Home Is Burning

by Dan Marshall

  I’d just sit, listening to my dad’s respirator, watching him sleep as peacefully as a man about to die can sleep. I took comfort in this. Though he wasn’t the man he used to be, he was still my dad. He was still my road map. He was still alive.

  I’d eventually crawl back into the basement with the other spiders.

  The cats had officially won the battle over my room. They were using it as their primary litter box. I guess they were getting back at me for wanting to get rid of them. Maybe they were collectively trying to drive me out of there for good. The room’s sheets and wallpaper were yellow, so an optimistic interior decorator could say, “Well, the piss matches the room’s color scheme, so that’s good.”

  But I’d say, “My God, what am I doing? I just turned twenty-six years old. I’m unemployed. I’m not going to school. And to put some shit-filled icing on the cake, I’m sleeping in a bed that reeks of cat urine. It’s been a long, hard tumble to rock bottom for old, fat Dan. Good thing we have HBO.”

  When I did sleep, I would dream about not actually pulling the plug and my dad walking again. I dreamed about us watching a Jazz game together. High fives were easy. We didn’t have to use our feet. LG stood for “Life is Good,” not “Lou Gehrig’s.” I was safe and protected from all the spiders and trash of the world. You know when you have a dream where you fuck someone you’ve wanted to fuck, and then wake up and realize that you didn’t fuck that person, but instead had ground your privates against the hard mattress? My dad-related dreams those nights were sort of like that, making waking up torturous, especially when combined with the pungent smell of cat piss.

  I also had one dream wherein I was balding, perhaps a sign that I’m aware of aging and death—or a sign that maybe I was actually balding. I woke up relieved, feeling my full head of amazing hair. I might not have a father in a couple of days, but I’m guaranteed to have this beautiful hair, I thought, hoping it wouldn’t start falling out in handfuls just to ensure I was really at rock bottom.

  * * *

  On the morning before the big day, I woke up at seven. I couldn’t sleep later than that. I figured the best way to start today would be to eat a really hearty breakfast: eggs mixed with ham, perhaps, and a banana, washed down with a glass of orange juice. That would give me energy and maybe start a trend wherein I would start taking better care of myself by doing things like eating hearty breakfasts. Fuck, maybe I should go for a run through the neighborhood, I thought.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, fat Dan, I counterargued.

  I showered. I brushed my teeth. I put my contacts in. I dressed.

  I walked out of my room to find Stana. She didn’t have a broom, vacuum, duster, any sprays, mops, or trash bags. It was just her. Sometimes during those days, I’d catch her aimlessly wandering through our house, not doing anything. This was what she was doing at seven thirty that morning—just wandering, maybe looking at pictures, thinking about shit. Who knows.

  “Danny, you is huggin’ me. I is sad today. Tomorrow is Daddy’s, how you say, good-bye,” Stana reminded me as I brought her in for a more-loving-than-usual hug. “Danny, you is be man of the house now. Daddy is no more. You is need be as kind and carin’ and lovin’ like Daddy.”

  “I don’t think so, Stana. I’ll never be a true man and good person like him … Hey, have you noticed that my bed smells like cat piss?” I asked.

  “Yes, Danny, I is smellin’. Once Daddy be gone and Mommy be gone, you is takin’ kitty and…” Stana lifted her thumb up to her neck and quickly brought it across her throat, as to imply that once my dad and mom were dead, I should start my new “kind” and “carin’” and “lovin’” postparent era by slitting a cat’s throat.

  “We’ll worry about that later, but could you wash the sheets?”

  “Danny, I washin’ and if I is seein’ kitty, I is kickin’ in head,” Stana said while pumping her left leg forward in a kicking motion. “I is sad about Daddy. He is such, how say, nice man, but I is hatin’ kitty.”

  I trooped upstairs from the basement and headed straight for the fridge to begin cooking my hearty egg and ham breakfast. I reached into the back of the fridge to the egg basket and dug my hand deep, only to find that we didn’t have any eggs. I opened the meat drawer. No ham. The fruit and vegetable bin. No bananas. I opened the orange juice and found that someone had played that joke where the person drinks all of something and then puts the empty carton back in the fridge. The only thing I could find was a giant potato salad Stana had made and some leftover lasagna.

  Stana walked upstairs holding all the sheets in her tiny, Holocaust-surviving arms. It looked as though she were hugging a giant bear draped in cat piss–stained sheets. I should have helped her. My dad would have taken all the sheets and washed them while Stana kicked up her old feet and had an Arnold Palmer. But instead I said, “Stana, are we out of eggs?”

  “Stana is usin’ eggs and makin’ potato salad and puttin’ in fridge. You have that.”

  So, I reluctantly made myself a plate of potato salad with a side of lasagna and started the day. So much for the hearty breakfast.

  I walked around the house to see what everyone else was up to. Greg was still asleep. Greg was a big sleeper these days. He was exhausted from our long year and crankier than ever. He, more than the rest of us, just wanted this to be over so we could move on. His sharp tongue had gotten even sharper and he had become terrifyingly blunt. He had gotten the week off from his reporter job. The poor gay goof had to spend his one week of vacation time watching his dad die and then attending his funeral. He probably would have rather gone to Costa Rica, like all those spoiled yuppies with no real problems.

  Tiffany was returning from getting coffee. She had brought me one, just to ensure that I would have diarrhea throughout the day, especially when combined with the potato salad. She, too, had taken the week off work. She, more than the rest of us, really had her shit together. She was a real adult. She had a job, was getting her M.B.A., and had a boyfriend with a large cock who was on his way to becoming a lawyer. She was set. Somehow ALS hadn’t ruined her life, but instead made it stronger. Conversely, I was a wandering soul—a reflection of an aimless and spoiled generation pulling America into a downward spiral.

  Chelsea got up. We told her that she had to miss the whole upcoming week of school because her dad was dying. She was pretty upset with that—not because her dad was dying, but because she didn’t want to get behind in her AP classes. She was consequently running around the house trying to get all her homework done.

  “Relax, Chelsea. Take it easy. Your dad’s dying tomorrow. That’s more important than school,” I told her.

  “Nothing’s more important than school,” she argued back.

  “What if they offered a class on your dad dying? Then would you give a shit about all this?” I asked.

  “If it were an AP,” she replied.

  Jessica arrived. She was almost five months pregnant now. She just plopped down on the bed next to my dad’s bed. She looked sad and tired.

  “You look like you need a drink,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I can’t because of the baby,” she said rubbing her belly.

  “One more reason to not get fucked and impregnated by your lacrosse coach, I guess,” I said. God, what’s the matter with me?

  My mom then woke up, peeled her sweaty body off Dad’s, and started her day by popping a few Klonopins. “My doctor told me to take these,” she assured us. “I need them.”

  My dad lay in his bed, awake. He always seemed to be awake in the mornings. I can’t ever remember a time when I caught him sleeping past eight. I was greeted by his beautiful and calming smile. It was going to be hard to lose that smile. Life would always be a little sadder. Knowing that, just like me, he didn’t want to make this day into a sad one, I said, “Last full day. You ready for this?”

  He nodded his head, as much as he could.

  “Good. You look like complete shit, by the way,” I joked. He smiled.
/>   Greg finally woke up and wandered into the room. We were now all there, ready for the last full day with our dad. He looked around at his tired family. He had lost everything in this battle, but he still had us. We pledged that today was going to be great.

  “Should we start by playing the song?” my mom asked, referring to the Beatles song she had been blasting on repeat over the last few days.

  “God. Please, no. That song might make my head explode,” I said.

  “If you turn on that song, I’ll turn off Dad’s respirator right now,” Greg said.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty tired of the song, too,” my dad managed to say.

  “Fine, but we’ve got to play it at some point,” my mom said. We all rolled our eyes.

  I had been filming the last couple of weeks of my dad’s life. My pal Dom was into film and had suggested I get a camera because this situation was so unique, so I did. Since I had started filming, I had been directing a lot of the drama. Like, if someone said something dramatic and poignant, and I wasn’t rolling, I’d make them repeat the line as if it was original. Today, I decided that I’d set up the camera on a tripod and just let it sit there in my dad’s room while the day played out.

  First things first, my mom wanted to talk about the logistics of the big day tomorrow. She had compiled a list in her red notebook of all the people who were supposed to be in the room when my dad officially went off the respirator. I really didn’t want to be in the room for it. I figured that we’d seen enough, that we’d watched him get closer and closer to death over the last year, and that we didn’t need to watch him actually die. I just knew that I didn’t want my last memory of him to be one in which I had to watch his life drain from his body. I brought this up.

  “I’m not sure we should be in the room with Dad when he dies,” I suggested.

  “We’re going to be in the room. You don’t have to be if you don’t want to be, but the rest of us are all going to be here,” my mom said.

  “Yeah, Dan, it’s important to Dad,” Tiffany said.

  “Fuck, well, I don’t want to be the one asshole who’s not in the room. Dad, do you want all of us with you? It’s really up to you,” I said, looking over at my dad.

  “I’d like you all to be there,” he said.

  Fuck. I’d be in the room.

  My mom started assembling the exclusive list like she was the bouncer at some shitty nightclub. Besides us, the others to be in the room were my mom’s best friend Kelly, Dr. Buys, Sam, our family friend Gary Neuenschwander, Stana, Creepy Todd, Dr. Bromberg, a nurse named Sunny from hospice, and Regina. No one else was to be let in.

  “I can’t believe Creepy Todd is going to be in the room,” said Greg. “He’s practically responsible for killing Dad.”

  “Fuck you, Greg,” said Jessica. “Get used to him.”

  “God, has anyone seen my calculator?” said Chelsea. She had her pre-calculus book opened and was getting some studying in while we sorted out all this shit. We ignored her.

  The big debate was over whether my dad’s siblings would be in the room.

  “Those fuckers can’t just show up at the last minute and expect to get to spend all this time with him at the very end,” my mom said. “Plus, they probably have some bullshit golf game planned before they go off and get all fucked up and drunk,” she added, looking pretty fucked up herself from all the Klonopin.

  I felt that my dad should have his siblings with him when he passed. I know I will want to have my siblings around me when I die from liver disease in a few years. So I argued on their behalf. But my mom insisted that they not be allowed in the room. At least they had gotten some time alone with him so they could say good-bye.

  In addition to the list, my mom—with the help of Creepy Todd—had organized this incredibly tacky send-off where all the children of the neighborhood would be given a balloon. On the day of the Big Unhook, my dad would be wheeled to the upstairs window overlooking the driveway and look down at the children. He would somehow wave, and then be wheeled to his room to be taken off the respirator, having spent his last moments saluting a bunch of Mormon strangers. He would die. Then we would run to the window to alert these incredibly important neighborhood children—most of whom had never even met my dad—that he was dead. We would symbolically close the blinds shut, and they would all release the balloons, carrying his spirit to a heaven that he didn’t believe existed.

  “Okay, so who’s going to pick up the balloons?” she asked.

  “Can we drop the balloons and focus on Dad?” I yelled. “We haven’t focused on him at all and it’s his last full day. You need to stop flipping out about shit that doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “Yeah, Mom, you need to turn the crazy down a couple notches today,” Greg said.

  “I’m sorry that I’m losing my husband and I’m upset about it,” she cried back, popping another Klonopin.

  “We’re losing our father, so it’s hard for us, too, but we want to spend the time we have with him, and not worry about lists and releasing a bunch of bullshit balloons,” I said.

  “Yeah, Mom, just shut up for two seconds,” Chelsea said, looking up from her math book to get in on this mom-bashing session.

  “Why are you all being mean to me?” she asked.

  “Because you’re insane. Take some more Klonopin and relax,” I said. I walked over to the TV and began clicking around HBO On Demand. “Here, I’m going to find us a nice soft-core porn and it’s going to chill us all out.”

  I finally found Y tu mamá también, which opens with a nice fuck scene that made me hope no one I’ve loved was presently having wild sex in Mexico. It took about three or four moans combined with thrusts before the room consensus deemed it inappropriate and made me turn it off.

  “I hope Abby isn’t fucking someone in Mexico,” I quietly murmured to myself while clicking off the TV.

  My mom eventually decided Creepy Todd would take over the whole balloon-release extravaganza. He would pick the balloons up in the morning. We could finally focus on hanging out with our dad.

  “What should we do?” I asked.

  “I might go back to sleep,” said Greg.

  “Greg, come on. We can sleep when this is over,” said Tiffany.

  “I swear someone took my calculator. People keep moving all my shit around and I’m getting really sick of it. I need my fucking calculator,” said Chelsea.

  “I know exactly where it is, Chelsea. I buried it thirty feet below the earth’s core last night,” I said.

  “Really?” she asked.

  “No, Chelsea, I have no fucking idea where your calculator is. You need to keep track of your own shit. You’re seventeen years old,” I said.

  “You’re seventeen years old,” she giggled back.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” said my dad, finally cutting in.

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “No, not yet. I want to spend some time alone with your dad,” my mom said.

  “Can’t we all spend time with him?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I want to give him his daily blow job first,” she said, while washing a Klonopin down with a spoonful of yogurt.

  “Jesus, Mom. That’s fucking gross,” I said.

  “Todd’s going to pick up the balloons in the morning. Did I mention that? One less thing to worry about,” she said, dropping the blow job momentarily.

  “Oh, great. What a load off. I was super stressed about the balloons,” I said.

  “Yeah, me, too,” said my mom, not picking up on the sarcasm. “Okay, everyone out of the room. I need some time with Dad. It shouldn’t take too long,” she added with an air of confidence.

  We all shook our heads in disbelief and exited the room, not wanting to stick around to watch our dying parents do oral.

  My mom and my dad had been married for thirty years. They had a really loving relationship. Life is all about accumulating people who love you no matter what, and they loved each other no matter what. He had stood b
y her through all the cancer. Through all the battles she had with his family. Through the deaths of her parents. Through the deaths of her many cancer friends. And now she had stood by him through all this. Their love for each other really came through during my dad’s last year, even if my dad was crippled and my mom was zonked out for most of it. They would do anything for each other. Fuck, my mom was even giving him blow jobs right up to the last minute …

  “Oh, fuck!” I yelled to Greg. “My camera is in there. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  I had to get it out of there. I really didn’t want to be the owner of some amateur porno of a cancer patient blowing a terminally ill man about to die from Lou Gehrig’s disease as they both cried. “I’ve got to get that thing back,” I said.

  I knocked on the door. Nothing. It’s pretty hard to talk when you have Lou Gehrig’s disease, or if you have a dick in your mouth. I knocked again. Nothing. What should I do? If I thought the image of my dad dying tomorrow was going to be haunting, imagine having the image of my mom blowing my dad imprinted onto my brain forever. It’d be too much. I’d have to check straight into an insane asylum. Should I risk it? Should I swing open the door? Should I send Stana in there? Should I just go in there with my ears and eyes covered?

  “Fuck it, I’m going in,” I said.

  I swung open the door with my eyes covered, trying to go straight for the camera. But, as I entered, I didn’t hear the sounds of someone getting blown, but rather an in-love couple gently weeping and whispering “I love you,” over and over. I took my hands off my eyes. My mom was curled up next to my dad, holding him tightly. My dad was crying.

  “Don’t go, Bob. I can’t lose you. You’re the love of my life. I can’t live in a world without you,” my mom bawled.

  “It will be okay, Deb. You’re stronger than I am. You’ll be just fine,” my dad said.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I just didn’t want the, you know, camera on during the blow job, or whatever,” I said, picking up the camera and turning it off.