A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (17 page)

I turn away from the trumpets and face the shrine once more. The six of us move around the room as if it were the Louvre.
We keep a safe distance from the masterpieces, our hands safely in pockets or clasped behind our backs. We look at these pictures
with an awe usually saved for the masters.

Baby pictures. Huston in his Little League uniform. Leo in floaties in some backyard pool. Me at the piano, curling over the
keys, unaware my picture is being taken. Abigail at a tea party surrounded by her dolls. The entire family—even Mom—in the
middle of some hike, all of us in hiking boots and shorts. I’ve never seen that one before. I go in closer. Abigail moves
on to the next one, making room for me. Mom and Dad must have asked someone else to take it, because there’s Dad, with Leo
on his lap, looking out from behind his golden curls. Mom is standing with her arm around Huston, Abigail and I standing in
front of them. God, we look happy.

There’s one of Mom and Dad sitting on some batik-slipcovered couch. Mom’s languidly resting her legs over Dad’s lap as he
does his best to entangle himself in her. They smile wide at the camera.

“They used to sit like that all the time. Remember?” Abigail whispers, staring at the picture.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. I had forgotten, but when we were young, there was never a time when they weren’t touching, hugging
or caressing each other. It was, of course, humiliating as a kid to have parents who were so “gross” with each other, but
now? Their love continues to confound me with its mixture of utter tragedy and quieting beauty.

Propped against the framed photos are new pictures of Abigail’s kids. Evie’s school pictures. The twins’ pictures from when
they were born. Abigail’s wedding photo. More proof of Abigail’s fascination with Dad through the years. But proof it might
not have been as unrequited as we all thought. Abigail takes her wedding photo down from the mantel and brings it closer.
She lowers it so the twins can get a look.

Leo moves in behind me to stare at the hiking picture. I see him touch the frame as well. We’re so sure this isn’t real. So
sure we’ve somehow stumbled upon an elaborate fantasyland where Dad… remembered us.

I can’t take any more in. I turn away from the pictures and face the other side of the living room. I clap my hand over my
mouth.

A large brown mohair couch sits under the front window of the house. The curtains are drawn and they’ve definitely seen better
days. A patterned chenille wingback chair sits with its back to us. Right next to it are two pairs of shoes. Worn-out loafers.
Slung over the back of the wingback chair is a grayish Members Only jacket. I didn’t know they even made those anymore. On
the coffee table is a stack of magazines, mostly car and airplane stuff. Next to the magazines is a little rubber-banded pile
of business cards—at the top: an optometrist. All around the magazines are various glasses, bifocals, trifocals and even a
magnifying glass, which is resting on a car magazine. It looks like he must have started sleeping down here, maybe the stairs
got to be too much for him. That must have been hard on Connie.

There’s a little blanket and sheet along with a couch pillow stuffed into the creases, like it’s been slept on. Another pair
of loafers sits on the floor next to the couch. The giant television sits on the other side of the living room, the focus
of all of the remote controls—lined up neatly next to all the various glasses. Abigail and Leo have both turned around. We
all just stand there. Taking it in. Letting it wash over us.

There is a smallness to this life. To the person who lives here. Everything contained in one little part of such a huge house.
It kills me. My enormous, larger-than-life father living in this tiny space.

“The documents,” Abigail says quietly, finally breaking her gaze away from the couch.

“He must have an office or something,” I say, looking up the stairs, wanting to get away from here. Not look at it anymore.
It’s all so wasted. So much time wasted.

“Leo, can you watch the kids while Grace and I see if we can find the office?” Abigail asks, heading up the stairs.

“Yeah, sure. We’ll do a little exploring of our own,” Leo says, heading into the dining room, with its dusty, heavy furniture.
I start up the creaky stairs behind Abigail and pass the crucifix—the frightening staircase guardian from my childhood.

“That thing stills scares me,” I say, climbing the stairs.

“It
is
a tad gory,” Abigail concedes.

As we climb the stairs to the second floor, I notice a mahogany sculpture of the Madonna and Child hanging on the wall of
the landing next to the crucifix. A little spot on the Madonna’s forehead has been worn off, along with a matching spot on
the child’s forehead.

“I didn’t know Dad was religious?” I observe, pointing at the Madonna and Child.

“Sure, he was always Catholic,” Abigail says, coming up behind me.

“What happened here?” I ask, pointing at the two spots that are worn off.

“That used to be in the hallway of the old apartment, the one right outside Mom and Dad’s bedroom? He used to rub it every
morning,” Abigail explains, now standing next to me.

“Why?” I asked. Mom and Dad only baptized Huston. Looking back, it may have been more Dad’s doing than Mom’s. After that she
took a stand: if/when the rest of us should want to explore religion, it should be our choice. Abigail chose Episcopalian
aka Catholic Lite in her teens and has never looked back. She still wears a tasteful silver cross around her neck even today.
Leo dabbled in the usual carousel of Hollywood religions: Kabbalism, Scientology, Tibetan Buddhism, Vedantism and Wicca—finally
settling on admitting that he simply believes in a “higher power.” Before Mom died, Huston described himself as agnostic.
By the time of her funeral, the only baptized Catholic in the bunch had denounced God altogether. My relationship with spirituality
boils down to a hope that there’s something out there that unites us all. I’m basically a believer in the Force from
Star Wars
.

“It was part of his prayers, Grace,” Abigail says, staring over at me with disdain, her little silver cross shining.

“I get the distinct impression you’re judging me,” I say.

“I
am
judging you,” Abigail shoots back as she continues on.

We reach the top floor and walk through what was probably Dad and Connie’s bedroom at one point. The bed looks tired and wan
with a faded comforter lying flat over the bed. The pillows are depressingly thin. There is a thick layer of dust over everything.
Abigail moves on to the next room.

“Grace? In here,” she calls from another room.

I walk down the long hallway and into one of the rooms at the front of the house.

Abigail is bending over the large wooden desk.

“I can’t take much more of this,” she says, holding up a picture of Mom. It’s an older picture taken when Mom was probably
in college. It looks professionally done. She looks so retro 1960s in it: Peter Pan collar, helmet hair and dainty closed-mouth
smile. Not the woman I remember. But probably the woman Dad fell in love with.

“Where was this?” I ask, entering Dad’s office and taking the picture in hand.

“Right here,” Abigail says, pointing to a prominent space on his desktop.

“That must be a little awkward for Connie,” I say, setting the picture back down right where it was.

“You think?” Abigail says, opening up the top right-hand drawer.

“Any luck?” I ask, looking into the drawer. It’s filled with stacks and stacks of steno note pads, each page containing a
list of some sort. Abigail takes the top one out and hands it to me while she searches for the stuff we actually came for.

“This is definitely the place,” Abigail says, opening up another side drawer. I flip open the steno pad and it reveals a list
written in spidery handwriting of what looks to be Dad’s monthly bills. Telephone, water and power, mortgage… The list is neat.
A $19.47 telephone bill pulls at me. I close the steno pad and just stop. I stare at the old picture of Mom.

My entire personal family history is being ripped apart stitch by stitch. We were the first thing Dad woke up to and the last
thing he went to bed thinking about? Why didn’t he just pick up the phone? What made him want only photographs of us and not
the real us? I know the answer all too well. Real love means getting hurt and sometimes it’s easier to just
like
people. When they leave, you don’t want to rip your heart out or wish they’d had the courtesy to do the honors before leaving.

Oh wait… they do.

My chest clenches as I remember.

I am standing outside of All Saints Church.

“You have to go in, Gracie. Your family needs you,” John whispers. I’m clutching the “program” for my own mother’s funeral.
IN MEMORIAM: EVELYN BONITA HAWKES. AUGUST 11, 1948–AUGUST 29, 2004
.

“It’s a beautiful day,” I say, my eyes closed as I luxuriate in the wind on my face.

John waits. I don’t move. I don’t do anything. He probably doesn’t know that this isn’t happening. This is all a dream. This
is where the entire world morphs into a roller coaster ride and we all realize we’ve showed up to work without our pants on.

“Grace…” John soothes, coming up beside me. His hair smells of the shower, his black-as-pitch eyes are rimmed in red, his
just-shaved face is soft and inviting.

“I’ve had some time to think about it,” I start.

John is quiet. Cautious.

“It’s not real,” I say, distant and unaffected.

“What?” John asks, his face worried.

“A dream,” I clarify, breathing in.

“Grace—” John says.

“We’re going to wake up any minute,” I say, sure of myself. John pulls me in for a hug. My arms are lifeless at my sides.

“Gracie…” John whispers, his mouth so close to my ear, our bodies knotted in a black-clad tangle. This can’t be happening.

“Any minute now,” I repeat, my head on his chest. John takes a big breath and squeezes me tighter.

“John… Grace, we have to go in,” Huston says, appearing in the gray, arched doorway, his face expressionless. His suit is perfectly
pressed. John warily lets go of me and turns to Huston.

“You… you okay?” John asks.

“I’m fine,” Huston answers, his voice detached and lifeless. John helplessly stuffs his hands into his pockets. We’re all
fine.

“I’m on my way,” I say, my voice coming from some other body. Huston walks into the church, a tiny slip of paper in his hand.
I can literally hear the world stop turning. The wind stops blowing. No birds. No leaves rustling.

“The wind stopped,” I note, my voice now a distant rumble.

“Grace, we have to go in,” John urges, taking my hand. I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything.

“Oh, sure… sure…” I dreamily answer, straightening my dress. John tightens his grip around my hand, his brow furrowed. We climb
the stairs to the church as I anticipate the alarm clock buzzer that will surely awaken me from this nightmare.

And I wait.

My heart seemed to simply stop serving as anything but a vital organ. No emotion seeped in or out of its sealed chambers the
day Mom died. I suppose that made it easier to walk away… from Huston, Abigail and Leo. From Evie. From John: a man who demanded
my whole heart. After that day, I simply had nothing to give.

I look up to see Abigail. She is still. Her shoulders hunched over… exhausted. She’s looking at a pile of letters that are
strewn on Dad’s desk.

“What… what is it?” I ask, stepping closer.

“Letters. Unopened and returned. Addressed to Mom,” Abigail says, flipping through the pile of letters on the desk.

“How many?” I say, unable to fully grasp what I’m seeing. What exactly happened between Mom and Dad? And were we just the
collateral damage of their star-crossed love affair?

“Tons,” Abigail answers, carefully sifting through the letters.

“Open one,” I say, quiet. Unable to touch them.

Abigail picks one up that has come open from being in the drawer so long. She slips her fingers inside the envelope and delicately
unfolds the piece of paper within. She reads. I’m not breathing. Abigail flips the letter around revealing two words.

I’m sorry.

Abigail opens another letter:
I’m sorry
. Another:
I’m sorry
. Another:
I’m sorry
.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry
. A thousand times…
I’m sorry
.

“She never read them,” Abigail sighs, holding one in her hand. The paper wrinkles and sags like a little dead body.

“How many times can you say you’re sorry and still cheat?” I ask, remembering the women who called the house and hung up whenever
we answered. The women Dad brought home to “jam with.” The women Dad got caught with at various hotels/coffeehouses/bars.
The women he prized more than Mom. The women he prized more than us.

“I know.” Abigail nods.

“What was she supposed to do? What would you have done?” I ask. How was it possible that two people who loved each other just
simply couldn’t live with each other?

“I would have done the same thing,” Abigail confesses, putting the letter back down on the desk. She sifts through the wreckage
and pulls a single piece of paper off the desk. I shuffle through the letters, trying not to think about the choices I’ve
made. The shortsighted choices that felt good at the time. I can easily envision a future that has me writing a thousand letters
with the same two words. Abigail’s entire body sags as she reads the sheet of paper she’s unearthed.

“He was there,” she sighs, cradling the paper.

“There? Where? What… what are you talking about?” I ask, reaching for the paper in her hand. The program.
IN MEMORIAM: EVELYN BONITA HAWKES. AUGUST 11, 1948–AUGUST 29, 2004
.

“He was there,” Abigail says again. She is growing angry. She wants answers. We all do.

“You didn’t mail him this?” I ask, holding the program carefully.

“No!” Abigail insists, some of that anger being funneled my way. I back off.