After what seemed like an hour but probably only ten or fifteen minutes, Dr. Simon appeared, offered his condolences and asked us to follow him. The death certificate needed to be signed. He chatted without hesitation as June and I followed him up a flight of stairs, down a long, white, antiseptic hallway, around a corner and into an elevator.
“I can never remember how to get to this place,” he admitted.
June and I didn’t mind the walk. It felt good to move, be mindless if even for a few minutes. We took the elevator down two floors, made a right and a couple lefts through a series of confusing turns.
“OK. Here we are.” He knocked on a door. It opened slowly. “Miss Alice will take good care of you.”
Miss Alice greeted us. The door could only open part way. Something blocked it from being able to swing freely. I entered the room sideways sliding into a tiny square of empty floor. June came and squeezed in next to me.
I squinted in the pale light. The room had no window and one lone light bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. Stacked to the top were old leather bound ledgers like an accountant would use, the edges of their pages rough and yellowed.
Miss Alice stood behind a metal desk and ushered us to sit in folding chairs facing her. Her voice soft was soothing, in sharp contrast to her flaming red hair piled high in an outdated beehive, and her lipstick a bright citrus orange. A wave of claustrophobia washed over me, and I chuckled at the surreal surroundings.
Miss Alice asked June to sign for my father’s body. One of the musty ledgers sat open on her desk at about the halfway mark, pages piled eight inches high on each side of the book’s spine. My brain had slowed down with the events of the day so when my vision adjusted to the light, I realized the books contained the name of everyone who had ever died in this hospital. I shuddered. Not exactly a history I wanted my father to be part of. Here I sat, as thousands maybe millions, based on the number of ledgers stacked up in here, of people had before me, numb, unable to process the impact of such a loss. June squeezed herself behind the desk, took the pen from Miss Alice’s hand and signed on the line she pointed to with her cherry red fingernail.
I remember Miss Alice because of her love of the color red and I will never forget her for the warmth and kindness she displayed to us that day. She knew we were still in the foggy phase, still able to smile and laugh and make small talk with a stranger. She also knew that wouldn’t last for long before we plunged head first into the grief phase, unable to find words without tears springing from our eyes. Miss Alice truly cared for all the loved ones of the newly deceased with whom she was charged with keeping track of and I am grateful for the memory of her to this day.
June and I walked out of the hospital doors into a cool and crisp December day even for Miami. McDonald’s Golden Arches glowed in front of us.
“I need something to eat before I start making phone calls. How about you?” I asked. The energy from few bites of breakfast I had early this morning had been used up hours ago.
“I’ve never eaten in a McDonald’s in my life.” June’s pale expression floated in front of me.
“Now’s as good a time as any to start.” We both laughed while I ordered two Big Macs, two fries and two diet cokes. We sat at a tiny white table for two with hard red chairs and ate without speaking.
June would face many firsts over the next few months. Many of those firsts were bound to bring her grief to the surface in ways she didn’t want or expect. Eating a greasy cheeseburger was easy compared with what was surely yet to come. She looked like she was enjoying it.
“I guess red is the color of the day,” I said before popping the last French fry in my mouth.
June let out her girlish giggle. “Miss Alice was awfully nice even though she looked like something out of a cartoon.” She hadn’t laughed or smiled in quite that way in days.
Christmas of 1990 was a blur of sparkling lights on decorated trees in sterile hospital wards. Presents sat under the tree, wrapped, never to be opened by their recipients. Love letters promised for 365 days would never be written. One unexpected death had the power to change the course of many lives forever.
“The struggle you’re in today is developing the strength you need for tomorrow.” - Anonymous
Chapter Twenty-Three
Looking back to those months after Dad’s funeral, my life went on as usual. I started a new job, passed the CPA exam and soon moved into a brand new home of my dreams. June, however, worked very hard at making sure everyone believed her life had remained exactly the same and she didn’t need help especially from me.
If June found herself bursting into tears when Dad’s death certificate arrived in the mail or when she found a bottle of his cologne tucked into a drawer she missed after cleaning out his things, or even setting the dinner table for only one, I’ll never know. Every time I offered to take her out to dinner or shopping, both things she loved to do, she put on a good front; she was doing just fine. I could see no cracks in the facade, nor did I take the time to look any deeper for them. I had to live my own life.
Nancy and Doug, the neighbors who had so graciously taken Shana in, stepped up and offered to drive June to the grocery store and hairdresser appointments. Doug bought a big, brand new boat like Cadillac every two years and had no problem giving Shana the same leather passenger seat my father had allowed her in his own car. Minimizing the disruption in the dog’s life seemed the most important thing June could do for herself.
They fell into a routine and every Saturday when I called to see how June was doing, she relayed some antic of Shana’s and some dumb remark of Doug’s. I never thought Nancy and Doug were the kind of people June would call friends. June loved the big city, they appeared small townish. Doug was a big, overweight, lumbering kind of guy, who wore a long, expressionless face no matter what his mood. Nancy, on the other hand, wore the pants in the family, stern, precise, never missing a single detail.
Because they were so kind to June, Richard and I often included them in our dinner parties. Doug loved being around my friends who were younger and livelier. He had an eye for the girls, and was a tad on the dirty old man side. He loved to socialize and tell silly jokes, while Nancy stewed in the corner.
The cracks began to appear slowly but surely. First Shana, at the age of eleven, had to be put down. The loss of a family pet is never easy and June dragged it out spending all of her available dollars at the veterinarian in a grand effort to keep Shana alive and vibrant. Based on Shana’s age and size, it was her time, but June struggled to let her go because it also meant the grieving process for her beloved Paul was about to start all over again.
Without Shana to act as a buffer between June and Nancy and Doug, Nancy boldly announced they would no longer be available to drive June wherever she needed to go. June told me that she accommodated their schedule when making her appointments but I suspect they grew tired of being at her beck and call. Nancy and Doug loved Shana but possibly June showed her stubborn and controlling side too often to suit their simple lifestyle. According to June, she also added this;
“Linda only invited us over so we would bring you too.”
This statement is sort of true I will admit. They did make my life easier by not driving 6 miles one way from my house to pick up June and to take her back home at the end of the night after I downed several glasses of wine.
I like to think I welcomed all kinds of people into my home, for the sheer pleasure it gave me to share what Richard and I had to give. Nancy and Doug blessed my family in our time of need and I’m thankful for them. It made me sad she pulled the plug without any notice and without allowing me to explain myself.
I should have paid attention to this blip in the road because I would run into it again later when June thought she made all the necessary arrangements to care for herself. She believed she had not a worry in the world; her friends would look after her well-being.
What she never considered is they believed the responsibility for June belonged to me. I wish Dad had given me a little more insight through the years into how June’s mind worked before he burdened me with his final words. He knew what he was asking me to do without giving me the tools I needed to do it.
***
“Linda, it’s time for me to move closer to you. In Delray, into a smaller place,” June announced shortly after Nancy made her proclamation. “I talked with a real estate agent and she’s lining up some places for me to see tomorrow. I put this house up for sale yesterday.”
“Great idea, June.” I said. “It’ll be more fun to have you closer. Richard and I will look around here too and give you a heads up if anything looks interesting.”
“I don’t really want to leave my Boca Raton address but after that hurricane, I don’t want to be alone here any longer.”
Hurricane Andrew ran through Miami like a buzz saw on Sunday, August 24, 1992, approximately a year and half after Dad died. As always June had planned a Sunday dinner since my birthday fell during the week that year. We had to cancel when the area was placed under a hurricane warning and we were ordered to hunker down. I invited June to spend the night at our new, three bedroom, solidly built, concrete block house, but she refused. That stubborn streak of hers popped up at the strangest times and always when all I wanted to do was help and be kind to her.
The category five storm barreled through south Miami, devastating everything in its path. In Palm Beach County, 75 miles north of Andrew’s landfall, we suffered minimal wind damage. Hurricanes for some reason seem to come through at night, in the pitch dark making them even more menacing.
“I spent the night in the downstairs powder room and I never want to do that again,” June told me. Her voice sounded raw and crackly like she spent the night hollering for help.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, dumfounded that she felt the need to cram herself into a bathroom the size of a postage stamp with only room for a toilet and a sink, barely enough space to sit down when she could have spent the night sleeping in my comfortable guest room.
“It’s the only room in the house without a window. That’s where they told me to go,” she said.
“Who told you to go there?” I asked, thinking one of her worrywart neighbors thought they were doing her a favor but instead struck fear in her mind.
“On the news, they said to take shelter. Didn’t you?” she asked. I sensed frustration in her voice.
“No, June,” I said. “We went to bed and slept through it. The storm was a hundred miles away from us. We had some wind and very little rain.”
“Don’t patronize me, Linda. I don’t like your tone.” She used that word my mother loved to say. The hair on my arms bristled.
“June, I asked you to come over but you refused. Nothing happened here and you spent the night worrying over nothing. All you had to do was call me.”
Click went the phone. Within three months time, June settled into a perfect two bedroom condominium only a quarter mile from my home. The apartment had two spacious bathrooms, an eat-in kitchen and a lovely balcony where she could smoke to her heart’s content. It had one other important thing. Hurricane shutters and a handyman willing to close them for a small fee.
“It’s not denial. I’m just selective about the reality I accept.” - Anonymous
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Hey, June. Wanna go out for dinner on Saturday night?” I asked. “Richard’s working late.”
“I never say no to going out for dinner,” she answered.
“Do you want to try Ruby Tuesday’s over in Mizner Park? Something other than Outback for a change?” I asked.
“Sure. I’m game,” June said.
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at five.”
We made these dates for dinner every few weeks. Girls only. If Richard worked late, June and I would go out for dinner and more than a few drinks. I found our dates to be fun and a happy diversion from the monotony of drinking at home. I loved my wine but wasn’t one to sit alone at a bar drinking while Richard worked. I’m sure June felt the same way.
June loved Outback and the two for one happy hour. I liked spending time with her, we’d chatter and drink and eat and chatter some more. I respected the person June was in my life and it was never a chore to make sure she was properly entertained.
Being we were in Boca Raton, Florida in March during what we refer to as ‘season’ when our shops and eateries are filled with Northerners escaping the cold winter, we arrived at the restaurant at 5:15 pm, there was already a long wait. I put my name on the list and got a pager in return. I found an empty bench outside across from the park where we could people watch, a pastime we found we had in common all those years ago at the racetrack.
When together June and I never ran out of trivial things to talk about. We weren’t ever going to solve the problems of the world or comment on the state of politics in this country. We had plenty of insignificant items to discuss, like whether June would like to read the Harry Potter books, what that stain really was on Monica Lewinsky’s dress or try to agree on the last time it actually rained.
There was one question June never failed to ask me when we were together. I guess she viewed it as the kind of thing needed to break the ice. I never thought we needed any kind of conversation starter but she asked anyway.
“What do you hear from Susan or Steve?” June asked.
“June. You know they never call me. They don’t even send me an email,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on with them.
I’m not close with my siblings. Periodically we may exchange an email or a text. These days I mainly learn what’s going on in their lives and those of their children on Facebook. When I click the like button they know I’ve seen their latest adventures. That seems to be enough for us. Back then being I was the sibling living furthest away from the others, I stayed in the dark about their comings and goings. I longed for more personal relationships from my family but I still hadn’t learned that family means a wide variety and levels of interactions.
“I don’t hear anything from them either,” she said.
The sad part was, I was used to being kept on the fringes, but here I sat next to an old woman who waited for little tidbits of news or photos from children she’d known for over forty years. Through me she hoped she get some tiny fragment of daily life that she could share with the neighbors to make her feel loved and important. It never happened.
“What’s Richard up to these days?” To ask me about my husband was the next best thing. He loved getting into mischief so I must be able to tell her some kind of funny story she could pass along to the other gossiping old ladies she hung around with.
“I’m so mad at him,” I answered. “He’s got his pants all in a wad about something stupid. I asked him to take my car to the dealership to look at the tires while I was away in California for work and you’d think I was asking him to give me a million dollars.”
“What do you say to him when you’re mad at him?” June asked. “I can’t picture you two having a fight.”
“We can fight like cats and dogs.” I didn’t want to reveal more than that to June about my marriage. Like any marriage, Richard and I had our ups and downs and I kept the downs to myself. I didn’t share the details with anyone, and especially not June.
“If I’m only a little bit annoyed with him, I’ll call him a jerk,” I said. “And if I’m mad, I’ll call him an asshole.”
“So how mad are you at him right now?” June asked with a wicked smirk on her face.
“Right now I’m calling him a really nasty bleeping kind of asshole.”
June held her hand over her mouth and giggled as she always did. She rested her chin on her chest, scrunched up her nose and snickered like a little girl.
The pager in my hand started to vibrate.
; Once seated, the first thing we did before looking at the menu was to order drinks. If it was happy hour we got two at once. For me two glasses of house white wine. I had no reason to spend my money on more expensive wine, I gulped it down so fast I couldn’t taste the difference between cheap and expensive.
June used to say to the waiter, “Bring me whatever kind of vodka. It doesn’t matter.”
Even though she insisted on paying the bill during our dinner outings, I told her to stop saying that.
“They bring you the most expensive vodka they have,” I explained to her.
“I don’t need that,” she said leaning back into the booth shocked anyone would take advantage of her in that way. “I can’t tell the difference. I water it down with ice.”
“I know. So say the well liquor is what you want. It’s cheaper,” I instructed.
We both finished one drink before our food came and when the waitress delivered our hamburgers and fries, we each ordered another two drinks before happy hour ended. I had a habit of pushing the empty wine glasses to the edge of the table so a passing server would pick them up on their way to the kitchen. I didn’t want anyone to start counting or stop serving me.
June and I never stopped talking over our favorite alcohol and fat juicy burger. Was it the alcohol the made our tongues wag over the nonsense we loved to laugh about? Or did we enjoy each other’s company because of the alcohol? Would our relationship be what it is if it didn’t include the temptation? I’d say a combination of all of the above.
A Bittersweet Goodnight Page 16