“Dad, what do you think of the staging?”
“I can’t see it, honey, but it looks great. You did a wonderful job.” Then, he took a huge breath, let it out slowly, and said, “Okay, it’s time to go home.”
“But, Dad, this is your home,” I quickly responded, forgetting we’d just sold it.
Looking up as he reached for my hand again, he smiled that sweet Irish grin that always melted my heart.
“Sweetie, it now belongs to someone else. My home is with you.”
As we turned to wheel him out, I began to realize why it was so important for him to come back. He wanted to visualize our life together one last time, as if it were a memory box filled with precious items from a time long ago. But now, there’d be no turning back. Like everything else that was taken away from him, he would surrender this to God too. For better or worse, he was now stuck with me until the end.
“Okay,” I answered, hugging his neck. “Time to go home. It’s you and me forever.”
“Will you be right behind?” he asked.
“I’ll be home in a bit. I need to do a few things here.”
Waving goodbye with the promise to be home soon, I sat on the floor of my empty bedroom. Now clear of the stained rug, my furniture, and curtains, I stared out the window at the willow tree that had grown massive with the years.
I had grown up with that tree. Watching it bend with the wind, I used to make up stories in my head about how my life would one day look. I wanted ten kids and a husband who adored me.
Feeling a tear sliver its way down my cheek, I was reminded that while the husband part didn’t work out, I did have four wonderful children.
Looking around, memories of the years between those walls flooded my mind. I remembered the dollhouse that stood in one corner and the nursery for my menagerie of baby dolls in the other. As I grew up and the toys found their way to the attic, they were replaced with a vanity for applying makeup and a rocking chair for sitting in as I devoured the latest romance novel. It was also where my mother gave me one of the most precious gifts, the first of many journals complete with a gold key to keep prying eyes out. In those pages, I spewed my innermost thoughts, fears, and dreams.
Suddenly, the dam burst. The little Dutch boy could no longer plug the hole as my tears gushed.
“God, I hate all this!” I screamed, wanting to go back to the days when I rode my bike freely around town, climbed the trees across the street, and played with my dolls. “I don’t like being the grown-up.”
As my emotions fumed, I became angry that no one had prepared me for this part of my life. Sure, I knew my parents would eventually grow old and die, but there were no classes on how to accept that one day, homes would be gone and that parents would need to be raised by their children.
“I’m so tired of being alone all the time,” I moaned. “Every decision I make, I have to do by myself. Even caring for him—it’s all left up to me.”
In my tired mind, I wrangled over the unfairness of my life: that my husband left me right in the middle of raising teenagers, that my two responsible brothers lived several hours away making it difficult for them to be on call at a moment’s whim, that my local brother was dealing with his own personal issues and could not be relied upon for any kind of help, and that my children had grown up and discovered lives of their own. I was lonely. I was sad. I felt put upon. I was also angry—very angry.
“I don’t want to be responsible anymore. When will someone finally take care of me?”
Letting the emotion get the best of me, I sat for several minutes in the quiet of my special place. Finally, I gathered myself, wiped away the melted mascara that covered my cheeks, and blew my nose into the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It was time to say goodbye to the soul of our family.
It was in this house where we clung to each other in hard times and hugged joyously in the good. Our front door was never locked and welcomed anyone and everyone. But, more importantly, 112 Windsor Drive was the scrapbook that held all my family’s memories on our journey of love and learning.
But Dad was right; it was time to release its heart into the loving arms of a new family so their children would grow up loving, Catholic, and strong, just as we had. And, like so many things in my life, I would rely on my father’s art of surrender to get me through.
CHAPTER 10
Conversations in the Dark
Crawling into bed two nights later after a long and particularly exhausting day dealing with an angry seller who wanted to cut my commission because her piece-of-shit house wasn’t speaking to a buyer, my tired body just wanted to shut off my brain. Reaching for an Ambien and a soothing glass of Cabernet, a habit for sleep I was becoming dangerously accustomed to, I crawled into bed. Pill and glass in hand, I heard a bloodcurdling scream from down the hall.
“Jackie! Jackie!”
Crap!
Spilling most of the wine on my white comforter, I placed the glass on the nightstand along with its best friend for sleep, the tiny pink pill.
“Dad, I’m coming,” I called, jumping out of bed.
“Jackie!”
“I’m coming, Dad!”
While I was always Johnny on the Spot when it came to my kids’ cries in the night, at least I knew they could get out of bed on their own. Dad was a different story. I raced down the hallway as he continued to scream.
“Jackie!”
“Dad, I’m coming!”
Racing even faster, I’d forgotten that I’d polished the wooden floors that day. Just as I was about to turn the corner, my stockinged feet went out from under me. I slammed into the wall, knocking the photos of my kids through the years off their hooks.
I found myself on the floor in the middle of toothless grins and broken glass.
“Holy Mother of God,” I uttered with a surly grunt.
“Jackie! Are you coming?”
“Dad, I’m right here,” I yelled, pulling myself up.
Tiptoeing through the minefield of shattered glass, I entered his room to find my father just as I’d left him several hours earlier: on his back, staring up at the ceiling, rosary in hands. He hadn’t moved, let alone fallen to the floor, and there were no remnants of his boiled chicken dinner regurgitated on his chest, a reflux that occasionally happened.
“Are you okay?” I said nervously, fighting to keep my voice steady. Reaching his side, I stared down at him. Nothing seemed amiss.
He gave me that quick boyish grin of his and asked, “Want to chat?”
Do I want to chat? What the hell! I thought you were dying!
But looking into his happy eyes, I took a breath, letting the irritation melt from my face. “Sure, Dad. What do you want to talk about?”
Growing up, my father never talked about his life or anything else for that matter. I always assumed it was because he was tired all the time. And who wouldn’t be? He was out the door at 6:00 a.m. for his hour-long train ride to San Francisco every day. Next, he’d go to Mass (there wasn’t a day that he missed the sacrament), then to his job as an appellate conferee for the Internal Revenue Service, where he’d sit at his desk pouring over numbers and the law, contacting taxpayers trying to make amends with the government. He never left for lunch but carried in his pocket a bagged sandwich that he prepared for himself.
Twelve hours later, he walked back in the door, sat down for dinner with the family, and gobbled his food at such fierce speed I often wondered if he were afraid someone would take it away from him. Immediately after dinner, he melted into his supple red leather chair along with the newspaper and his pipe. In all the years I lived at home, there was never any variation to his routine.
On the weekends, he wasn’t like the other fathers who spent their free time in front of the TV watching baseball or football, beer (or two) firmly in hand. Instead, he spent his days off washing the windows, scrubbing the bathrooms, and doing the yard work. On Sunday, for good measure, he polished four tiny pairs of uniform shoes so we’d look our best on Monday mor
nings at school. While he loved his Giants and the 49ers, sitting in front of the boob tube was considered a sacrilege, a complete waste of time. Instead, his transistor radio followed him wherever he went.
“Does Dad ever talk to you?” I often asked my mother when I was as a child and a teenager.
“Of course he does, silly. Why do you ask that?”
“Well, it just feels like you’re the one who does all the talking. He just sits there.”
Since my mother was the extrovert, I often wondered if Dad just left the entertaining and disciplining of the children to her knowing he’d never get a word in edgewise. Why waste the effort when you could be zoning out? It wouldn’t be until he moved into my home and we had late night chats about the past that I truly glimpsed the man he was.
“Okay, what would you like to discuss?” I asked, picking slivers of glass off my flannel nightgown.
“I don’t know, you choose.”
Looking at his appreciative smile, my heart melted. He could be so sweet sometimes.
“Dad, you must have something on your mind. You called me in here.”
Taking my hand, he sat for a moment in silence still smiling. Then squeezed it, and said, “I was just lying here and realized I missed you.”
Wanting to throw my arms around him, I kissed his cheek instead. Maybe this is why you’re living with me. So I can finally know and understand the man you are.
“I’m right here. Let’s talk.”
For the next two hours, we discussed my work life and how I could be more assertive with my clients. Because I was constantly a peacemaker, it left room for those who liked to take advantage to walk all over me.
“You just have to stand up and say no,” he instructed, his tone casual.
“Easy for you to say. Men were born saying that word.”
My father always had a quiet dignity when he spoke. There were never superlatives, other than “that’s terrific,” and no flowery wording. Just straight to the point.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You are a strong woman who has accomplished a lot. Just look at all you’ve done since Dave left. You raised four kids by yourself and reinvented your life in the workplace. You’ve even held onto two houses when other women would be forced into a rental.”
Taking a moment for a breath, he put his hand over his heart and patted it twice. “Trust yourself as you learn to set some boundaries, and you’ll be just fine.”
Next, we went over each of his four grandchildren and what they were doing with their lives. We dissected the recent political nature of the world and discussed if Barack Obama would be chosen for another term. As a die-hard Democrat, Dad was of the opinion that Republicans needed to stay locked out.
We covered a lot of ground, and just when I thought there was nothing more to say, I remembered a photograph I found earlier that day, hidden in an old book from his childhood that he’d kept all these years.
“Dad, I found a picture of you today. On the back, it says you were fifteen.”
With eyes wide, he exclaimed, “You did! What was I doing in it?”
“You were standing with a football and a boy named Lloyd.”
A pause came over the room. Then, softly, my father said, “Lloyd was my best friend for years.”
In the sepia photograph, my father stood in dirty slacks, a dress shirt, and a pullover sweater looking like he had been heading for church but, with the football in hand, had taken a detour. Next to him, a boy a few inches taller stood with a dark mop of hair sticking straight up and deep-set, Italian-looking eyes peering above a blanket he had wrapped around himself. On the back, my grandmother had written, “Jack at 15 with his best chum, Lloyd.” Unlike my mother, whose father had taken up photography as a hobby and chronicled her life from birth until his death, there were very few pictures of anyone on the Madden side of the lineage.
“Really? Tell me about him.”
Searching his memory, Dad stared at the ceiling.
“We were very close for a long, long time. But one day I got mad at him. We were playing ball, and I thought he was cheating, so I grabbed my football and went home.”
“Really? Did you two make up?”
Playing with the top of the sheet with his gnarled fingers, I could see the curtain coming down over his face. This was a painful piece of his past.
“Dad?”
“I wasn’t very nice. He tried to apologize, many times, but I never accepted it. And I’ve regretted it my whole life.”
Untangling the sheet from between his fingers, I held his hand once again.
“Dad, you were just a kid. Kids do things like that. I’m sure you feel bad now but know this—when you get to heaven, Lloyd will be there waiting.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely! I believe heaven is a place of pure love. You’ve even said this yourself. This crazy stuff we put ourselves through will no longer exist and it will only be souls. All this nonsense we do in our human form will be left behind.”
For a while, we sat in the quiet of the dark night. Just a father and daughter holding each other’s hands. As I thought he was about to drift off, he opened his eyes and asked, “Does Michelle have any boyfriends?”
Where is that coming from?
“No, Dad. She doesn’t.”
“How about Jenni?”
“Nope, not Jenni either. The only one in our family seeing anyone is Lauren. Remember? His name is JJ.”
“Oh yeah, Joe Joe.”
“No, Dad. It’s JJ.”
“JJ, Joe Joe, what’s the difference?” he said with a wink.
“Dad, that is so silly. Do you plan on messing up the name of the first guy who wants to seriously date me?”
Suddenly, an unexpected sternness glossed over his eyes, much like the look he had given me when I crashed the back of the station wagon into a telephone pole when I was sixteen.
“I’m sorry, but you’re done. No more dating for you.”
Huh?
“Dad, how can you say that?”
“Well, it wasn’t your fault, but you only get one chance. Look at me. After your mother passed away, I wasn’t interested in anyone else.”
It had been eight years since my mother left us and he was now ninety-five. The thought of my father eyeing other women was a bit unsettling, but I was still young enough to get my legs up.
Knowing this was all coming from his Catholic training—that you marry once and for life, no divorce—there was no point in arguing. It was a conversation I was sure to lose.
“Let’s talk about women you dated before Mom,” I said, thinking most likely there were none, but at least it would get us off the topic of me. “I bet you were shy with the girls.”
Despite the fact my dad was very handsome, I always thought he would have been rather awkward as a young man with the ladies. He was quiet, reserved, proper, and lived with his parents until he married Mom at twenty-nine. Bringing a girl home for a roll in the hay, or even a cup of tea, would have been embarrassing for him.
“Did you do much dating before you got married?” I asked, sure of the answer.
With absolutely no humility or a moment to even think about it, he announced proudly, “I was a catch back then. All the girls wanted to date me.”
Whoa Nelly! I wasn’t expecting that!
“There was a nurse I went out with for a while,” he continued. “She was pretty, but she wanted to get married and I didn’t.”
Watching his face light up, I couldn’t help but giggle. He was a stud, and he knew it.
“Really? How did you handle that?”
Laughing raucously, he ran his hand through his thick white mane. “I got lucky. The war came along.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I went into the Navy and never saw her again. I dodged that one.”
We both broke down in hysterics: him at the ease of getting out of a sticky situation and me over the thought that war was the perfect solution.
“Nice one, Dad.”
Squinting, utterly pleased with himself, he continued, “Everyone wanted to marry me.”
“But Mom was the one who caught your eye.”
I could tell he was remembering the image of my exquisite mother. In her youth, Lassie was breathtakingly beautiful with her auburn-red hair, saucer-like blue eyes, Barbie doll figure, and gregarious personality. Despite the fact that she never performed in Hollywood like her parents, her magnetic persona filled any room she walked into. Her exquisite features always mesmerized me. I could only imagine how my father must have felt.
“Your mother was something,” he said smiling, his eyes now dancing. “Like a firecracker, she constantly exploded, but it was a joyful type of combustion. When I went off to war, I prayed she’d wait for me.”
“It must have made you so happy to come home and know she was still there.”
“I knew I had to snag her quickly before someone else did.”
“That’s sweet, Dad. I love hearing these stories.”
As he began to yawn and close his eyes, I found myself feeling grateful for this time we had together. We had never had these types of conversations before.
The days could be long and having Enemi in the house was annoying for I was used to being alone and all she did was lay around the house once my dad was in his chair. But I planned to take any opportunity I was given for more moments like this, even if they were in the middle of the night.
“Are you getting sleepy?”
With an affirmative nod, he closed his eyes, and I covered him up, kissed his cheek one last time and told him I loved him. Then I I turned on his favorite CD of classical music with angelic singing in the background. It was a meditative CD I one day found at the music store that calmed the nerves and seem to speak to his soul.
“I love you too, sweetie. Can we talk some more tomorrow?”
“Yes, Dad. Tomorrow and every day.”
CHAPTER 11
Doctor Appointments
Two months passed since our midnight chat. We were tiptoeing into November and life was speeding by at an alarming pace. I almost wondered if our hourglass had an extra-large hole, causing the sand to pour rather than fall grain by grain. The hours seemed to blend together and not much had changed.
The Promise I Kept Page 9