A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents

by Liza Palmer

  “Where’s your room again?” John breathlessly asks.

  “Here. This… just…” I stutter, taking his hand once again and leading him down the narrow hallway to my room. As I fiddle with the old-fashioned key that was probably adorable to the innkeepers, but just serves as a temporary chastity belt for me, John kisses the back of my neck. The key finally clicks over and I push the door open.

  I slam the door behind us.

  Quiet.

  And then we’re on each other again. Untucking shirts. Kissing. Kicking off shoes. My hands in that thick, black hair. Unbuttoning shirts. His mouth. Opening his shirt, pulling it off. I close my eyes as my shirt is pulled up and off and we fall back on the bed.

  “If you ever pull that shit again,” John says, his voice low.

  “What shit?” I ask breathlessly, my brain rifling through a legion of lists of “shit” I’ve pulled.

  “Don’t leave me. Don’t walk away from me again,” he says, his eyes pleading, yet steely.

  “Never,” I say.

  As the warmth of his body covers mine, I feel a terror gripping me. I’m soaring with nothing holding me down. No numbness to keep me safe and protected. No battlements. No ballasts. I thought I’d taken down all my walls for John five years ago. But as I fight to catch my breath I know I’ve never felt anything like this. This kind of freedom. This kind of openness. Almost like I’m back in that dentist’s chair—though that’s not really a fair comparison. Still, the same panic. The same terror. No walls. No armor.

  We’re on the bed. Naked. Vulnerable. And I’m racing through the sky with no parachute. My brain is trying to claw at something that will stop me from falling. Nothing. There’s nothing keeping me tethered to this world. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t breathe. I… I…

  “I love you,” John whispers, his mouth centimeters from my ear.

  The parachute snaps open. And we soar.

  We soar and soar.

  “I love you,” I whisper back.

  Free.

  chapter nineteen

  Where is it?” Huston asks Abigail, standing just outside the hospital the next day. I can’t believe I’m back here. After a night so good, it is inconceivable that I return to all the hell within these doors, but it is real. My night with John will just have to be an oasis I can revisit when I need to get away from all this. A light in the darkness.

  It’s New Year’s Eve.

  I’m sitting on a stone bench, listening as Huston takes the phone call he’s been waiting for. The hospital has decorated its more public areas with sparkling streamers and signs. The cafeteria has a big HAPPY NEW YEAR banner stretching across its entrance. Perspective, anyone?

  John is poring over the documents from Dad’s office as Huston and I endure another day of the Big Lie. Dad was moved to a regular room early this morning. At least we no longer have to deal with Nurse Miller.

  It’s oddly fascinating to watch as Connie’s lies get more and more elaborate. There have been trips abroad, apparently. The house she and Dad share is a “sanctuary.” Connie can’t stop talking about the hundreds of greeting cards and floral arrangements she’s received from her devoted husband over the years. She’s saved everything Ray gave her, she weeps to an orderly. In truth, everything Dad gave Connie could easily fit into the back pocket of those white pants she insists on wearing every day.

  Earlier, while Dad’s linens were being changed, and much more disturbingly while he was being changed, I ran out to a little thrift store in town and bought an old Casio keyboard that was made for kids. The keys are ridiculously small. But it does the job. I thought it might keep my mind occupied and maybe I could play for Dad. Like before. He loved when I played. I tap out Miles Davis’ “So What,” remembering bit by bit as I go along.

  “Okay… so, this Sister Marjorie Pauline person is going to call—” Huston stops, listening to Abigail explain exactly how transporting Dad is going to work. His lips compress as he listens. He looks off into the distance. He’s tuned out my playing—as he always did—and yet every once in a while I can see him tapping his foot or moving to the music.

  Huston’s dark suit is wrinkled just a bit. His crisp white shirt is open at the collar. Apparently he decided against a tie this morning. I, of course, am wearing the same thing I’ve been wearing for going on three days.

  “She should talk to Frank from Legal. He’s the guy I talked to—” Huston stops again, listening to Abigail. I look down at my keyboard. Ba-dup. Ba-dup. My entire body is curled over the tiny keyboard as the crisp morning air moves around me. I zip my hoodie up all the way.

  “So, we’ll pay their ambulance driver in cash. Yes, Dad’s ready now,” Huston says, pushing his hand down into his pocket.

  And that’s where the trumpet comes in. Ba-dup. Ba-dup, looking up at Huston as I hunt and peck.

  “Okay, I’ll go talk to Frank, let him know we’re ready to transport Dad,” Huston says, nodding, nodding, nodding as Abigail talks. This is all happening so fast.

  “Right. Right. Okay, I’ll call you once I get out of my meeting with Frank and let you know what to tell—” Huston stops again. I look back down at the keyboard. I tap a few notes of Pachelbel’s Canon. As the cold settles in, I take a quick sip of my tea and look up at Huston. I set the cup back down on the stone bench.

  “Okay, let me know. Great work. Right… right. Okay, Abby… See you soon,” Huston says, flipping his cell phone closed. Moonlight Sonata.

  “That’s a bit depressing,” Huston sighs, walking over to where I am seated on the bench. I lift my fingers from the keys and take another sip of my tea.

  “She found a place?” I ask, scooting over just a bit so Huston can sit on the bench next to me.

  “St. Teresa’s in South Pas. She says they have an opening. Apparently finding a private room for a man is really difficult—” Huston starts. He looks tired. His night of sleep doesn’t look like it went all that well.

  “And this is a good place?” I ask, thinking about all the horror stories I’ve heard about skilled nursing facilities. I can’t even… I hope Abigail hasn’t chosen a place like that. Of course she hasn’t.

  “What about something a little more upbeat,” Huston says, eyeing my keyboard.

  “What?” I ask, following his gaze.

  “Something upbeat,” Huston says again. I look down at the tiny keyboard. Not much to work with. Nonetheless, I start to play “Linus and Lucy” from the Peanuts sound track.

  Huston sighs.

  “So, what happens now?” I ask, between notes.

  “Sister Marjorie Pauline is going to call Frank from Legal here and set up the transport. I talked to Frank at length yesterday about what’s been going on and what we plan to do. He seemed understanding,” Huston explains, his face expressionless. Frank seemed “understanding”? I can’t wait to get out of here. Back through the wardrobe. I want out of Narnia once and for all.

  “When is this all going to happen?” I ask, looking from the keyboard to Huston. The music stopping.

  “Sister Marjorie Pauline says she’s going to put in a call to their ambulance company now. By the time we get clearance from Frank, they’ll already be halfway up the 101 freeway,” Huston explains, his voice flat. I am quiet. I don’t know what to say. Is this where we talk about what hell we’re in for in the next few hours? Connie is not going to stand by and let us take Dad out of this hospital without a fight. She’s also made it very clear that she has no qualms about yelling and carrying on in front of Dad, hence the earlier “sons of bitches” episode.

  “How are we going to do this?” I finally ask.

  “Play,” Huston says. This time I decide on something a bit more… modern. I begin playing.

  Huston laughs. “Is that ‘Bette Davis Eyes’?” He scoots a bit closer to me on the bench.

  “Right up there with Moonlight Sonata, wouldn’t you say?” I joke. I play as Huston leans back on the cold concrete façade of the hospital. He closes his eyes a
s the brisk morning settles in around us.

  He turns to look at me, his face wan. I breathe in. He takes my hand from the keyboard and holds it tight. I stop playing.

  “This is going to be one of the hardest things we are going to have to do,” Huston says, staring off once again into the distance, his dark blond hair fluttering in the morning air.

  “I know,” I say, looking down at the keyboard.

  “Once she finds out what we’re doing, she’s going to pull out all the stops,” Huston says, his ice-blue eyes focused elsewhere.

  “Then we shouldn’t do anything until the transport actually gets here,” I offer. Huston turns to look at me. “Why give her any more time to whip everyone into a frenzy? We should go talk to Frank from Legal, tell him what’s going on. He’ll have talked to that Sister Marjorie Pauline person by then. We can tell him we want his assurance that this information is to be kept confidential,” I argue, starting to sound like John.

  “They’re going to have to get Dad ready for transport. You know, medically,” Huston points out.

  “They can do all the necessary things under the guise of moving him to that new room. This is the only way we’ve got a chance at getting him out of here without a huge scene,” I say, knowing I might have made it sound too ominous—but in a way, it is life or death.

  “You’re right.” Huston nods, gazing back down at the keyboard.

  “It’s the only way,” I say again, my fingers curling over the keys once again.

  I start again: “Her hair is Harlow gold.” Huston smiles, his eyes crinkling. I give him a quick wink and keep playing. The morning settles around us.

  A few minutes later, Huston and I wait just outside Frank’s office, ready to go in and plead our case. Abigail just called Huston to let him know that the ambulance is on its way up the 101 freeway. We have two hours.

  No turning back.

  I look up from my mini-keyboard to see John walking down the hallway toward Huston and me. My entire body softens.

  “John.” Huston stands as the men shake hands. Huston seems genuinely happy to see him.

  “Hey,” John offers, giving me a little smile. I smile back, checking to see if Huston notices I’m blushing. He does. I clear my throat and look away.

  “I went through your father’s bank records this morning,” John starts, taking the seat next to Huston.

  “I’ve already added Dad to my medical insurance, so there’s no sense of urgency. We just need to make sure that the banks have a copy of the power of at—”

  John cuts in, “Your dad has a joint account with Connie. She’s never made any deposits or written any checks on it. It’s an older account. That’s the only thing that might be characterized as community property. He owns the house and the condo outright. He inherited all his money from his mother. All of his holdings can be traced back to his inheritance, which, by California law, is his separate property. So, besides that one joint account, there’s no other community property that I can find.”

  “So, Dad’s protected,” Huston finishes.

  “I went on the bank’s website to take a look at any recent activity on the account,” John says.

  “And?” Huston urges.

  “Connie cleaned out that joint account yesterday,” John says, his face serious, his voice low.

  “What?” I ask, my keyboard falling to the floor. I bend over and quickly scoop it up. Huston shakes his head and looks away. His jaw tight.

  “She cleaned it out,” John says again.

  “How can she do that?” I ask, sitting back up.

  “It was a joint account, legally she had the right,” Huston explains, still shaking his head.

  “She’d never withdrawn any money from it before? Or deposited anything?” My voice rising.

  “No,” John answers. We’re all afraid to ask the obvious question. John waits.

  “How much?” Huston finally asks.

  “One hundred and thirteen thousand dollars,” John confesses. I suck in a gasp of air. Huston just stares at John. Not saying anything. Studying him.

  “Does Dad have anything left for when he gets out of—” Huston cuts himself off. He may be comfortable with secretly thinking Dad’s going to get better, but he’s obviously uneasy with saying it out loud. Or maybe that’s just how I feel.

  “There’s plenty left, don’t worry about that,” John answers.

  “I’m not worried, more pissed off. If she needed money, she could have spoken to me,” Huston says angrily.

  “Why would she need $113,000? Was there some fire sale on little white pants we didn’t know about?” I ask, horrified.

  Huston is quiet, searching. John looks from me to Huston.

  I continue, “This isn’t good.”

  “This actually works to our advantage. We can tell Frank this new information and it helps to prove our point,” Huston argues.

  “So, what? She can just… steal it?” I ask, enraged.

  “It’s not stealing. It was a joint account. The only one, thank God. She can’t get to anything else of Dad’s,” Huston says, looking at his watch.

  “So she can live out her days in that town house forever?” I ask.

  “Well, that’s a little trickier.” John’s voice becomes a bit lighter.

  “How trickier?” I ask.

  “Ray bought that town house after they separated with his inheritance. It’s not community property, and with power of attorney…” John trails off.

  “We can evict her,” Huston says.

  “Obviously the timing would have to be right, keeping in mind that she still looks like that little old lady Boy Scouts would trip over themselves to help across the street,” John adds.

  “She’s repellent,” I say.

  “Absolutely, but just because we know her to be Satan’s nana doesn’t mean that everyone else won’t sympathize with her,” John says.

  “First things first. We have to get Dad out of here,” Huston says.

  “Mr. Hawkes?” The mythical “Frank from Legal” appears through an office door. He looks exactly as a “Frank from Legal” should look. Ruddy face. Balding. Light blue, short-sleeved oxford. Polyester pants hitched up just under his rapidly increasing belly.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Huston says, standing and extending his hand. The two shake hands. John and I stand.

  “Please come in. Let’s see what we can do about getting your dad discharged,” Frank says, leading Huston through the office door.

  John and I sit down in the hallway.

  “One hundred and thirteen thousand dollars?” I repeat, my voice urgent.

  “Yeah,” John says, rubbing his face.

  “She reminds me of a cockroach—surviving and evolving no matter what. Relentless. Single-minded. Heartless.”

  “We’re going to get through this,” John says again, bending his head to make eye contact with me. He waits. And waits. I stare at the wall. Enraged. Without my usual armor, I feel this anger with an acute clarity I haven’t entertained in years.

  “Why does she have to be so cartoonish?” I whisper, finally looking at him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “As if this wasn’t hard enough,” I say, looking around.

  John is quiet.

  I continue, “She’s hated us since the moment we met. All the ‘honeys’ and ‘dears’ and the whole time she hated us.”

  “You’ve got to hand it to her,” John sighs.

  “Yes, she’s truly a marvel,” I say, looking away.

  “Grace,” John says, taking my hand.

  “What?” I say, shaken.

  “This is about your dad,” John repeats.

  “I know,” I say, letting my head fall onto my chest.

  “We have to focus,” John says, pulling my chin up and toward him.

  “I know,” I say, tears crowding behind my eyes.

  “Good,” he says, scooting closer.

  “She’s not going to like this one bit,” I s
ay, shaking my head.

  “Connie?” Huston asks, approaching her at Dad’s bedside.

  “Yes?” Connie turns around to face Huston. Her voice sounds feeble. Her body looks so tiny next to Huston. Next to anyone.

  The ambulance is five minutes out.

  Dad’s ready to go. All the discharge papers have been signed. We’ve all checked out of our respective hotels. Our bags are packed away in our already gassed-up cars. All we have to do is get Dad on a gurney, roll him out of this hospital and into the waiting ambulance. Down the 101 freeway—away from here. Away from the sad little couch bed. Away from the six-month marriage he couldn’t break free of. Away from the loneliness. Back to his family. Back home.

  “I’d like to talk about Dad’s care,” Huston starts.

  “Sure…” Connie answers, turning around. Dennis watches the exchange with interest. I stand just outside the room. John stands beside me. We didn’t want it to seem like we were ganging up on Connie. I cross my arms and step forward just a bit. Closer.

  “If we could speak out in the hall?” Huston asks, motioning to Dad, who has just fallen back to sleep.

  “Denny?” Connie calls to Dennis as she inches toward Huston. Not far enough. She’s not far enough away from Dad. He can still hear. He can still be upset. Dennis stands and joins his mother.

  “I think it would be best if we transferred Dad to a facility in Los Angeles for his skilled nursing care,” Huston says, his voice unwavering, his gaze steadfast. Connie and Dennis recoil from Huston’s words. They manage to look offended and confused. But mostly, they look as if they can’t quite figure out how this happened.

  “You think it’s best?” Dennis answers. I step forward. John eases me back.

  Four minutes.

  “I have to sit down. Dennis, go out in the hall and see if the nurse can get me a glass of water. I’m feeling faint,” Connie calmly says, walking back over to Dad’s bedside and dropping feebly into the chair. Dennis scrambles past the bathroom, with its cups and running water, and out to the nurse’s station.