How We Remember

by J. M. Monaco

  Jon stopped stirring his bolognese and stared at me, waiting. ‘One thing led to another? What do you mean, “You know”? Oh don’t tell me you and her,’ he shook his head. ‘Don’t tell me you ended up having lesbian sex or something. No, do tell me, Jo. Tell me what happened,’ he snapped.

  ‘No. No, Jon. It wasn’t like that.’ How could I even begin to describe what I’d done? I barely understood it myself.

  ‘What else do you call it then?’

  I closed my eyes and sighed, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what it was.’

  Jon’s face grew stonier as he stared at me. ‘No wonder you’re in trouble. Oh boy, you dug your own hole with this one, Jo. What the hell were you thinking?’ He threw the wooden spoon down and red sauce splattered across the countertop and cupboards.

  ‘Oh, please, Jon. Oh, God. It just seemed so innocent like two friends getting close. Oh, I don’t know. But then I realised afterwards it went too far and I told her later that was the end of it, that it was a big mistake. But she was upset, and then my mother died and I was away and had to go back again and I never had the chance to sort it out and I just hoped it would all go away, die down on its own and then she tells Adam I’m a crap supervisor. Then she told him she wanted someone else. I should have seen how wrong she was going with her project but I let it go, just lost sight of things. Oh, it’s all so awful.’ I sunk my head so I could blank out his accusing face and pulled at my hair. ‘You’re right. I’ve dug my own hole. It’s all a big mess. Oh, Jon, please. Please don’t be upset.’

  ‘Please don’t be upset? I don’t believe this,’ he shouted, making me jump. Jon left his pot simmering, grabbed his coat and left the house.

  As the door slammed behind him, I sat in the kitchen wailing in regret, wondering if he’d ever forgive me. Had I done the unforgiveable? After a while I began to ponder about that email Nina sent. Had she sent others I had missed? I found the email and hovered the cursor over the words ‘Can I see you?’ for half a minute or so, then I pressed the delete button without opening it. I hoped it would wipe Nina out of my mind for good.

  Jon slept in the spare room after returning home late.

  At least two days passed before Jon showed a willingness to talk other than reminding me to set the burglar alarm when I left the house, to clear up after he’d finished cooking, or to remember to pick up more milk. This silence was the worst punishment he could have inflicted. When he finally agreed to sit down one evening he said, ‘I’ve seen you reach some lows, but this is probably the lowest. Now that you’re looking at forced early retirement and you’re going to have all this time on your hands, you’d better sort yourself out. Yes, we can move on, but the hard work starts now.’

  I forced a hug on him and felt him tense up. I knew that the cyclone damage I’d caused was not reversible, but as I held on to him and cried into his chest I could feel his body begin to relax. Then he tightened his embrace around me and began to sob.

  The following week the HR director, an eager beaver in his late-thirties with a trendy shaved hair cut at the sides, had offered me a coffee, a big Danish pastry and lots of his time. He was almost too polite to convey any real sincerity about losing me to early retirement. What did he really care about my future, my old age, the sad reality of my ‘condition,’ as he called it, that might require care later on? Gerald confirmed the paperwork that I had signed with him, which secured my nice retirement package. If I found some freelance work here and there to top up my university pension, my later state pension, my savings and the pot of my mother’s investment money, then things looked like they were going to be OK. ‘We’ve really valued your contribution and your commitment, Joanna. You’ll be missed,’ Gerald said with a mixture of forced sympathy and relief in his youthful eyes. I wondered at that moment if any bad things had ever happened to him. I guessed they probably hadn’t, but there would still be plenty of time for that.

  Before I left, he added, I guess in the way of small talk, ‘Any exciting holidays planned?’

  ‘Well, no, but there’s lots of stuff I need to catch up with, let’s just say that.’

  Back home, Jon checked the numbers and said it all looked good. ‘Get back to doing some painting and enjoy life again. You’ve paid your dues.’

  ‘And us?’ I said. ‘Are we OK?’

  Jon shrugged and gave me a small smile. ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘Let’s see.’

  After a few formalities, the police from the Cape Cod town of Sandwich concluded there was no foul play involved with Dad’s death. Word about the nature of his suicide hit the local and state news and soon everyone in the old neighbourhood heard about it. All it took was one or two of Dad’s cousins to spread the story around to the extended family and our job was made easy. Dave and I didn’t have to spend too much time contemplating what to do. Dad made it clear, after Ma died, that he hated Catholic wakes, churches, priests, funerals and anything else to do with the stifling religion in which he was raised.

  ‘When I go don’t throw away money on some funeral parlour caking all that crap on my face. No funeral. No memorial. None of that shit. Just burn me. Have a few drinks and be done with it.’

  With great relief that we didn’t have to endure another Catholic memorial service, we abided by his wishes and invited family and friends to the same restaurant where we had held our mother’s post-memorial gathering. I found a nice picture of Dad in his young, slimmer days on a boat with a few of his friends, standing proudly, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, holding a huge catch which Dave reminded me was a cod. That was one of his happier times, when his dodgy money was overflowing, when he would free himself of the burden of family, take off and hook up with any woman he wanted. One of those many times I had wished he’d indulge in a binge and never return.

  ‘He was a handsome one even as he got older,’ his cousin Marilena said before getting short of breath. ‘All the girls wanted to date him when he was young, but it was your mother who won the prize.’ She took some more breaths again before finishing. ‘He must’ve been devastated when he lost her. I wish we could’ve helped, Jo…I’m so sorry we weren’t there for him.’

  I told her there was nothing she could’ve done, but it was clear to me that I was probably the negligent daughter. I asked myself how I could have responded when faced with a man who, in spite of any biological parental obligations, during my lifetime had created such an emotional distance from his children that any attempt at repair would have taken decades, time he’d never have.

  Around two months before his death I had approached Dad again to get him to acknowledge his grief in losing my mother, but he kept changing the subject. ‘Dad, it can take people a long, long time to get over the loss of their spouse. There’s nothing wrong with admitting you might need some help. You sound a bit sad most of the time when I get you on the phone. It might be good to talk to about it.’

  ‘OK, you made your point. Yeah, some days aren’t so great but what’re you gonna do? I keep busy enough. I help the guys over at the station with some cars and I see my friends down at the bar. We talk. Don’t need any other kind of talking, thanks very much. Anyways, hah, speaking of talking, yeah, my brother likes to talk a load of shit. I heard from him the other day and you wouldn’t believe what he told me. He says, “Hey Jimmy, I got a tip on a good winner at the races.” Can’t remember if he said it was the dogs or the horses. Whatever. Then he says to me, “It’s a sure thing, you could double some of that money of yours.” Then the next thing he says to me is, “You think you can front me something for this one, just this one time? I gotta a good feeling.” Yeah, that’s what he said. See? Everybody wants a piece of me.’

  Dave and I talked again about Dad’s increasing episodes of memory loss and unpredictable moods. We finally persuaded him to see his doctor and Dave agreed to go with him to the appointment.

  ‘Yeah, I went with your brother and saw the quack. The doctor says it’s probably just because I’m old, that’s all, this i
s what happens to old people like me. We forget a few things. But he did some tests.’

  So I asked him about the results.

  ‘I did OK on some, not so great on others, but this guy, he’s getting up there in the years too, you know. He ain’t no spring chicken. I’m not sure he even knows what’s going on. I think he said he’ll do some more tests, then he said something about medication. He gave me some stuff to read that I put somewhere but I haven’t looked at it. Ask your brother about it, he was there. Anyways, I’m telling you there’s nothing wrong and now I’m getting tired of hearing about it all the time. Everything’s just fine and dandy.’

  Dave reported Dad’s difficulties to the doctor in as much detail as he could. Dave told me the doctor had some concerns about early dementia but said at that stage Dad looked like he was still getting by. Dave went with Dad to another appointment but our conversation about it was cut short. My brother had been more stable overall since his last hospital admission but I still heard the fragility in his voice over the phone.

  ‘Jo, Dad doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to face it. And you know what? I really can’t deal with any of this right now either, with work and everything else going on. This doctor asked if there was any other family and I said you were in London and he should talk to you on the phone about what’s going on. Dad knows you’ll probably call the guy.’

  I called the office from London only a week or so before Dad shot himself. The doctor did sound like an older man in his late sixties maybe, but he was professional and clear. He accepted that family members would be concerned.

  ‘It’s obvious to me that your father’s been depressed,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the death of your mother has been a major trigger. Then the gradual loss of his work, and with his history of depression it’s not surprising.’

  I was a bit stunned when he said this, but I said nothing. Later I recalled the time when Dad returned home after his long disappearing stint with another woman, that time I overheard him crying in my mother’s arms, his glassy-eyed, sleep-filled days of recovery afterwards. Over the years my brother and I knew something wasn’t right with Dad, but neither he nor my mother ever disclosed what the problem really was.

  ‘I wouldn’t say he’s the easiest of patients but I’m used to those,’ the doctor added. ‘He did say that you urged him to see someone about the memory issues. From what I’ve been able to find with the memory tests, the scan, he is showing signs of early dementia but he seems to be coping in general at the moment. We talked about this and about possible medications. But like many patients when they hear the word dementia they shut down and go into denial. He’s not willing yet to think about the future. That’s where he is right now. Your brother did look a bit upset when I talked to him privately about future caregiving needs, that sort of thing. I know it’s hard for family members.’

  Dave was difficult to get hold of after that and when we did talk we made the decision to give Dad some time to adjust to the doctor’s news before addressing what to do next. But before we found time to do anything else, Dave called me with the bad news.

  I’ve wondered if Dad’s apologetic note was, in fact, his way of saying, I’m sorry but I just don’t have anything I can offer you. I always thought of my father as a selfish man, but maybe he was trying to save Dave from becoming a carer, surely a role that his son would hardly be best suited to. Aside from the despair he must have felt in losing his memory, could Dad have also just reached a point where he thought he couldn’t carry on in his self-serving way anymore, but didn’t know how else to be in the world? Is that why he was sorry? Or maybe there was a simpler explanation, as Marilena suggested: he missed my mother too much and couldn’t live without her. Maybe he was just plain sorry, because he knew he was going to be leaving us in that bloody state with a mess to clean afterwards.

  I made sure I didn’t attempt a eulogy this time. Dave and I both thanked everyone for coming and for befriending our father. After the episode at my mother’s memorial I was relieved Uncle Ron didn’t show his face, but two of his sons, Matty and Chrissie came along. They apologised that Billy couldn’t be there. They were polite enough not to mention my drunken outburst, and I decided it was only right to return their good manners.

  ‘Sorry for your loss,’ Matty said, extending his hand.

  ‘Thank you Matty. Thanks for coming. I appreciate it,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, Jo. Sorry you’re having to go through this after what happened with your mother,’ said Chrissie, who offered an awkward hug. ‘Billy’s working today. Couldn’t get away.’ He looked down, and clasped his hands together.

  ‘I know it was hard for you guys too when your mother passed,’ I said. ‘It’s really good to see you both.’

  Neither of the boys mentioned their dad, and Chrissie gave me another hug. ‘You take care of yourself, Jo.’

  Beth, Jean and Beth’s father, Brian, attended for support. Brian was a handsome older man for sure, not much changed since his younger days, I thought to myself when I saw them arrive. Silver-haired, still slim and keeping up with his jogging, he turned up looking pretty suave in that steel-grey suit of his. For a second, I’m not quite sure why, I imagined him catching the eye of a younger woman in her fifties, someone like me, maybe, sweeping her off her feet, in spite of his age, and leaving his wife Jean in a devastated mess.

  Why do I think these things?

  Jean was chatting away to Beth, but Beth’s attention was elsewhere. She wore a fitted black blazer that appeared to stretch a bit too snugly at her arms, which were folded high across her breasts. Her eyes narrowed as they scanned most of the room. It looked as if this was her way of ensuring that everyone would behave themselves. Jon kept polite conversation going with the older relatives who, I could tell from a distance, were impressed by his British accent and Mediterranean-style good looks, even though he was developing a bit of a double chin. Dave spent a short time with Nicole and Amy, but mainly kept company with a few of his friends and some cousins.

  Karen made a brief show and offered her condolences. I watched her and Dave share a long embrace in the foyer before she left, and for the first time in many years, probably since that night at the dinner table when my father thrashed him for complaining about his McDonald’s burger, I witnessed my brother sobbing for real, his whole upper body shaking, while Karen wiped away his tears with the hem of her linen sleeve. For me, though, cry-baby Jo, the tears never came, although I was close, contagious as crying can be, when I watched my brother. I wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing. Is this what it means to let go, or was I, at last, able to pull myself together?

  I had found the $1000, all in tens, in an envelope in the shoe box, and we used it to pay for an open bar.

  ‘Your father would’ve liked that,’ his brother Joe said with a tired shrug and bloodshot eyes.

  I made sure I stayed clear of the bar, but others appreciated it, making quiet jokes here and there, reminiscing about the good times with Jimmy O’Brien. Unexpected tears filled the eyes of many of his male friends, including Dino, the limo driver, who took time out of his working day to pay his respects.

  ‘Jimmy could bust balls sometimes but in the end he always did good business,’ he said, wiping his eye. I never knew what kind of business my father did with Dino or the others and I lost interest in asking a long time ago. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, hon. Let me know when you and your husband go back to Logan. That ride’s on me.’

  Following the gathering for my father, Jon and I met up with Dave at the little cottage in Cape Cod that my mother bought. The realtor was positive there wouldn’t be any problem getting a good price for it, that it would get snapped up straightaway.

  Dave will take a lot of the furnishings, keep the fishing gear, all the tools; the Salvation Army will take the rest.

  We haven’t figured out yet how to get rid of the rifles Dad kept in the glass cabinet in his bedroom at the house, but I’ve insisted they have to go. Dave will
have Dad’s four-wheel drive and sell my mother’s Mondeo and the sports car he just bought. He will live in my parents’ house, the mortgage paid off years ago, and I will benefit from the sale of the cottage. Any profits from liquidising their assets will be split between us. Fair is fair, my mother would have said. Dave will now be able to pay off all his debts.

  So here we sit on Hank’s boat with my father’s old fishing buddy, who offered to take the three of us out to scatter the ashes. It doesn’t take us long to reach a quiet point where it feels right, somewhere around, Hank says, the usual spots where Jimmy used to fish. We don’t ask where the boat was found that evening.

  Before we do the deed Dave suggests we sit close together to hold hands and pray, with Dave sitting between Jon and me. ‘You too, Hank,’ Dave says.

  Hank declines politely. ‘It’s OK. You’re family. That’s the important thing.’

  We close our eyes and Dave’s grip tightens gradually as he prays. Jon wriggles a bit in protest.

  ‘Let’s keep it silent, Dave. It’s better that way,’ I mumble, and Dave falls silent.

  Hearing only the sound of the boat rocking gently with soft waves slapping against its sides, I welcome the quiet between my brother and me, Jon and Hank. The water hits the boat in such a way that it reminds me of the time I sat dozing in our garden sunshine recently and heard the bed sheets on the washing-line blowing hard against each other in the strong wind. There’s something oddly soothing about that. The only thing I pray for, not to God, but to the ocean or any other element of nature that could easily take my last breath away in an instant, is that this peace with my brother can last long enough to create an enduring memory.

  We’ve brought two metal urns – one is bronze with an embossed Celtic cross, and is filled with my mother’s ashes. The other one – bronze with a pewter finish and an engraved image of three dolphins – holds my father’s remains. Ma chose her own urn when she was planning her death. She wanted it to be special, she said, something that would always remind us of her. She requested to have her ashes released in the sea with my father’s, ‘Whenever that time may come. That way your father and I will always be together. Even when we’re gone and in heaven.’