A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (19 page)

“How long? How long has she lived here?” Abigail whispers.

“Are they even still married?” I add. I think about the picture shrine back at Dad’s house. Why couldn’t he just tell us all
this, instead of playing mind games by giving Huston the power of attorney. Wait…
wait
. The power of attorney. The skilled nursing facility.

“We have to get back to the hospital. Huston,” I say, latching Mateo back into his car seat.

“I know, but we need something. If we’re going to—” Abigail can’t finish the sentence. What is it we’re going to start here?
What are we getting ourselves into?

“We’re going to need more proof,” Leo says from the way back.

“I have to go pee-pee, Mami,” Emilygrae announces, standing over her still crouching mom. Abigail slides Emilygrae into her
kid seat, latches her in and sits back down in the driver’s seat.

“The steno pads. There were tons. A whole drawerful. We might be able to figure out how far back this goes. Maybe even find
a deed,” I say, getting back into the front seat and into work mode.

“Mija, you can use the potty back at the Big Blue House, okay?” Abigail says, putting the minivan in drive and pulling back
onto Dad’s street.

We drive the short distance back to the Blue House in silence.

J
ust throw it all in,” Abigail says, grabbing an old cardboard box from the closet. Leo opens up drawer after drawer and empties
the contents into the awaiting box. Abigail made sure to separate the three documents Nurse Miller had asked for—the three
documents that seem completely insignificant now. I find a bag of rubber bands in an upper drawer and take handful after handful
of Dad’s spidery-written steno pads, band them together and put them into Mateo’s Batman backpack, which he let me borrow.
But just for today.

Abigail is putting stacks of file folders into the canvas bags from her car. Evie and the twins are playing in the front yard.
Some kind of tag where everyone’s pissed that they’re It and the entire game is spent disciplining and fighting. You know,
normal tag.

I get to the bottom of the second steno pad drawer and pull out what I think is the oldest one. I flip it open as Leo and
Abigail sift through the other desk drawers. I read the date written on the top line in writing much more assured, much less
spidery.

3/26/05—1375 Daly Street, Mortgage Payment—$779.00

“When was the wedding? When was Connie and Dad’s wedding?” I ask, unable to quite understand what I’m reading.

“It was right after Mom…” Leo trails off.

“So, about a month after that?” Abigail says, walking over to me.

“September something,” Leo says, throwing a pile of files into the now overloaded box.

“He was paying the mortgage on the Daly house by March of ’05,” I say.

“What? That can’t be right,” Abigail says, taking the steno pad from me. Leo walks over to us. Abigail flips the pages back
and forth. Back and forth. Each time growing angrier. Each time becoming more violent.

“Six months?!” Abigail says, shoving the steno pad back at me.

“
No
,” Leo says, taking the steno pad.

Abigail paces. “They were together six months?”

“How long did they even know each other before they got married?” I ask.

“If Dad came to Mom’s funeral after all…” Leo says. I grab the steno pad. Flipping pages, doing math and trying to understand
what all of this means.

“He freaked out,” I say, dropping the steno pad to my side.

“Just like the rest of us,” Abigail sighs.
Us
. I look up… directly into her eyes. Soft. Wrenching. Confused. I hope that instead of the haze my eyes have displayed for
the last five years, I have the good sense to look horrified.

We stand in silence.

“I should have believed you,” I say to Leo, feeling horrible.

“I didn’t want to believe me either,” Leo answers.

“I’m sorry about the drug mule line,” I say, ashamed.

“No, it was funny. It took me everything not to laugh,” Leo says. I give him a quick smile as he lets out a crackling giggle.

“Huston was right. He knew that power of attorney meant something,” Abigail says.

“How were we supposed to know any of this?” Leo implores.

“Regardless, we have to get back. Do we have enough?” Abigail asks, eyeing the canvas bags, the Batman backpack and the overloaded
cardboard box.

“I’ll see if I can find something more in the documents on the drive back,” I say, hitching Mateo’s backpack over my shoulder
and taking Mom’s picture off the desk. I have a habit of taking pictures of Mom when I shouldn’t. This time, however, I envision
that bulletin board in Dad’s hospital room. It really does need a bit more color.

“I think I should stay,” Leo says. Abigail and I turn to him.

“Why?” I ask, stopping in the doorway.

“I think we should change the locks. I can call a locksmith. They can usually be here within an hour,” Leo says.

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about. If she had any interest in the house, she would have come in last night,”
I say, Mateo’s backpack digging into my shoulder.

“She’s about to find out that we know she’s been lying. And everything that proves it is right here in this house,” Leo points
out. Abigail sets down the two canvas bags.

“Can we do that?” Abigail asks.

“Huston has the power of attorney. He can do anything Dad can do. Dad has the right to change his own locks. So Huston does,
too,” Leo argues.

“But we’re not Huston,” I say, finally setting down the Batman backpack.

“He’ll okay it later,” Leo says, picking a phone book up off a stack of them in the corner. We don’t stop him.

“How will you get back to the hospital?” Abigail asks.

“I’ll figure it out,” Leo says, opening the phone book to the locksmith section. Baby step by baby step this family has gone
from slightly dysfunctional suburbia all the way to Mafia.

“We’ll call and keep you updated,” Abigail says, picking the canvas bags back up. I hitch Mateo’s backpack over my shoulder.
The giant overloaded cardboard box sits in the middle of the office. Awesome. I grunt my goodbyes as I bend over and heave
up the box. The tiny backpack slides down my arm, cutting off my circulation as I trudge down the stairs, Abigail just behind
me. We shift and maneuver the various canvas bags, backpacks and boxes into the minivan as the kids settle in.

I buckle myself into the third row, the cardboard box at my feet, and begin sifting through. Carsickness be damned.

Evie asks if she can help, so I pass her a stack of documents. I tell her to look for legal-looking stuff. We might find the
deed to the Daly place or maybe even some divorce papers—
one can only hope
. We stack the papers we’ve already seen in front of Evie, tightly wedging them so they won’t slip under my seat. Evie may
not know what she’s looking for, but she sure looks like she does. She shows me a few bills and a couple of insurance booklets,
which might be useful for figuring out what type of coverage Dad has. Jesus. Coverage. Skilled nursing care for the rest of
his life. The rest of his life. Down the rabbit hole. Wait, I can’t think about this now. Lock it up. Just sift. I find bank
records for his primary bank account.

“Dad has about $612,000 left in the bank—that must be from what he inherited from Nana Marina,” I announce from the third
row.

“So he bought the Daly house with the inheritance money?” Abigail asks, making a turn onto the main Ojai drag.

“I would assume. I mean, where else would he get that kind of money?” I ask, flipping the pages of Dad’s bank records. Failed
jazz man turned elementary school band instructor in Ojai, California, doesn’t really equal a $612,000 nest egg.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Abigail agrees. I set the bank records between Evie and me, as she leans down in front of me to pick
up another stack of papers. We make the final turn into the hospital and Abigail begins to search for a parking space.

“What about this?” Evie asks, passing me a stapled-together document. It doesn’t look like anything legal, but I take it anyway,
not wanting to hurt her feelings.

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF
RAYMOND MATEO HAWKES

Holy. Shit.

“It’s his will. Evie found his will,” I proclaim, beaming at my niece. She doesn’t know how to react and finally allows a
wide smile to break across her face. My elation at this connection is short-lived. Do I want to read this document? Do I want
to know who Dad left his estate to? Do I want to not see my name in these bequests? Abigail finally pulls into a parking space.
I flip the pages randomly, my hands shaking.

Abigail zooms the minivan door open and the sun streams in. I take a deep breath and flip Dad’s will to the front.

MY NAME IS RAYMOND MATEO HAWKES (3/17/1931) AND THIS IS MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.

I WAS MARRIED TO EVELYN BONITA HAWKES: DECEASED AUGUST 29, 2004.

I HAVE FOUR LIVING CHILDREN: HUSTON RAYMOND HAWKES (02/16/1971), ABIGAIL EVELYN HAWKES (05/26/1973), GRACE BAKER HAWKES (04/18/1974),
and LEOPOLD MILES HAWKES (06/19/1976).

I AM MARRIED TO CONSTANCE LEE NOONAN. I MARRIED CONSTANCE LEE NOONAN ON 9/16/2004. I SEPARATED FROM CONSTANCE LEE NOONAN ON
4/9/2005.

“It says he separated from Connie on April 9, 2005,” I read, as Abigail leans into the door, deciding not to unleash the hounds
just yet. Emilygrae and Mateo are growing ever more impatient. I keep going.

“Why didn’t he just divorce her?” Evie asks. Her frankness startles me. I look at Abigail.

“The Catholic thing,” Abigail says, beaten. I look up from the document.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask.

“Well, he didn’t marry Connie until after Mom died. It’s not like Mom and Dad ever got divorced,” Abigail explains. I look
back down at the document. One hurricane at a time, please.

“Huston’s the executor, and you’re the alternate,” I say, flipping the page.

“What does
omit
mean?” Evie asks.

“What, sweetie?” I absently ask. Evie is reading the page I’ve already flipped past.

“Omit, what does it mean?” Evie asks, pressing the page in question back down. She points to the word. Omit. OMIT. I read
along where her little bitten-down blue fingernail rests.

I INTENTIONALLY OMIT TO PROVIDE FOR CONSTANCE LEE NOONAN IN THIS WILL.

I INTENTIONALLY OMIT TO PROVIDE FOR DENNIS BRUCE NOONAN, THE BIOLOGICAL SON OF CONSTANCE LEE NOONAN, IN THIS WILL.

“Omit means to leave out,” I sigh. I reread the sentences.

“Who’s getting omitted?” Abigail blurts.

“Connie and Dennis,” I say, looking up at her.

“Connie and Dennis?” she repeats.

“Yeah, he intentionally omits them from his estate. Names them. And omits them,” I say, looking up from the will. I look back
down at Dad’s will.

I LEAVE, BEQUEATH AND GIVE MY WHOLE ESTATE, WHETHER REAL OR PERSONAL, TO MY FOUR BIOLOGICAL CHILDREN IN EQUAL SHARES.

“He’s… he’s left everything he has to us,” I say. Abigail stands just outside of the minivan with her arm propped against the
doorjamb.

It should be a moment of empowerment or inspiration, I mean, our Dad
chose
us. But all I can feel, and from the look on Abigail’s face she’s on the same roller coaster, is sadness. I close my eyes.
Our pictures on the mantel. The unopened letters and the program from Mom’s funeral lovingly saved. The sad little couch campsite
with the rows of glasses, rubber-banded business cards and old shoes. A man who chose to be alone because it was easier to
love from afar snaps before my wrenched closed eyes. Did he even know he was doing it? And in that moment, all the adrenaline
finally dulling a bit, I am completely overtaken by grief.

My dad is dying.

I open my eyes and look up at Abigail: tears are streaming down her face. She tries to turn away from the kids, but they see.
Emilygrae and Mateo sit in their little kid seats and watch as Abigail wipes at her eyes like a child herself. Evie watches
me. The last will and testament of my father is crumpling in my sweaty hands.

“Not again,” Mateo sighs, seeing Abigail sniffle back tears.

“She was crying last night in the hotel room, too,” Evie confides.

“She was?” I ask. Evie nods. I look back over to Abigail.

“We should go. Bring that,” Abigail commands finally. She leans over and gives Emilygrae the high sign that means she can
get out of her booster. Emilygrae brings her tiny hand up to Abigail’s face and strokes her cheek. Just once. Her little hot
pink cast leaves a giant scratch on Abigail’s face, but it’s the gentlest thing I’ve ever seen. Abigail kisses Emilygrae softly
on the forehead and sets her down on the pavement next to the minivan.

“Touch the car, mija. Remember, we touch the car in parking lots,” Abigail instructs, wiping away the last of her tears. Emilygrae
lays a single hand against the minivan. Abigail leans into the driver’s side and grabs her purse. She double-checks to be
sure it contains the original three documents that Nurse Miller asked us to retrieve. Nurse Miller. Everything about her offends
me now.

I push the box forward and climb out of the third row, clutching the steno pad from 2005, Dad’s last will and testament and
the original deed to the Daly house I found in the bottom of the old cardboard box. Evie crawls out just behind me and Mateo
follows. Evie beeps the minivan door closed and we set off across the parking lot: Mateo holds his hand up to me and I take
it, Evie falls in beside me with Emilygrae holding her hand, and Abigail brings up the rear. I feel like we’re the slow motion
iconic shot of
Reservoir Dogs
… but the Disney version, where no one cuts anyone’s ear off to “Stuck in the Middle With You.”

Yet.

The twins run through the tiny lobby of the hospital and once again Mateo pushes the outside call button. The elevator door
dings open and we all walk inside. Abigail motions for me to pass her the stack of papers. I do. There’s only one person Huston
can hear this from. We pass the second floor. My breathing steadies as I roll out the knots in my neck. We pass the third
floor. Mateo unsheathes his sword. Abigail and I share a quick smile as the elevator door opens.