Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2)

by Charlotte Roth

  I took a deep breath. This night was designed to cheer me up and forget about Hans, I reminded myself. I couldn’t fix it anyway.

  “You okay?” Miss T pulled me out of my thoughts.

  I peeked up at her between my fingers and nodded.

  “Good,” she whispered back with a face that reminded me of the first time I had ever laid my eyes on her, the day she had come to our house, a tiny little thing carrying a pitchfork. She had been the true image of a little devil, but how she had proved to be nothing less than an angel - with a Porsche and a fake cigarette. Suddenly, I couldn’t help smiling.

  “I’m okay.” I removed my hands, revealing my smiling face.

  Mom reached over and grabbed my hand. “Good,” she said, reaching for Miss T’s hand as well.

  Miss T grabbed my other hand. “And sorry if I got you a little upset, dear.” She looked down at our hands. And right there—in the midst of feeling a strong connection across three generations—Harvey Keitel decided to jump on Mom’s lap. And this time it was Mom’s turn to be freaked out by something very furry and very much alive, suddenly appearing on her lap. “Yippee ki-ay, motherfucker,” she cried, trying to push the cat off.

  “That’s not Pulp Fiction, dear. That’s Die Hard. John McClane,” Miss T said and winked at me. She stood up and adjusted her colorful housecoat. “I say we put a lid on the teapot and treat ourselves to a nice big glass of cognac. I think we’ve earned it.”

  “We have,” Mom said, relieved, with Harvey Keitel getting all comfortable in her lap. “He or she scared the shit out of me.”

  “Hey, Mom, what’s with the ‘mother fucker’ and ‘shit’”?

  I teased, not sure whether I should actually repeat those words.

  “Well, I guess it’s all right to curse with Miss Tarantino in da house,” she said, a little too cocky.

  “Is she allowed?” Miss T pointed at me.

  “To curse?” Mom asked, playing with Harvey’s tail.

  “No, silly, to have cognac? Just a small glass. It’s imported.” She looked down at Mom and smiled.

  “Well then, hell yeah.”

  “Mom?” I leaned back and crossed my arms. “Really?”

  “Over the top?”

  I nodded. “Hell yeah,” I said, mocking her. It was. Mom rarely curses.

  “Okay, I’ll stop.”

  “Is that a yes?” Miss T reached for her glasses and looked down at Mom.

  “Yes, please,” Mom said in an articulate voice, looking at me for approval.

  Miss T left for the empty kitchen. We could hear her moving around in the kitchen, getting stuff from the apparently not-all-empty cabinets.

  “Do you know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in Paris?” Miss T yelled all the way from the kitchen.

  “A royal with cheese,” I yelled back, smiling at Mom. She really did know the movies by heart.

  “Impressive,” she said when she returned with a tray holding three humongous cognac glasses, a big bottle of Remy Martin X.O., and a smelly treat for Harvey in the shape of a mouse. She set the tray down and poured three three-finger Remy Martins. “Here you go,” she said, balancing the huge glass in her tiny hand.

  I stared at the glass and smiled. “If this qualifies as a little glass then I sure would like to see what you call a big glass.” I raised my glass and looked at Miss T through it.

  “Is it okay, Abby?” she asked, almost a little embarrassed, as she handed Mom a glass.

  “Of course. She doesn’t have to finish it if she doesn’t like it.” Mom said, looking at me at the same time as if saying, “Don’t!”

  “Well, here’s to Martha and Frederick and Metallica for writing the song ten years later.” Miss T raised her oversized glass (it did, of course, look even bigger in the hand of a midget), and we joined her in the biggest cognac toast I had ever seen.

  Maybe it was the not-so-small cognacs, maybe it was the mentioning of Metallica and the tear drop on the glass table, or maybe it was just the whole atmosphere in Miss T’s empty but cozy house, with Harvey Keitel purring in Mom’s lap, but with the next unnerving letter, we would become even more emotionally connected than before.

  Dear Frederick,

  I’m only going to say this once and only to you, and then we won’t talk about it ever again. But I need to tell you something about Dad, which I wasn’t able to tell you this morning over the phone, your work phone. Also, I think the words sound too harsh to say out loud, so here I go, writing them instead.

  Frederick, I helped Dad with his final wish on this earth. Last night as I was holding his hand, he just kept squeezing it and smiling and looking so at peace and right there and then, we both knew. And then only a few hours later, he was gone. Mom has no clue. She thinks that it was God calling him home. So be it. I don’t know what kind of pills he took. I didn’t ask, and I sure didn’t give them to him, but I was there and I held his hand. I didn’t exactly help him, but I didn’t prevent him from doing it either. I was just sitting there, and talking about my day, holding his hand, and all of a sudden he took out a Ziploc from underneath the mattress.

  It contained twenty-something pills at least. And then he just slowly started putting them in his mouth, one by one. I didn’t say anything. I just sat there watching, and when he had swallowed the very last one, he looked at me and smiled.

  “I love you,” he said, “don’t you ever forget that. I love you so much, and you have always made me a very proud and happy dad. You have such a beautiful and brave heart. Frederick is a lucky man and one day, you will make a perfect mom.”

  “But Dad,” I tried to say.

  Then he nodded and said, “I know, but I promise you that it will happen. You will become someone’s mom someday. I just know, and I have peace in my heart knowing that.”

  I leaned over and kissed him, my tears making his face all wet.

  And then I watched him die.

  I can’t explain what it was like, maybe weird and surreal but it was also very beautiful and somehow it felt right.

  Please, Frederick, don’t judge me. I know I should have called out for Mom or an ambulance or something. I shouldn’t have just let him die, should I have? But I just couldn’t stand to see Dad suffer anymore and it was killing Mom slowly as well. I hope Mom can go on with her life now and find some peace in the fact that Dad is with God now and no longer in pain.

  I have no idea how you perceive me right now, but I had to tell you. I want you to know who I am; this is a part of me, too. Please find some understanding in that big heart of yours.

  I love you - more than words.

  Martha.

  Holy shit! She just watched her own dad die. I felt my throat tightening. I looked up at Mom. She was sitting all the way back against the couch, speechless, staring into her glass.

  Quietly, Miss T folded the letter and reached for her oversized cognac. “Oh my. Oh dear. I don’t know about you,” she said, looking at no one in particular, “but now I think I’m having hot flashes. Or maybe it’s just the cognac?” she said, fanning herself.

  “Or maybe it’s just the, um, letter,” I said, staring at the empty fireplace. “I can’t believe what just happened.” I looked at Mom again. She grabbed her cognac glass and emptied it in one big mouthful.

  “Right now, I say thank you for hot flashes and cognac.” She looked at me. “Are you okay, bunny?” She reached over and squeezed my arm.

  I nodded and took another sip. I was already feeling a little light-headed. “I don’t know, it’s, um, brutal, but, um, she kinda warned us earlier that something like this could happen, but still...” I took another sip. The glass was almost empty.

  Miss T grabbed the big bottle from the table. “More?” she said, pointing at Mom’s glass with the cognac bottle.

  Mom nodded. “Just a tiny bit.”

  Miss T poured her a four-ounce glass and filled up her own as well. When she set the bottle down she seemed to realize it was almost half empty. “Oh
boy,” she said, giggling. “We’ll hate this in the morning.” She held out her glass to Mom and they clinked a little too loudly, making Harvey Keitel take cover in the empty kitchen. “To Martha, who has the heart of an angel.”

  Mom set her glass down and stared down at the coffee table, obviously thinking. After a beat, she took in a deep breath and looked at me. “To be honest, I don’t really know whether it’s really bad thing. I don’t even know if it would be a crime. Would it?”

  “Not in my world,” Miss T said very firmly. “She made sure her dad didn’t suffer any more, and more importantly, he didn’t die alone somewhere in a hospital. He was in his own bed, in his own house, holding his daughter’s hand. I say that’s pretty decent. Not a bad way to leave this world if you ask me. But maybe we just need to sleep on it. Maybe we will know how we feel about it in the morning,” she suggested.

  “Maybe,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I honestly didn’t know how I felt about it either. Martha had watched her own dad die and it felt both shocking and shockingly fine. But did she have the right to make that call? Could I do it myself if Mom or Dad actually begged me to do it? I know how they both feel about end-of-life care; from time to time they remind me how they never want to end up as some fruitcake in some hospice bed. They have both assigned me to pull the trigger, as Dad puts it. But that is all theoretical. Would I actually be able to do it? Would I be able to make that call? And what about the law of active death support? There’s no such thing as a free pass even when it comes to love. I looked at Mom with her flushed cognac cheeks and beautiful big green eyes, and I could already feel the tears in the back of my throat. She’s still here, I reminded myself; you’ve just had a huge R-rated cognac, and she’s still here.

  Mom rested her head against the cushion and looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe,” she said, dragging out the word, “I don’t know whether it’s right or wrong, but it sure is beautiful. And very real,” she added. She faced Miss T. “Go on, missy,” she said with her soft cognac voice, looking very calm, almost sleepy. I had never seen Mom drink cognac before, but I guessed it had the same soothing effect on her as half a bottle of Chianti – or Dad.

  Miss T cleared her throat with a sip of cognac and started to read—singing her syllables even more than usual:

  My Martha,

  Just one word: I love you (well, that was three). And even more because you have such a big heart. What you did was difficult and unselfish. I’m not sure I would have had the same courage. You did the right thing. You thought about was what good for him, not for you. You do have a brave heart, as he said. And that’s the last we will ever talk about that. Your “secret” stays and dies with me.

  I was happy to hear that the funeral went well. And I’m really happy to hear that your Mom is doing better. Getting rid of all your dad’s clothes and personal stuff around the house is a good thing. It doesn’t do any good having his clothes in the closet next to hers. It will only make her think of him every morning when she gets dressed. I remember Mom told me that when Dad died. I’m very happy and honored that he wanted me to have the Second World War stuff. I know how much all that stuff meant to him. You know how much I loved your dad and I couldn’t imagine any better father-in-law (even though he didn’t want me to call him that. Remember how he always used to say, “You don’t have to call me that. Thomas will do.”?) I will miss him so much, even though I have been so far away in his last days. Do send my regards to everybody, especially your mom. Make sure she knows how sad I am that I couldn’t make it to the funeral. And you.

  Love you, two words.

  Frederick, one word.

  Miss T clapped her tiny old hands with joy. “See, I told you; Frederick, our beloved Frederick, would have her back. Of course, he would. Oh, isn’t he just amazing?” She sighed, shaking her head vigorously. “Well, I guess we better.” She dropped the letter on the coffee table and stretched her short arms.

  Mom sat up straight and looked at her watch. “Whoa whoa whoa, it’s already one thirty,” she said with a dry voice. She put a hand on my feet. “Ella, are you awake?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded from the other end of the couch. I got up on my elbow and looked at her. “How in the hell can it be one thirty already?”

  “Beats me.” She stood up and grabbed one of the pillows and punched it hard. “As always,” she said in Miss T’s direction, “it’s been a fantastic evening in an earth quaking kind of way.” She smiled and grabbed her sweater from the couch.

  “Oh dear,” Miss T said from her spot on the couch. “Yes. I didn’t see that coming from a mile away. Poor Martha. I did like the part with the cognac, though. I have always had a weakness for cognac. It’s like liquid caramel, making you all smooth and warm on the inside.”

  “Well, this inside has had enough caramel for a long time.” Mom giggled. “It’s been an unforgettable evening. Thank you so much for having us, Miss T.” She started to clear the table.

  “Oh please, leave it, Abby.” Miss T stood up. “It gives me something to do in the morning.” She grabbed the cognac glass out of Mom’s hand. Mom smiled and gave Miss T a tight squeeze.

  “Good night, Miss T.” She turned toward me. “Come on, lazy bones. We can’t have you spending the night on the couch. I mean, what would the Wolf say about that?”

  A chicken dressed up as turkey

  That night coming back from Miss T’s house, I had a really hard time falling asleep. For a change, I wasn’t tossing and turning over Hans; I was trying to digest the very unusual and eventful evening we had spent at Miss T’s big, empty house.

  I still had a strong taste of liquid caramel stuck in my mouth, and every time I tried to close my eyes, I had these weird interchanging images of a faceless woman sitting on a swing with a blue-eyed boy. Then, dressed in white, the same faceless woman was sitting next to an old man on his deathbed, and next to them was Miss T on her huge treadmill, smoking cigarettes and drinking Knorr caramel sauce straight from the bottle.

  In between all of these quite disturbing images, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mom and Dad, sleeping right above me. How could someone have the strength to just sit there and watch her own dad die? The little girl in me wanted to run upstairs and climb into their bed, feel their breath on my face as I fell asleep. How would I ever be able to go on living if I lost Mom and Dad?

  Someday, I would have to deal with it. “Hopefully, we go first.” Dad always says when the subject comes up. I guess he’s right; the parents should go first. But still, it always makes me so sad when he says it, because it makes me realize that one day I am going to lose them. How would I survive a loss like that?

  I still clearly remember the day Grandpa Joe-Joe died—old, drunk, and angry. As always, the whole family was gathered at Grandma and Grandpa’s for Thanksgiving that year. Mom had just had another miscarriage—her last—and didn’t seem to be in the mood for social chit chat and five-hour-long turkey dinners, but I guess we had to go.

  “We should have stayed home,” I remember Dad kept saying in the car, on the way (he said it a lot; it was a nine-hour drive). And I remember Mom saying that even though she didn’t feel like it, it was a family tradition and we had to go. “Life goes on,” she had said. And I remember thinking that we might as well skip the whole damn thing. I mean, what was there to be thankful about anyway? But I had just turned fourteen. I was a grumpy teenager and I guess it’s kind of mandatory to hate everything that goes hand in hand with tradition and shining ornaments.

  When we finally got there it was dark, cold, and raining. The turkey had not arrived (it was supposed to be delivered the day before from some hippie farmers market). Grandma was upset. Grandpa was already semi-drunk. And Aunt Sarah announced loud and clear, with a hint of irritation in her voice, that she was pregnant—again.

  “Just like that,” she had said and snapped her fingers. “One freaking night we get a little carried away and I get bloody knocked up.”

  We all looked at Uncl
e Arthur—on the couch with his back to us, with baby Sam in his arms—watching the game. He didn’t look up but when he spoke, you could hear the smile on his face. “Well, what can I say? I’m a breeding stud.”

  That was it for Mom, I guess. She stood up in the middle of the living room and raised her glass and announced that we should make a toast, turkey or not, for our lovely family (sarcasm intended). She glanced around the living room and pointed at Sarah. “Let’s start with you, my dearest sister,” she said, emphasizing the word sister, raising her glass at her. And then Mom spent the next few minutes praising her so-called sister for always being there for her, always having her back (which, of course, couldn’t be further from the truth; Aunt Sarah is a taker). “I really appreciate you for always being so helpful, thoughtful, sensitive and... and... and pregnant,” Mom said, looking right through her before she turned toward Grandpa.

  “You next,” she said, which we all knew meant even more trouble. Dad looked at me and made an attempt to smile. I whispered, “It’s okay; I’m all good.” He nodded. We both looked at Mom. She raised her glass and encouraged everyone to do the same in honor of Grandma and Grandpa for having us over for Thanksgiving dinner. “Thank you, Mom, for giving us such precious memories and family traditions,” she said and looked at Grandma. “And thanks, Dad, for always getting so viciously drunk. Now there’s a tradition we all can relate to.” Without taking her eyes from Grandpa, she gulped down her big glass of wine.

  She sat back down next to Dad, the rock, and handed him the empty wine glass. “More, thanks,” she said a little too loud. Dad leaned over and reached for the bottle on the coffee table and poured her another glass of wine. “Thanks,” she whispered as she leaned over and kissed him. Reaching behind Dad’s back, she found my hand and squeezed it. “Sorry,” she whispered into Dad’s back, “I didn’t mean to... It’s just...” her voice trailed off.