The Promise I Kept

by Jackie Madden Haugh

  Junior shook his head. He was in the dark as much as I was. A little later, as I was about to jump into the shower, I heard a bellowing. “Jackie! Jackie!”

  Running into the family room, I found him in his chair, waving his arms as if he were Donald Trump on “The Apprentice” and just about to fire someone.

  “I need to get a contractor,” he demanded as he rubbed his forehead vehemently. “I need to build the driveway so it slants up. It needs to get done soon.”

  Puzzled, I asked, “Whose driveway and what’s the name of the contractor?”

  “Mine of course. It needs the certain specifications for just the perfect angle.”

  Feeling not just confused but scared now, I was worried he was completely losing it.

  “Dad, who is it you want me to call?”

  “The contractor, you know. I want the slant to be specific.”

  I heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what contractor you’re talking about.”

  And just like that, he shook his head, flit his hand for me to go away, and mumbled, “Never mind.”

  For the rest of the day and until the following morning, I lost him to that dark place he went when he was frightened, confused, or scared: sleep.

  “Hi Dad,” I called as I was preparing to leave the following day. “How are you doing today?”

  Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he smiled.

  “You off to work?”

  “Yes, but I need to ask you something. Junior said you asked for Bill yesterday.”

  Shaking his head, I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Remember, Bill’s been gone for forty years.”

  With sorrow in his voice and a loneliness I hadn’t heard since my mother passed away, he uttered, “How I miss him.”

  “I know you do. I bet you miss everyone. You know they’re all waiting for you.”

  “Well, they can wait a little longer. I’m not ready,” he grumbled, instantly losing the sentimental mood.

  Kissing his forehead, I agreed. “Yes, Dad. You go when you’re ready.”

  Later that night, I became increasingly concerned. He hadn’t been with it for days now. It was almost as if he was in another space and time, but when called on it, he immediately snapped back into place, like the Fisher Price plastic beads my children once played with.

  Hearing mumbling from down the hall, I looked at the clock: 2:00 a.m. Thinking he needed something, I got out of bed, but as I got closer I could hear he was having a conversation with someone.

  Who in the hell could he be talking to?

  Then I heard, “Lassie, Lassie . . .”

  Standing at his bedroom door, I watched his hand reach for the window, stretching out as far as he could.

  What does he see? There’s nothing there. It was as if he was communicating with the other side, insistent that my mom be with him.

  After several minutes, I interrupted the invisible reunion.

  “Dad,” I called. “Can I help you with something?”

  Instantly, he pulled his arm back and switched gears.

  “My watch doesn’t work anymore. I think the battery is dead.”

  Coming to sit by his side, I gently took hold of his arm to have a look at the watch my mother had given him years ago—a Timex that, like him, took a licking, kept on ticking, and never seemed to run out of batteries. But now it had. Was my father running out of batteries too?

  “I can get that fixed for you in the morning.”

  “I want you to get into bed with me.”

  Get into bed with him? Sorry, Dad, that feels creepy.

  Pulling myself together, rather than ask a bunch of questions that might lead to nowhere, I simply said, “Dad, there’s not enough room for me to lie down with you.”

  Patting the right side of the bed, the side my mother always slept on, he announced, “Yes there is. Right here.”

  As I walked around to the other side, my mind was spinning. What had happened to my father? Was he on some new medication that made him loopy? But seeing this was important to him, I positioned myself on the side Mom held for years, bent over the railing, and put my cheek to his.

  “I can’t get on the bed, but I’m right here.”

  “Ah, my sleepy-time girl.”

  That’s what he used to call her when she’d fall asleep on the couch in the afternoon sun. He really thought I was Mom.

  Afraid to burst his bubble or do some damage to his psyche, I kept my cheek on his for several minutes as we connected in silence. Just when I was about to kiss him goodnight, thinking he was now calm and ready for sleep, he started up again.

  “Why didn’t we have more babies? I wanted lots of children.”

  I’m definitely calling the social worker tomorrow. This is cuckoo.

  Rather than correct him, I played along.

  “Jack, we got married later. We were in our thirties when we had the first three and I was forty when Michael was born. My body was wearing out. I couldn’t have more.”

  Letting out a sigh, he went on and on about how he loved children and how he had wanted a houseful.

  Then, out of left field, he asked, “Have you stopped smoking?”

  Remembering how my mother struggled before quitting in 1968, I stated with confidence, “Yes, I quit a long time ago.”

  “Good! That was a disgusting habit.”

  For the next couple of minutes, we talked about our children, or should I say their children. Wanting to be remembered in the best light, I began saying glowing things about their daughter.

  “Jackie was always such a good girl, wasn’t she?”

  To my surprise, this time there was no mention of my being sneaky.

  “Yes, Lassie. She still is.”

  But, just as strangely as the conversation began, it switched back, as if he were playing with a nightlight by his bed. One minute I was his wife, the next, I was his daughter again.

  “Jackie, I think I can go to sleep now. Thanks for the chat.”

  The following morning, I gave Tracie a call. I was sitting in my car at the office, afraid to have this conversation around other people.

  His behavior had been extremely bizarre the past week and I needed clarification on what was going on. Did all old people get confused? Had his medication changed? Was he going nuts? My father used to be present and alert. Was I losing him to some mental abyss?

  As I relayed the episodes of the week, Tracie listened quietly. Then, with kindness in her voice, the kind you hear when about to receive bad news, she said, “Jackie, your dad’s in his final transition. He’s letting you know he’s leaving.”

  “Leaving? Leaving where? What do you mean, like dying?”

  Somewhere in my subconscious, I already knew this, but I didn’t want to believe it. It was so much easier to blame his behavior on medication than the fact that our time together was now coming to an end. I put my head on the steering wheel and began to cry.

  “How much time does he have?”

  “What he’s doing is what we call one foot in, one foot out. His spirit is preparing to leave and all that talk is his way of preparing you. But, in his reality, he doesn’t know it. He’ll say odd things, but when called on them, he will immediately jump back to the present.”

  Now sobbing uncontrollably, I sat with the phone to my ear, wanting once again to run and hide. All of a sudden, all those times when he drove me crazy and I wanted him gone were erased. I wanted it to be the first day he moved in. I wanted to be up late at night, exhausted but chatting about what was important to him: his thoughts, feelings, dreams, and fears. I wanted to be a little girl again, trotting behind him as he mowed the lawn. I wanted to see his head pop into my room at night to see if I needed any help with my homework. I wanted to hear him coo, “you’ll be just fine” a million more times. I wanted time to stand still.

  “Jackie, we never know how long this will take. It could be three weeks or three months,” Tracie continued. “But, when he talks
, play along. As long as he doesn’t fall into a place that could be mentally damaging, just let him talk.”

  “But I don’t want him to go. I’m not ready.”

  “I’ll be right here if you need me. Call me any time. He’s a remarkable man who’s had an amazing life. And, most importantly, he’s been loved, especially by you.”

  As I hung up, I stared out the window at the rain that was now falling. I knew this day would come, but I wasn’t prepared for the reality of it. I wonder if we’re ever truly prepared for the emptiness that replaces the space a loved one once filled.

  Realizing how short my time was, I was also hit with the recognition that I wasn’t the same woman I was when I took him in. My father had touched the most precious of all musical notes in my spiritual core bringing me back to what was true, honest, and real: God, prayer, and a heart filled with daily gratitude. He did this without pontification on what was right, but with his example of a life filled with grace and dignity. Oh, how I was going to miss him.

  CHAPTER 23

  A Time for Goodbye

  For the next couple of weeks, Dad and I talked more when he was awake, but his foot was always trapped on the other side.

  On October 10, as I fed him his dinner, he declared, “Jackie, I need my blue suit. I want it cleaned and pressed. And my favorite tie, the one I wore to your wedding.”

  That blue suit had sat in his closet for over thirty years and only saw the light of day for important religious events, such as Christmas, baptisms, or weddings. How I loved seeing him in it, his snow-white hair in perfect contrast to its navy color. My father was always, in my opinion, the most handsome man I’d ever known, and his blue suit put the stamp on the letter.

  Remembering what Tracie said, I played along with the conversation.

  “Okay, Dad,” I answered, spooning mushy boiled chicken into his gaping mouth. “But why do you need it?”

  “I’m going to get all dressed up, then I’m going for a drive.”

  “Where are you going? Can I come?” I found myself giggling.

  “Junior is going to put me in the car and first we’re going to drive to the living room, then I have to rest.” He smiled, as if he were letting me in on some wonderful secret and whispered with his index finger covering his mouth. “Yes, we’re going to drive to the living room, and when I’m ready, we’re going out the door.”

  Noticing that he was now pointing his finger upward, my eyes suddenly stung with tears that would flow when I left the room. He was having visions of how his life would be at the end, and he wanted me to know all the details.

  Bending over to kiss his forehead, I patted his cheek and reassured him I’d get it cleaned and ready.

  A few weeks into Junior’s appearance into our lives, we realized he’d need the weekends off. So, after several misses, another perfect solution stepped in. The dart that hit the bull’s eye: Mike Toll.

  Mike was a physically fit man in his forties. He’d had many careers over his lifetime but was thinking of becoming a nurse and felt working in the caregiving industry would give him insight into what that career would be like. While Junior spoke to Dad’s heart, Mike touched my soul with his deep spiritual nature.

  “I bet you have a lot of thoughts running through you now,” Mike said when he found me teary eyed and staring at the birds flying around the feeder outside.

  “I’m scared,” I uttered, not wanting to look at him. My tears were constant now, and no amount of cold water would reduce the puffiness around my eyes. “I’m afraid I’ll miss something, but I’m so tired.”

  “I’m here with you. I won’t let you miss anything.”

  For so many months, I’d been angry. I was pissed that Enemi was in the house all the time, even though she was a sweet woman. I found it creepy to come home, so I’d spend time in the neighborhood park or eating frozen yogurt in my car just killing time because I didn’t want to face it all.

  I was annoyed that my brothers were so far away, that my friends rarely called anymore to see how I was doing, and I was especially irritated that my body had become lumpy with the lack of exercise it was once used to. While my father was dying, in so many ways I felt I was the one who died long ago. But now we were near the end, all those feelings of angst and betrayal were gone. I saw them for what they truly were—the feelings of a woman on overload spinning in a vortex of pain, guilt, and shame over her own personal feelings that she was projecting on others.

  For the next week and a half, the visits from Hospice became more frequent to check his vital signs. He was still eating as usual, drinking plenty of fluids, and his body was functioning as it always did—plenty of full diapers.

  “He’s just fine,” Mary announced each time she left. “I see no signs of any true decline. His temperature is normal, there is no discoloration in his fingertips, and his mind is still very with it. He even asked me who I was voting for.”

  With a smile and a wink, she grabbed her amulet that always hung around her neck and giggled. “Of course, I told him the Democrats. I didn’t want him to have a heart attack.”

  It was now October 18. His absentee ballot had arrived and we had work to do.

  “Okay, Dad. Are you ready to vote?” I asked as he rested in bed. He was spending more time in his room these days. It seemed a much more comfortable place for him to meditate on his life.

  At his nod, I opened the ballot, took out my black pen, and jokingly asked, “Who do you want to vote for?”

  Without any hesitation, he proudly announced, “Everyone and everything Democratic!”

  Drawing the black lines from the candidate’s name to their party, it took no time at all.

  “Do you think Obama has a chance?” I asked, knowing he’d say, “He better.”

  In 2008, Barack Obama was about to inherit the biggest mess this country had seen since the Great Depression. Unemployment was at 10 percent and millions of citizens were uninsured, using the emergency rooms in hospitals as their way to receive care. The housing market had tanked and everywhere you looked, people were discouraged about the future.

  “I hope he does,” he answered, pointing to his glass of water. Talking politics always made him thirsty. “No president could do anything in one term with the nightmare we’ve been living in. Sadly, I think he needs three terms to make anything good come out of it.”

  As I handed him the water, I found myself wondering what it must be like to have lived for almost ninety-seven years. Dad was born in 1916. World War I was in full swing, the president was Woodrow Wilson, and the League of Nations would soon be created. The average price of a home was $5,000, a car a mere $400, and postage stamps were only 2 cents apiece.

  Thinking this would be a fun conversation, I asked, “Dad, what’s it like to be almost ninety-seven?”

  Looking at me as if this was the stupidest question he’d ever heard, and that I’d left my mind someplace, he answered, “I have no idea.”

  “No, Dad! Think about it. You’ve seen so many inventions over the years, so much history has unfolded, and new ways of thinking are the norm. What does that feel like?”

  Seeing his daughter was serious, he put his arm behind his head and looked out the window. The birds he loved were getting ready for the winter again, just as he was preparing for his winter.

  “I still have no idea because in my mind, I’m sixteen.”

  “But don’t you ever get upset about how your body changed with time?”

  Turning towards me, his eyes narrowed as if I were about to get schooled big time. “That’s a woman thing!”

  A woman thing? I wanted to yell. But he was right. I was conditioned by my grandmother and mother to never leave home without my face on, hair curled, and body wrapped in a pretty dress. Vanity was definitely my middle name.

  “Really? I wish I could be like that.”

  Covering him up, I put his headphones on and turned on channel 229. It was time I reevaluated my own aging process. I always got emotional ove
r a wrinkle that wasn’t there the day before, a new vein that seemed to pop out on my leg just for walking to the kitchen, and the dulling hue of my once shiny blonde curls. To me, the aging process sucked because it meant I was growing old and would become undesirable. But for him, it didn’t matter what age he was. He was just happy to be alive.

  On the following weekend, we spent time talking about the Giants and whether they could possibly win another World Series. They’d taken the title just two years before in 2010 and it seemed nearly crazy for them to pull it off again. Dad also became increasingly concerned that his checks were going to all the right accounts. His biggest worry was that his beloved Giants were paid on time.

  “Make sure they get their money,” he instructed, agitated, as the catcher, Buster Posey, made a home run.

  “How am I going to do that?”

  “Call them, and if they say they haven’t received their paychecks, pay them for me.”

  “Out of your accounts?” I laughed, thinking he must love them more than his own kids.

  Realizing he was talking silly, he became present, grabbed my arm and pulled me close.

  “I love you, honey.”

  Patting his cheek, I replied in kind, “And I love you.”

  Since his health seemed to be okay, I decided to spend a little time in the office the following Monday. I’d been gone for two weeks. If nothing else, I was sure I had some bills that needed attention.

  But, as usual, I came home at noon only to find him still in bed.

  “Aren’t you getting up today?” I asked, bringing in his mail.

  “No, I just want to stay here today. How did it go at work? Any new listings?”

  Gently tracing the lines that traversed his wrinkled cheek, I leaned in for my kiss.

  “No, not today. I’m having a hard time this year. Real estate is like that, you know.”

  As we sat and talked about the challenges of the market, he questioned me on my strategy, gave suggestions on where to find some clients, and ended the conversation as he always did: “Honey, don’t you worry. You’ll be just fine.”

  I’d heard him say that simple phrase my entire life and had so grown to love hearing it. They were just four little words, but they were strung together with the finest gold thread that tied his heart to mine. My father always had the utmost faith in me. Maybe it was time I did too.