Just sitting around watching football.

  “Watching the game, huh?” Huston says, taking Dad’s outstretched hand. Dad nods yes. He does say yes to everything. I notice that Sister Carmella has hung the crucifix over Dad’s bed and the Madonna is within reach on the bedside table. So he can touch it, continue his ritual. We’re in the right place.

  “What do you think?” Huston asks, motioning around the room. Dad gives him a big thumbs-up. Huston’s entire face lights up.

  “Good… good,” Huston answers, squeezing his lips tightly together.

  “Knock, knock.” An older gentleman in a doctor’s coat walks into Dad’s room a bit later. His stark white hair is clean-cut. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and dress pants underneath the doctor’s coat. He’s holding a chart and has his pen at the ready.

  “Hi,” we all say in unison.

  “Happy New Year,” the doctor says, walking over to Dad.

  “Huston Hawkes,” Huston says, extending his hand to the doctor.

  “Dr. O’Rourke.”

  “Dr. O’Rourke,” Huston repeats, and then goes around the room introducing us all. Dr. O’Rourke shakes hands with each of us. He seems like a genuine kind of guy. A real old-school doctor.

  “Ray, you’ve got the game on, I see,” Dr. O’Rourke says, walking back over to Dad’s bedside and flipping the pages on Dad’s chart.

  “Pregame,” Leo corrects, unable to stop himself. Abigail narrows her eyes at him. Leo clears his throat.

  “It looks like you’re having a hard time keeping stuff in, Ray,” Dr. O’Rourke reports. Dad nods yes. Of course.

  “Is there anything we can do about that?” Huston asks.

  “We can try a couple of other formulas, but this is definitely something we have to watch. The threat of dehydration concerns me,” Dr. O’Rourke says, focusing on Huston. Awesome. Let’s jot down “dehydration” on the ever-growing list of threats to Dad’s life. Down the list from “massive stroke.” Just a bit.

  “Dehydration,” Huston repeats.

  “Let’s go talk in the hall, let Ray watch the game in peace,” Dr. O’Rourke says, smiling at Dad. Dad nods yes. Leo controls himself and doesn’t correct Dr. O’Rourke again. Dr. O’Rourke looks at Huston and then at the rest of us. He wants all of us.

  “Sure… sure,” we all mumble.

  “Ray, I’m going to steal your kids for a second,” Dr. O’Rourke says, putting his hand on Dad’s shoulder. Dad shrugs his shoulders. We all shuffle into the hallway. I don’t know where to look. I lock eyes with Abigail. She looks just as confused as I do. Leo’s eyes have already begun to well up. I take his hand. Huston’s arms are wound tightly across his chest.

  “You have concerns?” Huston starts.

  “I just wanted a chance to speak more frankly,” Dr. O’Rourke says, tucking Dad’s chart under his arm.

  “Thank you for your discretion,” Huston says.

  “Your father has suffered a massive stroke, as you know. It looks like his body is still rejecting any nourishment.”

  “Yes, we’re aware of that,” Huston answers. Leo flips Dad’s wedding ring onto his thumb and slides it all the way down. I sneak a peek at the Lady in Red under the statue of the Virgin Mary. Still there. Staring right at me.

  “St. Joe’s up in Ojai also noted a severe drop-off in your father’s urine output,” Dr. O’Rourke offers.

  “His urine output?” Huston asks.

  “His body isn’t releasing enough fluid,” Dr. O’Rourke explains. Dad’s sitting up in his bed breathing, thinking, and waiting for us to come back in. Dad’s going to get better. He’s watching football in a little striped polo. It’s New Year’s Day, for Christ’s sake.

  “We just got him here,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. I look over at Huston. His face is in a battle to stay expressionless. Why did we move heaven and earth to get him here if… if… I can’t say it.

  “Hospitals aren’t equipped to handle long-term care,” Dr. O’Rourke answers.

  “We had to move him,” Huston whispers.

  “Your father’s situation is dire. I must prepare you,” Dr. O’Rourke says, his voice soft, but authoritative.

  “Prepare us?” Huston presses. Abigail claps her hand over her mouth. I squeeze Leo’s hand, tighter and tighter.

  “St. Joe’s indicated that you should think about a hospice program for your father. I agree that it’s the best option for Ray, given his decline,” Dr. O’Rourke says. He takes Dad’s chart from under his arm, opens it up, and hands Huston a pamphlet. That pamphlet was like a ticking time bomb just waiting in there for us.

  “Wait… wait… what are we talking about here?” I eke out.

  “Hospice?” Abigail interrupts, watching as Huston opens the pamphlet and begins to read. His baseball cap low, his eyes hidden.

  “Why did we drag Dad all the way down here?” Leo almost whispers to himself.

  “The philosophy of hospice is more about making the patient comfortable, rather than imposing harsh treatments that might be painful,” Dr. O’Rourke explains.

  “And fruitless. Painful and fruitless, right?” I ask. Dr. O’Rourke nods in agreement.

  Huston looks over at me. We’ve brought him all this way. Doesn’t Dr. O’Rourke know what we had to do to get him here? I shake my head again. I knew it. I knew Dad was… well, I just knew. He’s just sitting in there watching football, though. I take in a deep breath, trying to breathe. I breathe out.

  We are all quiet. No one dares say it. No one dares ask it. We don’t want clarity. We want to stay in the dark. Seconds… -minutes pass.

  “Dad’s not going to get better?” Leo finally asks.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dr. O’Rourke says, resting a hand on Leo’s shoulder.

  chapter twenty-one

  This is bullshit,” Leo says once we’re safely outside in the little picnic area just off the St. Teresa’s cafeteria. He slumps over the table.

  “Why did we come all the way down here when he could have just stayed up in Ojai?” Abigail asks, bending into a small picnic table bench.

  “Hospitals take care of the sick,” I say, sitting next to Leo. My anger is rising.

  “Not the dying,” Huston finishes.

  We are
quiet. Two nuns walk by with an older woman in a wheelchair. We all smile and greet the women. We remain quiet long after they’ve passed.

  “We didn’t get enough time with him,” Leo says, looking down, not daring to look at anyone.

  “The ring thing… we just now figured out the ring…” Abigail trails off, pointing to the wedding band on Leo’s thumb. The wedding band that proves Dad always loved Mom even if we—even if she—didn’t know it.

  “Goddamn it,” I say, the pressure in my shoulders and chest rising.

  “I don’t think I can sit there and watch him die,” Leo says, his voice cracking.

  “It’s why we’re here,” I say, his face becoming more and more red and blotchy.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t go back in there and smile and hold his hand and talk about waterproof casts and football games… when… when… How am I supposed to do that?” Leo asks.

  “You just are,” Huston answers.

  “Historians say that how a culture of people takes care of their sick and… dying is a sign of being civilized. It shows a level of humanity… a level of evolution,” I ramble, wanting to talk about something academic. Skirt the emotion as long as I can.

  “I can’t… I can’t…” Leo crumbles. I shift over and sit closer to him, wrapping my arm around his convulsing shoulders. He leans into me and I can feel him sobbing uncontrollably. I’m terrified of that kind of crying. We fall silent once again.

  “He’s wanted out since Mom died,” Huston finally whispers, glancing at the ring.

  “I don’t want him out… I want him here,” Leo sobs. I pull him close. Abigail is quiet.

  “He doesn’t want to be here,” Huston answers. He is stoic and decided in his theory. He has to be. Abigail is just nodding, nodding, nodding—formulating theories and trying to believe in them.

  “No one wants to die,” Leo chokes. My body is numb. I don’t know what terrifies me more: the pain that awaits me or the ability I have to completely shut down emotionally.

  “Huston’s right—Dad wants out,” I finally say.

  “Once again, we’re not enough. He doesn’t want to stay with us,” Abigail yells as she slams her hand on the table. We all jump back.

  “That’s not it, Abby,” Huston soothes, not thrown at all.