by Dan Kolbet
"I wondered if anyone was going to come get me!" she says, the excitement visible in her expression.
"We'd better go wake up your sister too, then," I say.
"OK."
She bounces out of the room and pushes her way into Kendall's room. She taps her on the shoulder.
"Time to wake up, sissy!" she says.
Kendall groans and rolls over. Undeterred, Gracie jumps on top of her and shakes her shoulders gently.
"It's present time!" she says.
"Alright, give me a second," Kendall says. "I need to pee, and then I'll come down."
Gracie and I head toward my parents' room.
"We'd better wake up Grandma and Grandpa, too," I say. "They're not going to sleep in the whole morning, right?"
"No way!" Gracie says, excited.
When we reach their door, I knock softly, knowing that even the slightest sound will wake up Mom. It always had before, which is why I'm so surprised she's not up yet. No answer to my knock. I turn the knob and peek in. Mom is sitting up in bed. Gracie runs to jump on the bed. She's been doing that for a few weeks now, but something makes me hold her back, wrapping my arms around her stomach, just as she passes me. I hold her there, while looking at my mom. Her face is drawn and pale like she hadn't slept all night. Her bright full-length nightgown is buttoned tight, like she'd been in this position for a while. But it's the tears on her cheeks that made me grab Gracie and hold her tight.
My father's hand is resting on Mom's leg. What would have been a comforting pat by a lifetime companion seems anything but. He's turned toward her, so I can't see his face, but I don't have to. The blotchy white skin on his neck is more pale that usual and for good reason.
Mom shakes her head. It's either a recognition of what happened sometime last night or a delayed reaction to Gracie wanting to jump on the bed, but either way she's saying "no . . . no . . . no."
Chapter 27
My father died sometime in the early morning hours of Christmas, before the sun was up. Mom said he mouthed the words, good night. She moved his hand onto her leg and held it until the end. I didn't ask her why she stayed in bed, knowing he was gone. What would I do if that happened? I have no earthly idea and I don't want to find out either.
It doesn't dawn on me until this moment that I'm the only male Redmond left. My brother and father are both gone, leaving me here alone. A pitiful excuse to carry on the family name. If I needed something, I could always go to Dad. Now who am I supposed to go to?
Seeing my father dead, lying next to my mother was an experience, but nothing like telling Gracie what happened. She was so high for the holiday already. It was Christmas morning and the excitement of the day was what little kids dream of. But not this. This girl who had already experienced the death of her parents didn't need to have her special holiday ruined by another family member passing. But it did ruin it. Christmas was over before it began. There was no way I could talk my way out of it. It happened and none of us could go back.
I remember when I was a kid—I must have been 11 or 12—and my uncle Warren died. He was my dad's brother who I didn't know well at all. I don't know why he died either; maybe cancer, old age, heart failure? But it was expected somehow and he was in the hospital when it happened. Dozens of family members were gathered outside in the hallway. A few of the close relatives were in the room. Trevor and I were sitting in some chairs down a few doors. My dad came out of the room and everyone in the hallway turned toward him. His vacant stare commanded everyone's attention. And in that exact moment, they all knew that Uncle Warren had passed on.
Dad had leaned against a wall and let out a breathy sob from deep inside his chest and let the emotions he'd obviously been holding back take over. He cried like that for a long while. Trevor and I ran to him and hugged him. I remember asking Trevor later why Dad cried like that. He said it was because Uncle Warren was his brother and that's just what you do when you're sad.
"You only get so much family," Trevor said. "They're here and then they are gone." Wise words from a kid in junior high.
So how was I supposed to tell Gracie that? Was this going to be the moment that she will remember, like I did with Uncle Warren? Or would it numb her?
In the hall Kendall seemed to know what happened when she saw my face as I turned and ushered Gracie back into the hall without letting her inside my parents' room. Her shoulders dropped and the muscles on her face relaxed as she covered her mouth with her hand and stood frozen.
Kendall in the hall, frozen. Mom still in the bed. Gracie ready to open presents, unaware of this tragedy. This is the point when somebody is supposed to take charge and start telling people what to do. They'd know who needed phone calls and where important papers were kept and which funeral home to call. And somebody had to tell Gracie. I was completely unprepared. My mind blank. Useless.
Gracie, sensing now that something was wrong, stopped smiling and pulling me toward the living room.
"What's wrong?" she said.
I knelt down beside her so I was at the same level as her.
"You know how Grandpa has been sick, right?" I stutter, the words not coming out as the take-charge guy at all.
She nods yes, but doesn't say anything.
"Grandpa passed away last night," I say, tears streaking down my face. "He was old and lived a long life and got to know you really well, and that made him happy. But it was his time to go."
"Like Mom and Dad?" She asks, in a voice that melts my heart.
I sit down on the floor and pull her onto my lap because my knees are too weak to stand anymore.
"Yes, honey . . . like Mom and Dad."
We stay in the hall for a long time. I think it was more for my benefit than hers. I keep thinking to myself, that you only get so much family—just like Trevor said. And mine is leaving me.
* * *
Michelle comes over and takes charge of the girls. She came up with the idea of taking them sledding for a few hours so they were out of the house when Dad's body is taken away and I figure out what to do about Mom. She still hasn't left the bedroom.
"I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you to help me," I say to Michelle as she helps Gracie with her gloves.
"That's not true at all," she says. "But I'm glad I can help."
She kisses me and I give Gracie a hug goodbye.
"We're going to have our Christmas soon," I say to Gracie. "I'm sorry, honey."
"It's OK Uncle Billy. I like sledding," she says.
"And I hear that Michelle is going to find you the best sledding hill in town, too."
"Really?" Gracie says, looking at Michelle with wide eyes.
"You can't beat the hills at Manito," she says, referring to the massive park on Spokane's South Hill. "That's where I used to go when I was a kid."
For a moment I let my mind drift to Manito Park, how I went there as a kid too and how I spent time there with Jane. Good times and bad times.
"OK, let's go!" Gracie says, opening the door and waiting on the front porch.
I let the thought of the park go.
Kendall doesn't seem to share her sister's excitement.
"I'm not going sledding. Can't I just go to Ethan's house?" she asks.
"You don't have to go sledding, but I would like you to stay with your sister. She knows Michelle, but not that well."
"I don't know her either," she says. "This sucks."
"This isn't fair to you, I know, but I need you to be strong for her," I say.
"What about me? When do I get to be taken care of? All you care about is her feelings," Kendall says with tears in her eyes.
"I forget how young you are," I say. "You've been so good for your sister . . . such an adult. I don't see you as a kid—"
"I'm not a kid. But he was my grandpa too! God. You're such an A-hole."
With that, she stomps past me out the front door to Gracie and Michelle.
* * *
I call 911, because I thought that's
what you're supposed to do. A Spokane Police officer arrives at the house a short while after Michelle and the girls left. He is wearing a red Santa hat, which reminds me that this is Christmas after all. This guy—Ellis is the name stitched on his chest—doesn't want to be working on a holiday either, but he doesn't show it. He is respectful and only asked a series of routine questions that thankfully I have the answers for.
I had only gotten my mother out of the bedroom minutes before the officer arrived. I didn't give her a choice. I handed her a bathrobe and set her slippers by the edge of the bed. She'd already moved my father's hand off her leg, and covered him up to his neck with a blanket. I was glad for this. He looked like he was sleeping.
"We need to let the officer do his job, Mom," I tell her. "He'll be here soon. Dad's gone and you don't want to be in here when they move him."
She doesn't say a word in response, which is the first time in . . . well forever that I can recall my mother not taking the opportunity to speak her mind. She slipped on the robe over her shoulders and put the slippers on her feet. She walked to the door, but stopped at the threshold and turned back to my father. She blew him a slow kiss. A goodbye that officially split the couple after more than four decades as one.
Chapter 28
My dad's funeral is significantly different than that of my brother and his wife. True, I did actually make it inside for this funeral, but standing at the bumper of my truck in the parking lot seems like a much better option. The turnout is good. Many of the men who used to work for my father are here and quite a few people from the GreyHawk.
The thought occurs to me that this is the only true measure of how much impact we had on people during our days on Earth. Count the number of people who bother to spend 45 minutes sitting quietly on your behalf at your funeral. Big crowd, big impact. Little crowd, little impact. If I died today where would I fall on that impact spectrum? I know the answer. I think most of us do, but the difference is what you do about it, I guess. Maybe that's why old people spend so much time volunteering—trying to build up karma. Each hour spent is like another ticket sold to your funeral. Gotta bring in a big crowd, right?
Of course, in the end it doesn't matter, you're dead and not focusing on the headcount.
But how do we measure impact? On the good we do or the money we make? On the number of Christmas cards that show up in your mailbox each December? I ponder this as I get the nod from the pastor giving the eulogy. It's my turn to mount the stage and speak on behalf of my father.
Should I tell them my theory? That funeral attendance is the morbid return on investment for a life lived. Or should I lie? But funerals aren't about the dead. They are about the living. About me and Mom and the girls.
I place both hands on the podium and watch the audience squirm on the hard wooden benches, waiting for me to say something profound. I scan the faces. Old ladies. Old men. Precious few young people. No tears, even from my mother in the front row wearing her bright yellow pants with a black stripe down the side. She's sitting beside Michelle. Gracie and Kendall are next to her. No April, not that I expected her to show up, but I'm a little bit sad for her that she's not here. Even if she is a drug addict, she deserves the right to say goodbye. I know Mom tried to find her, but had no luck.
I clear my throat and look up to notice a man standing in the back of the room, leaning against the wall. There are still several seats available, so his standing in the back was obviously by choice. Plaid shirt and jeans. Hands in his pockets. For some reason he doesn't seem to fit in and I can't explain why. He's just leaning against the wall and it doesn't seem like he's supposed to be here. He notices me looking at him and his eyes dart away like he doesn't want to make eye contact. It's like I've seen him before—but I don't know where. Seeing as this is my father's funeral, it makes sense that I would know at least some of the people in attendance, but this guy is out of place. Normal looking in a plaid shirt, but odd nonetheless. I try to block him out of my mind.
I clear my throat again and begin.
* * *
"My father was a jerk," I say. I let that sink in for a moment. "At least that's what one of his employees told me once. And after hearing why he felt this way, I tend to agree with him. You see, this guy—his name was Darrell—was 18 and a very-recent high school dropout. He was the brother of one of Dad's employees at the landscape company who got hired on as a favor. Darrell needed a job and my dad needed laborers for his growing business. After his first week on the job, my dad fired him.
"This was a surprise to everyone at the business because during that first week my dad worked directly with this kid on a big job, constructing an entirely new landscape near a backyard pool. He supervised his work, discussed the business side of landscaping and generally showed him what it meant to work manual labor full-time. Darrell was a quick study and things seemed to be going well for this new recruit. He was excited about his future working for my father.
"So the next Monday my father sent him to a new job location, ironically, at his old high school. They met at the main doorway just minutes after school began. My father told him, 'Darrel, you're one of the smartest and possibly the dumbest people I've ever laid eyes on. You're bright and have a good head on your shoulders. But you're also a moron and I'm going to help you fix it.
"My father led Darrell inside the school and straight to the vice principal's office. What he didn't tell Darrell until years later, was that after his first day of work at Redmond Landscape, he called the school and told them Darrell would be returning the following Monday. He and the vice principal played pool together on Thursday nights and they knew each other well. Dad negotiated an agreement so Darrell could return to the school and not be penalized for his recent absences. They called it a labor experiment.
"Your dad's a jerk, Darrell told me on the day he graduated high school, but the kindest jerk I've ever met. Darrell returned to Redmond Landscape during the summer months to save money for college. He'd return each summer for the next four years until he moved with his girlfriend to Idaho. He finished college and started his own landscape business, which is still operating today. Darrell is actually here today and gave me permission to tell that story.
"My father could see things that other people missed, like setting Darrell on the right path. He was not a big talker by any means, but he had a good heart and made a lasting impact on those he met. Was he a jerk? Yes, he had his moments. Trevor and I didn't always see eye-to-eye with him, as I suspect is the case for most fathers and sons. But he was fair and kind. He loved my mom from the moment he met her. He was a good man and I loved him very much.
"If at the end of my days I'm half the man my father was, I'll be in good company."
* * *
I return to my seat alongside my mother, who leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
"Thank you, William," she says. "He was so proud of you."
I take her hand and squeeze it, holding it for a long while. The two of us and April are the only ones left who really knew my father—at least the way he used to be. This makes me terribly sad that his memory resides with us alone.
You only get so much family.
Chapter 29
The next few days are a blur helping Mom finalize the last arrangements for Dad. He was cremated, but not until after the funeral. He didn't want to be buried in the ground but, rather, have his ashes scattered. He didn't specify where; so for the moment, he's sitting above the fireplace in the living room, which is only creepy if you think about it. And I'm thinking about it.
We decided to do a make-up Christmas for Gracie and Kendall at Michelle's house, which is great, but my father's passing is still weighing on all of us. Michelle has been amazing. She enlisted the help of her mother—Tammy—to help cook dinner and host my mother and the girls. Gracie and Kendall are definitely warming to Michelle. In fact I think they might like her more than me, which is perfectly fine. I think they need a female influence who isn't their grandma.
The look on Mom's face when it's time to say grace at our make-up Christmas dinner is heartbreaking. For as long as I can remember, when he was able to, Dad would say the blessing. He wasn't a particularly religious person, but it was tradition at the holiday meal and he'd usually have something prepared to say. So this year, his absence was felt like a punch to the gut. I wanted to step up and take charge of the moment, but the words caught in my throat and I froze.
Michelle, completely unaware of this tradition, seems to sense my hesitation and takes over on my behalf. "Dear Lord, thank you for this day and bringing us together to celebrate the holiday. We have a great deal to be thankful for this year, even as we mourn for those family members we've lost. We're thankful for new friends and new family. We're thankful for the time we had with Grandpa Redmond, Trevor and Jennifer. As short as it was, it was a mere blink of your eye and part of a larger plan we can't know. Please continue to watch over Grandma Vera, Billy, Kendall and Gracie. They need your guidance today, as we all do. Bless this meal and these people. Amen."
There is not a dry eye at the table when she ends her brief prayer, but each of us force glass-half-full smiles and begin passing around dishes of holiday food. I focus on my plate of food, which looks delicious, but I'm not hungry. I haven't been able to eat well for a while now. I'm sick to my stomach about Dad and just in a bit of a funk.
Tammy and Michelle do a good job of keeping the conversation light at the table, which includes asking the girls about school, movies and eventually boys—for Kendall, not Gracie of course.
"I liked my English class last semester," Kendall says. "At least I didn't hate it as much as last year."
"Anything different about the class this year?" Michelle asks.
"We get to write a lot—essays and stuff. It's not all reading and doing reports on ancient writers."
"I know an ancient writer if you'd like to talk to one," Michelle says, elbowing me in the ribs.