Ah, yes. That’s what she does all day.
Enemi didn’t like to read or watch TV. Not only did her phone keep her linked to her extended family with constant texts, but she also loved to play any game she could download for free. It was her source of entertainment.
“Hi,” I called out, making my presence known.
She startled, looking up.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, quickly tucking her phone to her side.
“Everything’s fine,” I pretended, wanting her to look more alive than my father. “But there seems to be a ton of laundry. It’s all Dad’s stuff. Do you mind taking it into his room and folding it?”
As if a spring had burst through the cushion and bit her in her rear end, Enemi flew out of the chair.
“Sure, sure. I was just taking a break.”
“Thanks. I’ll be reading Dad his mail for the next half hour.”
Reaching the mailbox, I found it overflowing like Christmas card heaven. Between two people getting the same amount of junk mail (at least five envelopes a piece), there were also newspaper advertisements, an occasional card, and your typical bills: PG&E, water, credit cards, mortgage, and phone.
Oh, look, David sent him a card, I thought, pleased, placing it on top of the pile. Carrying the stack inside, I prepared myself for his interrogation.
“What do I have today?” He smiled as if he were a five-year-old waiting for a party invitation.
“Looks like a lot of junk, people asking for money, and a couple of bills.”
“Open them, please.”
“Can I just read you your note and the bills? The rest is worthless.”
Stirring in his chair, attempting to position himself upright, he widened his eyes and his face turned bright pink. I recognized the signs. He was anxious.
“No, please read them all. You just never know. There might be something very important.”
Holding back my frustration—I had better things to do than read him mail that belonged in the bin—I sorted the pile in order of importance: David’s letter, bank statements, bills, and junk.
“Your son David sent you a letter,” I began, slitting it open.
His face lit up.
“Dear Dad, I’m sending you this note to tell you I’m thinking of you. We’re all doing fine and send our love,” I read.
He smiled, but then looked away. As my father grew older, his emotions were just under the surface, causing tears to spring to his eyes over the simplest things. The only time I saw him tear up in my youth was when I was in seventh grade and his mom suddenly passed away. Now it was almost a daily occurrence and always over a sweet gesture.
“He’s such a good boy,” he said softly, as he stared out the window. “A sweet, kind soul.”
Realizing this might be a great opportunity to revisit the past, I answered, “Yes, Dad. He certainly is; he always has been. I think he was such a perfect little kid. How about the other boys?”
“Tim always amazes me,” he continued, taking the napkin from his chin to wipe away a tear escaping down his cheek. “He was such a good little boy, too, you know.”
That isn’t the way I remember it, I wanted to say.
Tim and I were twenty months apart in age, and as children we looked like twins. But while I was an exemplary little girl, following every rule my parents put forth, Tim was a rascal, constantly getting himself into mischief and doing the opposite of what he was told. If my memory served me correctly, and it always did, my parents were constantly scolding him about something, whether it was falling out of a tree and breaking an arm or two, or his grades slipping. But I decided not to argue with my father’s memory.
“And Michael?”
Tilting his head to look at the ceiling, he sat very still for a moment. I wondered what his response would be. Michael was the baby of the family and had been a beautiful one at that. With cobalt blue eyes, snow-white curls, and a dimple in his cheek that resembled Dad’s, he was precious as a little boy, though less so much later in life.
“Michael was always quiet, but such a good boy.”
As a surprise in their forties, after Mom’s reproductive cycle had slowed down, our entire family rallied around this gift that arrived late in life—helping him with schoolwork, including him in our budding social lives, and protecting him long into his adult years, even when his choices became questionable in the eyes of social acceptability and the law.
I was happy to hear my father had only good memories, and not the ones that caused pain, anger, and screaming.
Finishing the list of my testosterone-loaded siblings, I was sure the best was being saved for last. After all, I was the only girl—his rose among the thorns. I was not only sweet but perfect. My mother always said so.
“How about me?” I asked, waiting to hear about my accolades.
“You? Oh, you were very busy.”
Busy? What the hell did that mean?
“And sneaky.”
Sneaky! Wait a minute! What about kind, loving, and giving?
For a moment, I felt a pang of resentment. Yes, it was true that I snuck quarters from his dresser drawer to buy a candy bar or two, but come on! I was the child who took care of all life’s little messes, including his adult diapers. How come I wasn’t good?
“Yeah, I had to keep my eye on you.”
Shit, all David has to do is send a lousy one-dollar card, and he walks on water. I’ve given up my life, and all I get is sneaky!
But remembering he was old and needed to live with loving memories of his sons, I decided to move on, despite the sting to my ego.
Next, I opened the invoices and we discussed the payments due. I was just about to scoop up the rest and whisk them away to the trash when my dad stopped me.
“Those too. I want to read all of them.”
“But Dad, it’s just junk mail, I promise. Nothing important.”
“I want to know what’s in them. Please don’t argue with me. My mail is important,” he exclaimed.
I listened to his beseeching tone and carefully said again, “They’re just charities asking for donations.”
“I want to be sure.”
Plopping myself back down, I opened the envelopes: Santa Clara County Catholic Charities, Children’s Christian Fund, his alma maters St. Mary’s College and Sacred Heart High School, and finally, the parish I grew up in, St. Charles Church. They all wanted money.
Jesus, all these Catholics ever do is ask for donations. Maybe they need to pray a little harder for manna from heaven and leave our wallets alone.
“Like I said, Dad. They all want money.”
“Okay, throw them away.” Patting my knee to show his appreciation, he turned away and announced, “I’m going to take a nap now.”
I decided that next time, I would throw them away before he knew they were even in the pile.
Looking at the time, I still had fifteen minutes before I had to go back to work. Releasing Enemi for a stroll around the neighborhood, I went to sit in my bedroom to collect myself. Like the tread on a tire about to pop, I was worn out. Boredom had become my new normal. The life I once lived with friends and an occasional date had vanished. I’d been seeing a lovely Englishman named Oliver for nearly two years, and while we were more friends than a couple, he too disappeared the moment my father moved in.
I could now see why Dad was so afraid of becoming a burden. I never realized what a burden boredom can be. Thank God he didn’t move in sooner. I’d be in the looney bin by now.
Peering into the backyard, I saw our bird friends dancing merrily on the wind. How I wish I could be one of them right now, even for just a few minutes, and fly to somewhere new. Just as I was about to burst into full-blown tears, it hit me why reading his mail was so crucial.
Now ninety-six, Dad had outlived his entire family, my mother, and all his friends. The process of opening his mail made him feel linked to the world at large. Every time it arrived, it was a signal, a calling card, that he was st
ill alive and that someone was thinking of him, even if they wanted money.
One day, I too may be just like him and would want to know my life still mattered, even if it came as an advertisement from AARP.
Going to the mirror, I dabbed at the black panda-like circles forming around my eyes.
“You were so sure you could handle this,” I said to myself as I stared at my reflection. “You’re such a fraud. You never believed he’d live this long—that’s why you thought you could actually do it.”
Pulling myself back together by reapplying my mascara and lipstick, I gathered my things and headed to the door as Enemi was coming back in.
“You off to work again?” she asked, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the edge of her blue and yellow sarong.
“Yeah, I need to go. I’ll be back by 3:00 p.m.”
Seeing the tired look in my eyes, she reached out and softly touched my arm.
“Jackie, I hope you know how much he loves you. He tells me all the time.”
“He does?”
“Yes, he’s always telling me what a sweet, wonderful girl you are and how lucky he is to have you as a daughter.”
Despite his earlier remark about me being sneaky, I had to stop for a minute. While Dad sometimes had a hard time admitting he was wrong or discussing the depths of his emotions for another person to their face, the one thing I never doubted about either of my parents was that they loved their kids. They constantly showed it by the way they were selflessly there for each of us their entire lives.
“Thank you. I know. This has just turned out to be harder than I thought. But I’ll get through it. Thank you for your help.”
“I’ve taken care of a lot of old people in my life,” she continued, moving closer for a hug. “Many are difficult. Your dad isn’t always easy, but he’s a good, kind man.”
“Funny you should say that,” I responded, hugging her back. “That’s exactly how Mom always described him when we asked why she married him.”
Walking to the car, I began to smile. Despite the fact he could be crabby, demanding, and annoying, I had to agree.
“He’s a good man and he’s worth all the inconvenience,” I admitted out loud.
CHAPTER 15
Where Has All the Money Gone?
I slowly opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. A tiny spider was working its way across the expanse of white paint, step by step, with slow determination. She was obviously on a mission to get somewhere, but where? Like a nomad crossing a vast desert of sand, with no food, water, or another living creature for thousands of miles, she trekked on her mission for survival. Studying her every step, I found myself envious. Like her, I was wandering alone across my own desert, but while she was able to hang on while walking upside down, it seemed every step I took sent me tumbling to the ground.
Regardless of the fact that we were entering springtime, the March temperatures continued to be bitterly cold. Each day, the wind whipped at my back, forcing me to layer up with sweaters, scarves, and coats. Winter was not giving up without a fight, very much like my father.
I can’t believe Dad is still holding on, I thought, watching the wind torment the new buds opening on the maple tree outside my bedroom. Dad was sleeping more than ever now and our deep conversations had become rare.
“Are you okay?” my dear friend Sheri asked one evening when I hired Cassie to watch Dad so I could go out to dinner. “I know you too well, and I can tell something’s going on in that mind of yours.”
Taking a gulp of wine, I didn’t want to moan about the fact that my last commission check had been in November. Four months later, the money tree had yet to bloom with the ensuing spring.
“I’m okay.” I tried to convince myself as much as her. “It just gets a little scary when the bills come in, and the funds are shrinking. But you know that all too well. It goes with being a realtor.”
With an empathetic gaze, Sheri reached across the table and took my hand. “Do you want to borrow some? I’m happy to give it to you.”
A tear found its way down my cheek, and I grabbed a napkin before it became a flood. Filled with gratitude, I answered, “I know you would. But I have to figure this out on my own. I guess I never took into account how expensive taking care of him would be.”
“Doesn’t your dad have any money?”
“That’s my problem. He’s sitting on over two million but refuses to spend it because he wants to leave his kids an inheritance.”
Studying the pained look in my eyes, Sheri held my hand even tighter.
“I think you should start charging your dad’s estate. I’ve heard that losing their income is one of the toughest things for caregivers.”
“I can’t do that. He’s so proud of the money he’s been able to save.”
“Jackie, what would you be doing if you put him in a home? Would you be paying for that?”
Downing another swallow, I played with the soggy napkin. Of course I wouldn’t pay if we had to put him in a facility. His life savings would go to that. But it would also kill him to know that everything he scrimped and saved was being eaten away, leaving nothing for his four kids. Parents of that generation wanted to leave behind a legacy, and that meant a wad of cash.
“Look, you have given your father such a gift by taking him in, but that doesn’t mean your whole life has to stop.”
“I know, but I volunteered to do this. And my whole life hasn’t stopped. Now that I’ve got girls that will sit with Dad, I can get out once in a while in the evenings.”
As the waitress brought our food, I felt a sigh of relief to get off the subject. Talking about it made it that much more real.
“And who pays for the girls to sit?” she asked, knowing the answer. “You have enough stress on your plate just making sure he has everything he needs. Financial overload wasn’t part of the bargain.”
Listening to her words, I thought how nice it would be to collect even a little stipend from his savings. I was now down to my last $25,000 with no deal in sight.
While in some parts of the world that’s a fortune, in my little corner of the globe in Silicon Valley it was near the poverty level, especially when I had two properties—my home in Los Altos and a cabin in the Tahoe Mountains—to keep up and pay taxes on. My monthly expenses were $9,000. If something didn’t break soon, I’d be in big doo-doo.
“I know what you’re saying, but my mother raised me to be completely self-sufficient and independent from the moment I could tie my shoes. Never in my entire life did I go to my parents and ask for a handout. I’m not about to now.”
“What happens if you completely run out? You need to protect yourself.”
I thought of all the times I’d hit rock bottom financially: during my college years when I lived on cottage cheese and ketchup, post-college days when a new dress or coat was paid off on layaway because I never had the full amount at the time of purchase, and after my divorce as I tried to educate our four kids. I sighed. Somehow, I always found a way.
“I’m so appreciative that you’re worried, but I’ll figure it out.”
Later that evening, after handing a twenty-dollar bill to Cassie for doing her homework for several hours as my father slept, I sat down to the stack of invoices sitting on my desk awaiting payment and began to blubber. This was the lowest I’d been financially in a long time.
When Dad moved in, he gave me $400 a month for his food and medical necessities. While that easily covered the basics, what wasn’t factored in were all the other costs.
Old people are prone to get chilly, whether in the dead of winter or during the warm summer months. With the heater cranked up 24/7 and the washer and dryer spinning in perpetual motion, the PG&E and water bills rose an extra $300 a month.
He was also devouring books on tape at the tune of two a week. I tried to take them out of the library, but inevitably they’d be scratched or missing a disk. So, to ensure pure listening satisfaction, I bought them, and those puppies came with a
high price tag.
Factor in a night out once a week with a daddy-sitter, and by the end of the month, I was shelling out at least $100 so I could have a break.
Adding up all the miscellaneous expenses, it only came to an extra $400 to $500 a month, but with no money coming in, fear created the sensation of pouring hydrogen peroxide on an open wound: it stung like hell.
Thinking about Sheri’s suggestion, I wondered if it was time to do a little hinting about my current financial status. I would never come right out and ask for help, for that was not in my nature. But if he got wind that his only daughter was suffering, perhaps he’d volunteer to help out.
Going into his room to check on him, I saw that he was wide awake. Mustering my courage, I decided it was best to speak in generalities.
“Boy, Dad, things have gotten expensive,” I announced, fluffing his pillow before kissing his cheek. “I can’t believe the price of eggs and detergent.”
Studying my face with military attention, I could see he wasn’t just hearing me, but listening to me.
Great! I’ve got his attention. He’d never want his girl to suffer. After all, he calls me his “pet” and his “special girl.” Play this right, and I bet he’ll up the ante.
Nodding, he put his index finger under his chin and said, “Yep, that’s how life goes.”
“Did you know milk is up to $3.00 a gallon?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Things go up; then they come down.”
“Even gas is outrageous.”
“Did Cassie leave? She’s a sweet kid.”
“Dad, did you hear me? Gas is up to $3.60 a gallon!”
“That’s a shame, but I don’t drive a car anymore.”
“Yeah, but I do.” And so does Enemi when she drives you, and I’m shelling out extra cash for that too.
Realizing it was better to discuss items close to home, like his sanitary needs, I continued, “Even your diapers, wipes, and all those lotions have gone up in price.”
“That’s too bad.”
Shit! Is he completely obtuse?
Getting nowhere, I let out a groan and announced I was going to turn on his music.
“You know, Jackie,” he began, “I always wanted to teach you how to live by a budget, but you were never interested.”
The Promise I Kept Page 13