“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“I know, love. I’m sorry. It was for the best.”
The car continued on along the narrow country roads of Hampshire, but I saw nothing as I stared ahead out of the window. My tears blurred my view. My lovely Schickrys is gone.
My father further explained that he had to immediately report the cat’s death to his commanding officer, who then had to report it to the admiral, who in turn had to report the death to Clarence House, the Queen Mother’s residence. In due course, through the chain of command, my father was told he needed to get a death certificate from the vet. Not even knowing if such a thing existed for a cat, Dad dutifully returned to the veterinarian’s office, where apparently the vet was apoplectic on learning that the cat he had euthanized was a royal cat.
“Oh my God, I’ve killed the royal cat! I’ve killed the royal cat!”
My dad relays the vet’s funny response to me, trying to lighten the mood, and I offer a wan smile in return. To me the vet’s reaction is a reminder that even the simplest of events can have a larger significance than we are aware of, and that even the seemingly most ordinary of persons can have some contact with prominence. My moment with prominence was having a royal cat snuggle with me, giving each other hugs and love. That prominence is now gone. Common sense told me that Dad is right. It is for the best. But I feel oh so sad. The grown-up part of me recognizes that death is the only certainty of life. The child in me isn’t ready to accept the inevitable loss of those we love.
It appears my family is not quite done with prominence. During my last year at the academy, I learn that Dad is to be recognized for his long naval career and service to the Queen. He is honored on the New Year’s Honor list of 1976. He is to be awarded the Royal Victorian Medal for his services to the Queen. The Royal Victorian Medal was established by Queen Victoria in 1886 as a reward for personal services to the sovereign or royal family, and as a token of royal esteem. I need permission to be excused from my studies at the Royal Academy to attend the ceremony at Buckingham Palace. I take my mother’s note to the principal’s assistant, a lady called Kim, who wears her hair in an austere knot on the top of her head, and an even more austere expression on her face. This is the Royal Academy, and it is a privilege to study at this edifice of artistry. Even if you have a severe injury, you are expected to drag yourself into class. There are no days off, and no excuses for missing class.
When I go to the office to request a day off, Kim growls at me and asks with her usual sarcasm. “And where do you think you are going? Buckingham Palace?”
I answer sweetly, “Yes, actually.”
It is one of those sweet moments of comeuppance that we imagine or wish will happen, but which rarely do. The look on Kim’s face as I hand her the note from my mother detailing the ceremony we are to attend at the palace, and could Laraine please have the time away from the academy, is priceless. I savor the moment, enjoying the look of shock on Kim’s face and the rare feeling of satisfaction when an annoying person is put in her place. Above all I enjoy making this self-appointed doyenne of the academy’s office understand that I might be a nobody attending the school on a council grant, but my dad is worthy of being recognized by the Queen at Buckingham Palace. I get a lot of mileage out of that feeling.
Attending the ceremony at Buckingham Palace is a fascinating experience, not only because it is something few people get to do, but also because it is exciting to be part of the historical ceremonies of the monarch bestowing commendations upon her subjects in appreciation of their service. I see persons being knighted, and of course my father receiving his medal from Her Majesty.
Beforehand, as we drive through the gate into the courtyard of Buckingham Palace, there are guards in red jackets and tall, black bearskin hats standing to attention at the gate. A long line of impressive-looking luxury cars drive through the palace gate ahead of us, all without creating any movement from the guards. But as my dad’s little blue car approaches the gate, the guards come to attention and salute him. On the windshield of Dad’s car is a pass bearing the insignia “RY” for Royal Yacht, making Dad in his little blue car worthy of the attention and salute that those passing ahead in their Rolls-Royces and Bentleys do not earn. Dad says he is “dead chuffed,” pleased at the recognition. I am pleased for my father.
After the ceremony we stand in the courtyard of the palace with other dignitaries for official photographs. The photographer takes a photograph of Dad and his medal, and then with the whole family. Looking around at the surreal scene, I understand that this is a tremendous recognition for my father. Receiving this medal from the Queen is a long way from where Dad began his life. It belied his modest upbringing in Glasgow, living in the tenements, and his limited education after having to leave school when he was fourteen to learn a trade. It is a lesson to us all not to accept difficult circumstances, and low odds of success, and not to give up. With the right effort and attitude, we can all go far in life.
My three years at the academy are over. My time at the academy is without memorable achievement other than being able to add my studies at the academy to my résumé. I don’t want to teach; I want to dance, I want to perform, and I want to travel and see the world.
My parents give me a set of bright red leather suitcases as a graduation present. The message is clear. They have done their bit for me. It is time for me to move on and take care of myself. So I do. I am nineteen. I find a professional dancing job abroad. I pack my red suitcases and leave home for good. It is time for me to live my life and do what I want to do: time to leave my family behind.
CHAPTER
TEN
I stand by the bay window in the living room, watching Mum’s small figure disappear along the road toward town. She drags her shopping trolley behind her, and I watch it bump along the uneven pavement. It is full of glass bottles and jars Mum is taking to the recycling bin in North End. I offered to go with her, but she declined, stating that she must get used to doing things herself, and without Dad driving her around. She is right that she must adjust to living without Dad, but it shouldn’t be too much of an adjustment for her. As a navy wife she spent months on her own responsible for the house, bills, children, and maintaining a job.
Still, I am annoyed that my seventy-two-year-old mother has a fifteen-minute walk to the bin because the local trash services will not pick up glass from the houses. After working and paying taxes for more than fifty, almost sixty years, one would think that the elderly like my mother would be shown some consideration. That she shouldn’t have to walk fifteen minutes both to and from a recycling bin just to dispose of glass containers. But that is what life has become here in England. My mum just accepts it as what has to be done these days. I remind myself I do not live here and I am not entitled to an opinion.
Mum turns the corner and disappears from my view. I sigh deeply, my heavy breath the only sound in the now quiet house. For the first time in a long time, I have the house to myself. I move away from the window and sit on what was Dad’s chair, leaning back against the soft leather, allowing my muscles to relax and my entire body to sink into the pliant cushions. For a few moments I am going to sit and do nothing, a respite from the long list of projects to be taken care of for Dad, and Mum, before I go back to the States.
Loretta decided to go back to her own flat, apparently unable to deal with Mum, me, or anybody. The taxi is called, and Loretta leaves before Mum or I know she is gone. It seems Loretta wants solitude to grieve in her own way, without impertinent questions from others, and without intrusion into her feelings. I try to be understanding, recognizing my sister’s bad mood is the result of her constant struggle with diabetes-related illnesses and the daily buffet of medicines she has to ingest just to stay alive. Mum telephones her every day to check and make sure she is okay, but Loretta won’t answer the phone. Mum explains to me almost apologetically that perhaps Loretta doesn’t have her prosthetic on and can’t get to the phone easily. Or that
Loretta is often moody and it is best to just let her be. She will snap out of it when she is ready.
Mum has often told me about Loretta’s moods, or that she is often in such a bad or sarcastic frame of mind that her comments to family members are biting. Our father had most often been the recipient of the sharpest jibes: “He was so stupid!” “He was clueless.” “C’mon, Dad, you’re so bloody slow!”
Loretta forgot or ignored the fact that Dad was there for her day and night, taking her to doctor and hospital appointments, to the store, wherever she wanted to go and when. He put new flooring in her flat, and he redecorated the bathroom and kitchen, making them more manageable for Loretta’s disabled state. All Dad got for his efforts was Loretta’s disdainful comments, her put-downs, and he took it all with stoicism, and without criticism.
I recognize now that perhaps Loretta’s comments to our father, and even my mother’s constant scolding of Dad, were simply how the three of them communicated normally, and no offense was meant or taken. But to me, who rarely spent time with my family, and who didn’t interact with them on a daily basis, the comments seem harsh, cruel, disturbing. I can’t fathom talking to my parents with the malice or the disrespect that Loretta displays and without any embarrassment or apology. I conclude that my long-distance relationship with my family doesn’t allow me to understand the dynamics of the family, be privy to the daily challenges they face as the different personalities, the elderly and the disabled, are forced to cohabit. I can’t get mad at Loretta. I don’t have the right.
Loretta’s behavior is excused by the family as being the result of her illnesses, the side effects of the numerous medicines she takes every day, the pain she has to endure, and her frustration at her disabled life. Loretta’s day is one long schedule of pills, and she does nothing without considering her location, where the nearest bathroom will be, and when and what she can eat so she doesn’t throw up or have diarrhea anywhere outside the house. Over the past few days I have occasionally looked at my sister, noting the contracted body language, the hunched shoulders, drooping head, anxious expression, and wondered if Loretta is in pain. No point in asking, I surmise. Loretta will deny it if she is, or tell me to mind my own business if she is in a mood. But, Loretta’s moods are tempered by her infectious laugh, a deep, throaty, dirty laugh unexpectedly emanating from the soul of this little person whose appearance has never aged beyond sixteen, and who looks the picture of innocence. People outside the family think Loretta is a sweet girl. She is, I decide, despite her moments and moods; she wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone, Mum and Dad included.
Still, a small part of me can’t help but be frustrated by my sister right now. There are certain times when we all have to garner that extra amp of strength, endurance, energy to get through difficult challenges, particularly times such as now, when we each need to take care of Dad’s arrangements. To me the list of things to be done is overwhelming, and I really need help to organize Dad’s affairs, his funeral. Loretta has been very vocal about being involved in the arrangements. She has definite ideas about how certain things should be done, the music to be played at the funeral, the prayers to be said, but is now unavailable to help in making those decisions, or to even tell me what Dad’s favorite hymns and prayers might be. I know I am being ungracious, churlish, and even childish. I haven’t done this before, and I want to get it right, which includes taking as much burden as possible off of Mum’s shoulders. But the other side of the story is that I don’t want Loretta to be angry at Mum, or me, because the arrangements are not to her liking. I don’t want to give Loretta reason to argue that matters were taken care of without her input, that she has been deliberately excluded. But realizing that time is limited, and the sooner the tasks are completed the sooner Mum can settle into her new life as a widow, I put aside the worries about my sister and my own inabilities and move forward to get the job done.
I look across the room and see the messy streaks of paint scribbled on the opposite wall. Decorating the living room was to be Dad’s final project although no one knew that at the time. Dad had moved aside the furniture and had begun painting one of the walls. To this day it remains an unfinished series of brush strokes in a slightly different shade of cream from the rest of the wall, evidence of a clear intent to return to the task but not knowing that the opportunity would not be there. Mum makes note of it from time to time. She has made up her mind to eventually sell the house. It is too big for her. She wants to get away from Dad and the memories. But before she can do that, the walls have to be finished being painted.
Earlier this year, I was told that Dad had begun acting strangely. Mum called me one Saturday afternoon as she usually does, and described how the night before, Dad had gone into the kitchen where she had left some pizza for him, and instead of putting a slice of pizza on his plate, he put the dishtowel on his head. He came back into the living room and sat staring at Mum from under the dishtowel, disoriented. Mum had laughed at the incident. She hadn’t shown any concern over it to me. But when I heard the story, I found it disturbing. It had worried me. But I couldn’t tell if Dad’s behavior had truly become odd, or whether Mum was simply exaggerating to tell a good story.
A short time later while I was chatting on the telephone with my sister, Loretta told me that recently Dad had picked her up in the pouring rain to drive her to an appointment. On the way back they had stood outside in the street for forty-five minutes while Dad had searched and searched his pockets but just couldn’t find his car keys. The heavy rain thoroughly soaked them both as they stood there waiting for him to find his keys, but he just couldn’t coordinate his thoughts with his searching. Loretta told me how she was angry and frustrated because she kept telling Dad to look in a certain pocket, but he just wouldn’t look there. I firmly told Loretta that Dad should be taken to the emergency room—immediately. Something was obviously wrong with him. They needed to get a doctor to look at him as soon as possible. Loretta had said, “Oh, he doesn’t want to have to spend hours in that place waiting to be seen.”
I was angry and frustrated when I heard Loretta’s comment because surely sitting for a few hours in the emergency room and getting this bizarre behavior evaluated by a doctor was preferable to Dad doing something to seriously hurt himself. I was shocked at what appeared to be a callous evaluation and dismissal of Dad’s very strange and concerning behavior based upon inconvenience, because no one could bother taking him to the emergency room or wanted to sit there for hours with Dad. I had taken a deep breath and again reminded myself how some people see things differently than I do. They don’t necessarily understand or agree that waiting a couple of weeks for a doctor’s appointment is not always the better way to go.
A few weeks later I received an unexpected telephone call from Mum. She routinely called on a Saturday afternoon. This call came on a Sunday. This Sunday I was told that late the night before, Dad had stood up to go to bed, but he was dizzy and unstable and staggered around the living room, eventually falling down backward and hitting his head on a cabinet. Mum called for an ambulance, and Dad left the house for what would be the final time. The doctors discovered that he was in bad shape. He was very ill. His kidneys were not working, a condition I found out later could have been remedied if he had gotten medical attention earlier than he did. His body was not getting rid of the toxins, and it was affecting his cognition. Dad was also diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He had trouble with his lymph nodes the year before, but was told they were successfully treated. However, this time was different. Because his body was poisoned from his lack of kidney function, he was unable to put up enough of a fight to beat the attack on his body.
Part of me is still angry with my mother and sister. In my mind they were charged with my father’s safekeeping, making sure that when he did something odd, they checked it out, or at least showed enough concern to bully Dad into getting it checked out. Talking with them both, I believe that was never done. And my mother was an auxiliary nurse, so sur
ely she had a heightened duty to watch out for them all. The other part of me recognizes that my dad must have had some awareness of what was happening to him and how he was feeling for many months at least.
Mum had once mentioned to me that my father went to his doctor’s appointments alone. Mum wasn’t allowed to go, and he didn’t tell anyone much about the visits. I believed this was true after I saw him in the hospital and saw the way his kidney failure had made his body swell, and saw the fluids secrete through his skin, having nowhere else to go. I could only believe that he did not want to go into the hospital, that perhaps the fight for him was not against the disease, but it was to stay at home in familiar surroundings and with his family for as long as possible because he knew that once he was admitted into the hospital, he would never leave.
When it comes down to it, I can be as judgmental of others as I want, but the truth is, my opinion has no value because I had not been here. My information comes secondhand from others, not from my dad. I had not experienced what Mum and Loretta had experienced, and I have to believe that they were in the better position to judge. All I can do now is to ensure that all moves forward smoothly with no recriminations, regrets, anger, or guilt because any such feelings cannot change what has happened. We each have to live with the past. It is indelibly shaped. But we can still mold the future into something more positive.
I stare at the streaks of paint. They are like bold strokes of graffiti on the wall announcing “Dad was here!” Except that he isn’t anymore. I feel sadness begin to infuse my body but then abruptly push it away.
Stop being so morose! I tell myself. Snap out of it! In response to my own admonition, I jump out of the chair, leave the heavy atmosphere of the living room to find something more positive to do.
Our Grand Finale Page 10