Being Mean

by Patricia Eagle

  In Mom’s story, Gran’pa didn’t seem too bothered about leaving his wife and four kids behind. When he skipped his wife’s requests for financial support, all ninety pounds of my Gran showed up in Jesse to find Gran’pa living with another woman. Gran instructed my dad, whom she had made tag along, to help her toss out every possession of the woman’s that was in Gran’pa’s house, and then Gran turned to ten-year-old Joe and told him that now there was room for him to stay right there with Gran’pa. “He can take care of at least one of his kids instead of some whore,” Gran proclaimed.

  “I’m not going to support you,” Gran’pa later informed little Joe, “so you better figure it out.” Dad got that bike and a paper route, and said he often stayed alone for weeks while Gran’pa went to work the oil fields.

  Dad suddenly stops recounting what he was remembering about his early life in Oklahoma and announces, “This is really a good visit!” He seems done, however, with relating details about his days in Jesse, so I pull out the article I brought to share.

  “Listen to this, Dad,” I encourage as I begin reading how scientists have just finished a six-year study of millions of stars in the Milky Way and learned that most of those stars have multiple planets, many the size of Earth. I skim the article, attempting to make it as simple as possible, then read this part slowly: “‘The study marks a milestone in our understanding of Earth’s place in the cosmos, and suggests that life is very likely to exist elsewhere in the universe.’24

  “Apparently Earth might not be quite so unique as we thought,” I say looking up at Dad. “Just like you used to suggest when we looked through your telescope.”

  Dad’s expressions while I read ranged from squinting, to bringing his head closer, then finally settling into a scowl. “I just can’t read anymore,” he announces. “The words on the page don’t make sense.” I wonder if Dad is frustrated that he realizes he can no longer read, or that he couldn’t make sense out of what I’d read, and I decide to not ask, just roll up the magazine and put it away.

  “Thanks,” Dad says softly, adding, “This has been a really good visit.” His hands are fumbling with the headphones that he now wants off. I reach over and help remove them.

  I lean down toward his left ear that has a little hearing left and tell him, “I’m glad you liked the visit, Dad.” I give him a kiss on the cheek, and he pulls me closer for a hug. It means something to me when Dad initiates these hugs. I’m standing, he’s sitting, he doesn’t smell good, the life we’ve shared is damn confusing, but the feelings between us now, for the most part, are healthy. I’ve been able to become strong enough, for long enough, to see compassion emerge.

  As I stand, he is already closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the chair. I decide to leave him in the TV room and let the nurses know where he is napping, then I head down the long corridor from D-wing, past all the old war pictures plastered on both sides of the walls, my eyes focused straight ahead.

  THE LAST VISIT

  November, 2012 (age 60)—Bonham, Texas

  Dad is sleeping in his wheelchair in the dining room when Bill and I arrive at the Veterans Home. He looks thin. I saw him two days ago, after Bill and I first arrived in Texas on this journey from our home in Colorado. Dad was under covers in bed, heavily medicated after being combative with someone. He has a roommate, so perhaps it was with him. I sang a few songs and sat quietly in the room for almost two hours. Dad occasionally cast mean, sidelong glances at me that looked like he wanted to hit me, while his roommate smiled sweetly. Neither of them said a word, nor did I, except for song lyrics.

  Today Bill sits with me for thirty minutes as Dad sleeps; he then heads to the car, probably for a nap himself. I realize it’s hard to visit the Veterans Home: seeing the residents slumped in their chairs, smelling the mix of body odors and food, hearing moans and groans.

  Finally, Dad wakes up, sees me, and without even saying hello, asks to go outside.

  “Good idea, Dad. I could use some sun, a breeze, a few birds.” Once outside, a nurse helps me pull a chair over so that I can sit beside Dad. Finally settled, he looks over at me.

  “I know you. You’re one of my girls,” and he leans over to give me a kiss on the cheek. I smile, relieved that he appears to be feeling considerably different than he did two days ago.

  We watch the sparrows busy in the bushes, hopping in and out, chirping at one another. They seem to have so much going on, or perhaps it just appears so in contrast to the pace of the patients here. Dad loves watching them and laughs when a few birds look like they’re squabbling.

  “Dad, I wanted to tell you thanks for the things you arranged that have really helped me.” I avoid saying “money” or “financial” because I don’t want to trigger any outbursts. After Dad settled these things years ago, he has voiced regrets about it many times. Plus, I carefully avoid saying, “that have helped me and Bill,” since Dad became so jealous of Bill while we were all living together. Dad probably doesn’t remember, but I can’t take a chance of a bad mood descending.

  Dad just sits and stares straight ahead, focusing on the sparrows’ antics.

  “I’ll always remember things you taught me about sailing, birds, gardening, and the stars.”

  Silence.

  “Dad, I don’t see you much anymore because I’m living in Colorado again.”

  Silence.

  “I probably won’t be back this way through the winter. We went through quite a mountain pass blizzard on our drive down.” I pause again for some long minutes. “This might be our last visit together, Dad.”

  Dad nods and, looking straight ahead, says, “I love you.”

  A piercing ache spreads across my chest. I feel a hitch in my breath and take care to keep from bursting into tears.

  “Thank you, Dad.” And after a pause, “I love you, too.”

  Dad closes his eyes and remains silent as we continue to sit in the cool winter sunshine.

  Earlier this week, Bill and I had gone to see Mom in the facility where she is living. She had on a hot pink robe that gaped open where we could see her bra—so unlike her. Slumping in her wheelchair, she resembled Humpty Dumpty, spindly arms and legs poking out of a very round body. She is happy to be on a diet of desserts, despite the complications for her kidneys. We have all explained the consequences of this decision to her, but sweets are her choice.

  Mom likes me again now that we aren’t living together, although when I don’t push her wheelchair where she wants, she gives me the bucktooth-face as a way to get back at me. At least she put me in braces back then. But what of the steps she didn’t take to curb what was hurting me? She has never said she did not know what Dad was doing with me, only that what I said happened never happened. And despite all that, I’m still glad to see Mom. We share affectionate hugs, kisses, and “I love you”s with ease now. My heart, body, and spirit simply can’t hold onto bitterness and resentment any longer, especially with two old people at the ends of their lives.

  But now, looking at Dad sitting in the sun, I’m again touched by confusion. I feel like I hurt Dad by voicing my memories of sexual abuse, despite knowing that he hurt me terribly by doing those things. And even so, sitting here right now, I realize I love him, and I’m willing to believe he loves me as well. I don’t understand all this: how memories get trapped, then surface; how love gets learned and bartered; why good people do horrible things and call it love; how love can rise through unhappiness, confusion, and control.

  I sit with Dad in silence outside for another fifteen minutes, then push him back into the dining area up to a table where he will later have lunch. Standing behind him, a hand on his shoulder, I stare at the back of his head then, without another word, walk away, my boots clicking on the linoleum floor. I stop under the archway of the dining room entrance, pausing as I look back at my dad sitting there in silence.

  He never opens his eyes.

  EULOGY FOR DAD

  December, 2012 (age 60)—Bonham, Texas />
  We decided to use the tiny chapel at the Veterans Home for Dad’s memorial service, both for convenience and because there were a few veterans there we thought might want to attend. Four little pews on each side of the short aisle are enough for our family—sisters, children, spouses, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. I am glad Shawn came. We are all surprised by how many Veterans Home residents are here, standing in the doorway and in the back of the chapel, along with a few of the home’s caretakers.

  I walk to the front to give my eulogy.

  “The last time I saw Dad, the day before this past Thanksgiving, we sat in this Veteran Home’s courtyard, soaking up some friendly sunshine—Dad slouched in his wheelchair under blankets while I sat in a plastic chair splattered with bird poop. We rested quietly, holding hands. Dad wasn’t talking much anymore, and the silence felt peaceful. When it was almost time to take Dad back in, I mentioned how this could be the last time I’d see him and reminded him how grateful I was for a number of things.

  “Allow me to share some of what I learned from my dad:

  “From Abilene to Richardson, Dad always kept a record player and a metal box of classical music albums he used to play regularly. As a child, when I heard this orchestral music, I raised my arms and pretended to direct the various sections of the orchestra, experiencing music like I had never heard before.

  “By twelve years old, I was learning the flute, within years becoming an integral part of the woodwind section of a large school band.

  “Dad often kept a garden. The first garden I remember took up one entire corner of our Abilene yard—in the same area where we kept rabbit hutches, beside our playhouse, the one Dad had built. Year after year, I watched Dad plan, plant, weed, water, and wonder about the gardening process.

  “At age twenty-three, I planted my first full garden and have rarely gone a year without one since that time.

  “The picture that remains most vivid in my mind is Dad poring over books while studying in our small den in Richardson. He would have loved today’s online studies, but not having this option, he immersed himself in correspondence courses—popular in those days—constantly educating himself in anything that piqued his interest, receiving multiple degrees and certifications.

  “Watching his diligence, focus, and fascination with education, I learned to emulate these qualities, persevering through college degrees and becoming a passionate and committed lifelong learner.

  “But what I treasure most about my dad is that he taught me a deep love, reverence, and appreciation for nature. After this WWII Navy man finally got his own sailboat, he taught me to notice and understand the wind, waves, and water and, with that knowledge, how to operate and navigate a sailboat.

  “My very first work after high school was as a sailing instructor, and in the two decades to follow, I owned three of my own sailboats.

  “With ample energy to burn when younger, I often wanted to swim beside the boat when we were out sailing, especially when the wind was low. Dad came up with the idea of attaching a life buoy to a long line that dragged behind the sailboat and used a bullhorn to warn me when the wind picked up so I could grab onto the buoy.

  “With Dad’s encouragement, I learned about developing physical endurance that contributed toward my becoming a long-distance athlete. I also learned the critical life lesson of how to not be afraid of deep waters. Often the wind carried Dad far ahead until he could come about, while I treaded water, knowing he would soon sail back within reach.

  “Dad also taught me to be aware of birds. When out sailing, he would point out the different birds floating on the lake or soaring high above our sails. When walking on his land at Cleburne, where, for the second time in his life, Dad had built his own home largely alone, he quietly showed me where various owls lived, and once even coaxed a hummingbird to land on his hand. Then, during his time here, we sat outside the dining area and watched house sparrows busy in the bushes, both Dad and I laughing at their antics.

  “For the last thirty years, watching and learning about birds has been my most beloved pastime.

  “Because of Dad’s interest in astronomy and the night skies, I learned to value this incredible galaxy where we live. One night while visiting Mom and Dad in Plano, Dad woke me up in the middle of the night to show me Saturn through a telescope—a telescope he had built himself. The golden planet looked resplendent, nesting magically in the middle of its rings.

  “Finally, by my fifties, I found my own piece of remote land on this amazing earth where I can observe the Milky Way blasting across the night sky in full breathtaking glory. There I practice finding constellations Dad long ago pointed out to me.

  “Although a complicated, troubled, and very difficult man in many ways—as you here at the Veterans Home learned—these are some things I regard as gifts from my dad that I want to remember today.

  “What are gifts to me, I choose to believe, were also gifts for Dad, things that surfaced for him in his final months of confusion, fear, silence, and sleep.

  “In Dad’s last days here at this Veterans Home, I choose to believe he heard beautiful classical music floating past his ears.

  “I believe he could still feel the rich, moist dirt from his land and gardens in his hands.

  “I choose to believe something inspiring and fascinating that he once studied filled his thoughts.

  “I believe he remembered how the wind felt on his face as tall white sails snapped into place.

  “And, in his final hours, I choose to believe that cherished visions of stunning planets and bright stars blinded his eyes as he closed them one last time.”

  TWO TEARDROPS

  November, 2014 (age 62)—Whitesboro, Texas

  “Mom?” I call out, as I slowly push open her room’s door. I knocked, but there was no answer. She does not wear her hearing aids any longer unless one of her daughters insists.

  Mom is sitting in front of her window watching birds at the feeder outside. Paula keeps it stocked with birdseed. I see a flash of colors as a blue jay descends, scaring off a flock of sparrows and a bright red cardinal.

  “That blue jay thinks he owns my feeder!” Mom complains as she turns her wheelchair around to see who has come into her room. “Patricia?” she says as a smile spreads across her face.

  “So you have a bossy jay, do you?” I answer walking over to give her a kiss and check out the jay.

  “There’s even a bright blue and green parakeet that flies in from time to time. A little house bird that must have escaped his cage. Maybe he’ll come today since you’re here!”

  “Wouldn’t that be sweet? Maybe he’s our bird that flew out the screen door when I was two!” I exclaim.

  Mom giggles. “Paula or Pam probably told me you were coming, but I forgot,” she laments, glancing at a wall calendar nearby where my two sisters mark doctor appointments and my visits. I see my name in bold letters written across the days I am to be here.

  “No worries, as long as those ladies in the kitchen know I’m joining you for lunch!” I assure her. This small private facility where Mom now lives, called Just Like Home, is the only facility either of my parents has lived in where I can eat the food and not feel sick afterwards. The meals are homemade, delicious, and not too salty.

  Mom looks like an entirely different person than she did while living at the last place. Her hair is combed and styled with that little curl at the top of her forehead like she had as a glamorous young woman. Her black and white checkered blouse is buttoned evenly with the collar on the outside of her sweater. Her eyes are brighter, teeth cleaner, and she offers a ready smile.

  I feel myself take in a deep breath of relief. I absolutely hated that last nursing facility and begged my sisters to move Mom. The medical staff claimed it was too much of a risk to move her back into an assisted living home because of her medical conditions. But, as we suspected, many of those conditions were specific to that place—a chaotic facility that mis-medicated, gave not an ounce of privacy, a
nd had terribly unhealthy food. Mom’s room was so cramped with two beds, two bedside tables, two dressers, two wheelchairs, and the dividing curtain, that when I went to visit, there was no place for me to sit except in Mom’s wheelchair.

  I pull up a comfortable chair and sit down in front of Mom, grateful for the chair and the space here in this new place. Although she is still smiling, I have a pretty good idea of what Mom is going to say next. This often happens on my visits. She seems genuinely happy to see me, and, being the daughter who has spent the most time outdoors and who she now only sees every four or five months, my weathered appearance predictably jolts her. Clearly, I no longer look like the image she still carries in her head.