by Liza Palmer
“Yes, it is! We’re never enough! Never!” Abigail screams. Her voice echoes throughout the entire picnic area.
“He’s dying, Abs. He can’t stop—” Huston says.
“Yes, he could! He could try to get better! He needs to try harder… please… he can’t leave us, again… he can’t leave us again,” Abigail says, her voice finally crumbling into sobs.
“Abby,” Huston says, pulling her close. She fights him like a child being put on time-out—her body squirming, her cries of protest empty and pained. She finally allows Huston to pull her in as she collapses. Her sobs are a torrent of anger, frustration and unadulterated pain. I’ve never seen her like this. Leo and I sit back… helplessly watching and trying to compartmentalize our own pain.
“Shhh… shhhh…” Huston eases.
“People aren’t supposed to die! God… do you know what the last words I said to Mom were?” Abigail wails into Huston’s chest. We all wait.
Abigail continues, “Talk to you later.” Her head sags, convulsing, shuddering… finally letting go.
“Okay, Abby… okay,” Huston soothes.
“We were good… we were being good…” Abigail sobs.
“We need to let him be with Mom,” Huston finally says.
“What about us? What are we going to do?” Abigail flares, her mood swinging from utter despair to anger once more.
“I don’t know,” Huston answers.
“We’re all alone,” Abigail gasps.
“We’re not alone,” Huston soothes, smoothing her hair.
“How do we go back in there?”
“We just do,” Huston answers. Leo sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“If he dies, the answers die with him,” Abigail sniffles. Huston takes a deep breath. So many questions left unanswered that we now know will stay that way.
“We need you,” Huston says, his voice just over a whisper.
“I can’t,” Abigail sobs. Leo sniffles.
“I need you,” Huston says.
“How… how do… how can we…”
“You have to ask yourself what you’d want if you were…” Huston trails off.
“Dying,” I finish, looking up at Huston. Huston nods. His eyes clear.
“Who would you want?” Huston asks again. Abigail looks up at him. Then at Leo. Then at me.
We all come up with the same answer.
“We’d better get back in there, then,” I say, keeping my eyes locked with Abigail’s. I take a deep breath and unfold from the picnic table. Standing.
“Okay… okay,” Abigail says, gently disentangling herself from Huston. He watches her, making sure she’s okay. She can’t look at him. She’s more than a little embarrassed for her show of… emotion. Huston takes his baseball cap off, runs his hand through his hair and replaces the cap. Leo wipes and wipes at his face as he unfolds himself from the picnic table.
“That’s what I’d want, too,” Huston says, standing. Abigail picks a white thread off Huston’s navy blue sweater and gently smoothes her hand over his shoulder. He waits. She sags her head slightly, tears welling once more, her hand still resting on him. He pulls her in for an enveloping hug. Leo and I wait. Shoring ourselves up. Processing what’s happening. Abigail never cried when Mom died… at least not in front any of us. Abigail takes one deep breath after another, trying to regain control. I hold Leo close, knowing he could go at any time. He seems almost spellbound by Abigail—studying her like a chemical reaction. I don’t say a word. I don’t talk at her or insert myself into the fray. For Abigail, this is a monumental act of kindness on my part. She decisively unravels from Huston once and for all. They have a whispering back-and-forth that no one else is privy to and we finally start back into Saint Teresa’s.
Our eyes are unfocused and darting. Our minds all running through the possible scenarios the next few days—weeks? months?—will hold. None of them are good and all of them suggest an anguish that none of us can yet fathom. It’s what civilized people do. It’s what you do for the people you love. You comfort when you have everything to lose.
Them.
We didn’t have this opportunity with Mom. She was ripped from us without as much as a wave goodbye. We were stunned into numbness. I now know her death was merciful. The automatic doors open and a Webelos nun bustles by us, jogging us out of our hazes.
“I’ll take the morning shift,” Huston says, motioning into Dad’s room.
“I’ll join you,” Leo and I add simultaneously.
“I’ll bring the kids by after they’re done at the parade,” Abigail says, reaching in her purse for her keys.
“We’ll be here,” Huston sighs.
“I know.” Abigail smiles, giving Huston a quick hug. He walks into Dad’s room and settles in at his bedside. This is what civilized people do.
“Can you bring back some sandwiches?” Leo asks, running his hands through his uncombed hair.
“Sure. Tuna?” Abigail offers, knowing it’s his favorite.
“Barbeque potato chips and a real Coke. You put the chips inside the sandwich,” Leo adds, flipping Dad’s wedding ring from one finger to the next.
“A real Coke?” I ask, taking his hand in mine. Calming him.
“Everyone drinks diet these days—you have to specify,” Leo explains, nodding that he understands he’s supposed to calm down. Just like when we were kids. Abigail hitches her purse back over her shoulder.
“Caprese sandwich and a sparkling water?” Abigail asks me.
“Sounds perfect,” I answer, smiling. Sigh. Abigail starts down the hall, and then stops. She turns around.
“Evie’s Girl Scout troop has their robotics qualifying round this weekend. Leo’s their mentor. You want to come, too?”
“Robotics?” I ask.
“With Legos. It’s really fun,” Leo answers immediately.
“Absolutely,” I agree, feeling hypocritical for planning anything fun-sounding.
“Perfect, I’ll let her know you’re coming. I’m going to try and get Huston there, too. Bring John.” Abigail winks, leaning in to hug Leo and me.
“John?” Leo asks, his nose pink. I can’t help but smile.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Abigail says.
“With sandwiches,” Leo presses.
“And real Cokes. Yes, I know,” Abigail answers, turning again toward the automatic door. Abigail walks out into the sunlight. Leo and I look at one another and then into Dad’s room. In that quick second I feel both of us brace ourselves as if we’re wading into the ocean and a big wave is cresting large over us. Turning our backs and closing our eyes, we let it crash down, just trying to withstand its power and keep standing. As we settle into Dad’s room, the most implausible thing of all happens, life goes on.
Huston checks in with work and talks football with Dad. Sandwiches and real Cokes are delivered. The kids stand uncomfortably on the fringes of Dad’s room, presenting him with drawings and then nervously asking when they’ll be able to go home. John calls and asks about dinner. I suggest a vat of vodka. He suggests Indian food. Huston goes in to work for a quick meeting and Leo and I get a mean game of Boggle going as the sun sinks low. Leo peels off to teach a night class in a subject I can’t even pronounce and I’m left alone for the first time.
As I sit by Dad’s bedside, I think about what Abigail said around the picnic table this morning. If he dies, the answers die with him. I fight the urge to ply Dad with questions. I think about driving back up to Ojai and searching high and low for a journal, no—a trunk filled with journals. What does he think of us? What did he think of Mom when they met for the first time in that jazz club in San Diego? Whom did he vote for in the last election? What does he want to be when he grows up? Why did he marry Connie? Was he lonely? Did he ever want to come back? What did he think of his parents? I suddenly want to know what he thinks of everything. Instead I sit in an uncomfortable chair at Dad’s bedside and play the hits of the 1980s on a tiny Casio keyboard as D
ad falls in and out of sleep.
“Thought I’d stop by and maybe spend some time with Ray,” Manny announces as he strolls into the room, a cup of coffee in one hand and a Los Angeles Times in the other.
“Hey,” I say, looking behind him to see if Abigail is trailing.
“How are you holding up?” Manny asks, walking over to me, no Abigail in sight. He envelops me in a big bear hug. He’s apparently going to make me into a hugger if it’s the last thing he does. I can feel the flutter of the newspaper on the side of my face as Manny squeezes me tighter.
“No Abigail?” I ask, as he crunches me in close.
“The kids are over at our neighbor’s for dinner. Well, Emilygrae will eat. Mateo will pick everything off of his food and Evie will mope in some corner with a book. At home, we just call that dinner. Abby’s making sure they’re settled,” Manny says, letting me go and taking in the room.
“It’s awesome you came by,” I say, standing awkwardly.
“What? Oh… yeah, no problem,” Manny absently says, as if I’ve said something ridiculous. He walks over to Dad’s bedside and rests his hand gently on Dad’s shoulder.
Manny continues, “Did you want to go grab some dinner?” I realize I have no idea what time it is. I know I’m hungry, so it could be night-ish. I look at my watch: seven-thirty p.m. Jesus. I shake my head… how is time now going by so quickly? I want to grab the hands of my watch and hold them in place. It’s going too fast. I haven’t had enough time. I breathe in and realize my body is just as tight as when Leo and I braced ourselves for that great wave earlier this morning. I exhale and focus back on Manny.
“I was going to meet John for Indian food,” I say, tucking my keyboard into Dad’s closet and grabbing my purse off the chair.
“We’ll be here. Visiting hours are almost over so I’ll just make sure Ray’s tucked in for the night before I head home,” Manny says, pulling up another chair and settling in with his coffee and paper.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” I whisper, touching Dad’s shoulder softly. I look down at him. He’s fighting for every breath. Up. Down. Up. Down. I take a deep breath. If he’s strong enough to fight, then so am I. I just may be his kid after all.
“How’s he doing?” I look up. John walks into the room. He’s wearing a pair of jeans, a Marine Corps T-shirt and a zip-up hoodie. Manny looks up and stands.
“Good to see you,” Manny says, extending his hand to John.
“Good to see you, too,” John answers. Neither of these men is related to Ray and yet they’re both here.
“Hey—” I say, tugging on my purse.
“Thought I’d meet you here,” John adds.
“I’m trying to get her to eat something,” Manny offers, sitting.
“Me, too,” John says, as Manny waves goodbye and begins elaborately dissecting the newspaper. I look back to Dad once more. Asleep. His chest rises and falls.
“Looks like the economy is getting a bit better, Ray,” Manny announces to the sleeping patient. I smile at him as he continues to read the front-page story aloud. I reach for John’s hand and savor his fingers curling around mine. I feel myself relaxing. We walk out into the hall.
“I talked to Huston. No new information since this morning?” John asks, saving me from having to explain Dad’s regression and the details of hospice. I thread my arm through his and lean on his brick wall of a body. He wraps his arm around my waist in response. He decides, for once, not to press the issue. We squeak down the immaculate hallway and past the sundowners who gather nightly at the feet of the Virgin Mary. The Lady in Red gives us a wave as another old woman scoots into line.
“He’s still at the office?” I ask, officially changing the subject. Old habits.
“No, he’s home now. Thought we’d stop by later. Maybe ask if he’s up for dinner?” John answers, fishing his keys out of his pocket.
“Sounds good,” I answer, the grief of the day roiling in my stomach.
“We spent some time this morning getting all of the documents together. We’re definitely going to be ready,” John says as we walk to his car.
“Oh, good,” I say again, trying to swallow the emotion down. That vat of vodka is looking really good right about now.
“Where’s everyone else?” John asks, beeping his car unlocked. He opens the passenger door for me.
“My car is over there,” I say, absently pointing to the nearly empty parking lot.
“I doubt any of the cloistered nuns are going to hot-wire it,” John says.
“But I have to—” I start.
“If you need a ride tomorrow, I’ll give you one,” John says.
“You’re taking advantage of me while I’m in a weakened state,” I sigh, climbing into the passenger side and pulling the seat belt across my chest.
“Yes, I am,” John answers, smiling.
“Thank you, baby,” I say, my face tingling from the use of the word baby. John shuts the door behind me.
“Baby?” John asks, his voice soft, as he climbs into the driver’s side.
“I know,” I say, smiling. John puts his keys in the ignition and starts the car.
“I thought we’d pick up some food at Holy Cow on Third and then head over to Huston’s house in the Pali—” John starts.
I can’t hold it in anymore. My throat feels like it’s closing. My lip is quivering. I must look like a child who’s just slammed her finger in a car door—right before the first scream of stunned pain is unleashed.
“Okayyy, okay,” John says, reaching for me across the Escalade’s embarrassingly gigantic center console.
“Did you know that Dad’s still wearing his wedding ring—but not the Connie wedding ring, the Mom wedding ring? Did I tell you that?”
“Huston mentioned it at work today,” John says with a gentle smile.
“Do you think he was wearing it the whole time?” I ask, wringing my hands, trying to keep it together.
“From the looks of his house it seems like he spent a pretty significant amount of his time thinking about all of you guys,” John soothes.
“Sorry. Abigail lost it today. It’s like we’re each taking turns,” I say, my voice elsewhere.
“Has it been your turn yet?” John asks, treading lightly.
“No,” I answer, quickly.
“Right, that’d be lunacy,” John says, the smallest smile creeping across his face.
“I mean, have you met me?” I answer, crackling out a laugh.
“So, that just leaves you and Huston, because Leo’s basically been crying for the past five years.”
“How do you know Huston hasn’t lost it?”
“He’s like the walking dead these days. Even worse than when Evelyn passed away,” John says, trailing off as he says Mom’s name.
“I know,” I agree, remembering that Huston looked, at the very least, affected by Mom’s death. With Dad, he’s been on autopilot.
“Well…” John leads.
“What?”
“You and Huston are more alike than either one of you will admit.”
“I know,” I agree, too weak to keep arguing. John looks stunned that I conceded so quickly.
We are quiet. I’m lost in thought. I’m trying to process the big and small events of the last day—no, the last four days. Four. Days. Hard to comprehend. Down the rabbit hole, through the wardrobe—however you portray it, dealing with Dad’s illness has been like traveling to an alternate universe where time is either stopped or speeding forward. Huge epiphanies combined with seemingly insignificant moments—making each moment feel like another invitation to dine with the Mad Hatter.
I begin speaking before I can edit what I say. “You think life is going to go on forever, that you’re going to have all the time in the world to say you’re sorry or start over. But you don’t. You have hospice and not enough fluids and dusty photographs and little shoes next to the couch and rubber-banded business cards.” My voice is detached.
John listens.
Quiet.
“Did you know human beings are alone in their knowledge of their own mortality? You’d think knowing we only have a finite amount of time would change the way we live day in and day out… but it doesn’t. So arrogant.”
“You can’t live in fear, Gracie,” John offers.
“I wish it were fear. That would, at least, be more interesting. I live in… feh. Nothingness,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
“You live in… feh?” John repeats.
“I’ve always loved you… even before I had the right,” I start, unable to keep from smiling. John is quiet, not knowing where this is going.
I continue, “And I just walked away.” I shrug my shoulders, my eyes focused on a little Webelos nun walking into the St. Teresa’s gift shop on the south side of the parking lot, her breath puffing in the cold night air.
John pulls me close. I swing my legs over and literally sit on top of him, my legs teetering on leather seats, bits of John, and some of that 5K muscle finally kicking in. John steadies me, resting his arm on my waist, looking up at me… waiting.
I continue, “I’m being allowed to see my life, that version of my life, like I skipped to the back of the book and can read the ending now.”
John brings his other arm to rest on my waist. I slip down and find my knees now on either side of him. Face-to-face.
“And it’s not pretty,” I say, tears welling up. Finally.
“Gracie—” John tries.
“And I hate that it’s happening to Dad… that it happened to Dad. That he never got the chance to see how his life would turn out before… He should have stayed with Mom. He should have stayed with us. He would have never walked away if he could have seen… if he would have seen… how it all turned out,” I say. I choke on my words. My head falls to my chest.
John waits.
I whisper, “My only consolation is that they had a great love.”
“Have,” John says.
“What?” I say, looking up.
“They have great love,” John says again.
“How can they have it? Mom’s gone and Dad’s…”
“Just because someone goes away doesn’t mean love stops,” John says, his voice quiet.