A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (20 page)

We make a right.

Emilygrae and Mateo run pell-mell down the hallway as usual and on into the waiting room. Evie walks with us down the hallway
until she has to, once again, turn into the Twin Watcher. She opens the door and we already hear fighting coming from within.
About firsties. Evie rolls her eyes.

“I’ll tell you what happens,” Abigail says, kissing Evie.

“You can’t forget anything either,” Evie says, finally pushing open the door and heading inside. Abigail and I continue walking.

We make a left.

My mind is running through the events of the morning as we walk toward the nurse’s station just outside the ICU. They should
really have an open bar in hospitals.

We make a left.

Abigail signs in. She is handed a name tag with HAWKES written on it. I follow. Sign in. I get a name tag. We’re buzzed in.

For half a second, Abigail and I stand shoulder to shoulder at the door. Abigail reaches the inch that separates us and takes
my hand. I curl my fingers around hers as she squeezes tightly. The door opens and we are hit with the buzzing, whirring and
urgent voices of the ICU. One last squeeze and we let go. I scan the room and see Huston standing in the corner of the ICU
talking to John. Huston is imposing enough, but the addition of John makes it look like the hospital is in some kind of FBI
lockdown.

Connie and Dennis stand at Dad’s bedside. Connie is doing the usual clutching, gripping, hand-holding thing while Dennis stands
idly by, gazing adoringly at a man who was his daddy for only six months. When he was fifty years old. What a bottom-feeder.
Huston sees us and gets the attention of John, and they walk over to us.

“Do you have the documents?” Huston asks, approaching us.

“We need to talk,” Abigail says, holding up the stack of papers from Dad’s office.

H
uston’s mouth drops open.

I can see him having a whole conversation in his head. He’s trying to work this out. Understand it. I want to tell him to
quit while he’s ahead—that there is no understanding it. No answers… just questions. Questions, I might add, that’ll remain
unanswered. Mom is gone. Dad’s unable to speak for himself. We’ll never know for sure whether or not he came to Mom’s funeral.
We’ll never know why Mom never opened those letters or, for that matter, why Dad kept sending them. We’ll never know why he
married Connie. We’ll never know why he decided that love was best experienced from a distance.

We are quiet. The hospital cafeteria bustles around us. None of us touch the cursory items we bought on arrival.

I sneak a glance at John. He’s trying to process the information, but his expression is different from Huston’s look of stunned
confusion. John looks like he wants to kill somebody. That’s my boy.

“Huston…” Abigail starts. He looks away from her, shaking his head.

“What proof do you have?” John asks, his face now resolved.

“We’ve got Dad’s will, bank records, steno pads and bills dating back to 2005,” I rattle off.

“That’s not enough,” John argues.

“What more proof do you need?” Abigail asks.

“Connie can argue that she and Ray had a certain understanding. She can say they may have lived apart, but they still loved
each other and spent every waking moment together,” John argues.

“Then why would he leave her out of his will?” Abigail asks.

“Several reasons actually: mental incapacity, undue influence, or that it’s an out-and-out forgery.”

“Well, how would she—” Abigail starts.

“Regardless, can you state with one hundred percent certainty that their relationship isn’t like that? That they didn’t spend
every waking moment together?” John asks.

We don’t know our father at all.

“No,” Huston finally says.

“And that’s what they’re going to exploit,” John finishes.

“So what do we do?” Abigail asks.

It finally dawns on me: “We act like we don’t know,” I say. John nods in agreement.

“Why would we do that?” Abigail frowns, realizing she’s not going to get to walk into the ICU and drag Connie out by her little
white pants.

“We need to get all our ducks in a row,” I say.

“He can’t stay here. We need to find a facility near Los Angeles,” Huston says.

“And the minute you tip Connie off that you know anything, she’ll get a lawyer and start telling anyone who’ll listen that
she’s a little old lady who’s the love of Ray’s life. And you’ll all be labeled the gold-digging ne’er-do-well children who
never came to see him. Can you even prove that he abandoned you? She could argue that he tried to get in contact with you
all these years, to have a relationship, and you had no interest in seeing him,” John says. His voice is confident.

“Enough,” I say. I haven’t been able to come up with a satisfactory explanation for why Dad abandoned us over the last twenty-two
years; I certainly couldn’t do it in a courtroom. And the more I find out the less I understand. It was almost easier when
I thought he didn’t love us.

How do you prove love anyway?

“John’s right,” Huston says, his head bowed. The table falls into silence.

“The power of attorney is the key,” John adds, shifting in his plastic chair. We all look up.

“It can hold up?” I ask.

“Unless Connie is appointed your dad’s conservator, and by her chronic absence at all the meetings pertaining to his care,
I don’t think that’s what she wants. No, that power of attorney means Huston gets to make all the decisions regarding your
father’s care and finances,” John says.

“It seems like there are an awful lot of variables,” I say.

“But why can’t we—” Abigail tries to cut in. John stops her.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” John finally says.

Abigail laughs mirthlessly. “Ya think?”

“I’ve been here for twenty-four hours and I already want to kill myself,” I say, looking from Abigail to John, the smallest
of smiles offering to defuse the moment.

“God, twenty-four hours… is that all?” Huston sighs, softening just a bit.

“It’s like time has stopped,” I answer.

“Do you remember when Mom died?” Abigail asks.

A chill passes over the table. We all remember the worst day of our lives.

Abigail continues, “That day went on forever.”

“Literally,” I say, realizing that I’m still reliving that day even after all these years. Maybe it’s about time I stopped.

“The kids haven’t even missed any school,” Abigail mutters.

“Not a day of work,” I say, my seventeen vacation days still untouched.

“It’s not even New Year’s Eve,” Huston adds.

“It’s so bizarre to think that other people are just going about their business. Going to work, buying groceries or whatever,”
I say.

“And we’re here,” Abigail says, her head dipping, her eyes closing.

We fall silent again as we yearn for the little, quiet lives that seem so very far away.

“Why didn’t he just pick up the phone?” Abigail sighs. We are quiet. I take a deep breath.

“Because every day that goes by, it gets a little bit harder,” I mumble, the words coming from deep below the surface.

“Harder for whom?” Huston asks.

“Harder to admit you’re wrong. Harder to admit that the people you left behind aren’t actually better off without you.” I
can’t look at him. Any of them.

“Better off without you,” Huston repeats, his voice challenging. I sneak a glance at John. His eyes meet mine and I will myself
not to look away.

“Every day erodes away at the person you are, and it’s not too long before you begin to forget you were ever a part of anything
at all,” I explain, my voice just over a whisper. Everyone is quiet.

I continue, “I think that’s where the whole Connie thing comes in. Love becomes company and company becomes something you
do just to pass the time. So you won’t be alone.” John looks away. My face flushes.

“All of those pictures,” Abigail says.

“Not one of Connie. That’s got to count for something,” I say, hoping this will get us back on track.

“This is not about Connie,” John says, his voice solemn.

“How is this not about Connie?” I ask.

“This is going to be about you. The four of you.”

“But we didn’t do anything.”

“If you fight back, you have to get ready to be dragged through the mud by someone who doesn’t give a shit about the truth,
doesn’t give a shit about ruining your lives. Obviously. She sat in a hospital room holding the hand of a dying man who left
her years ago. She turned an entire nursing staff against you and, while she was at it, made all of you believe she was the
grieving wife. So… this is not about her. She’s a monster,” John says.

“It’s about more than that,” Huston argues.

“Not for them. They’re going to make it as basic as possible, you’re the ones who are trying to evict a little old lady at
a time when the husband she loves is dying,” John says, scooting in his chair even more.

“Allegedly,” Huston adds.

“It’s not fair,” Abigail says. She sounds so much like Emilygrae I have to swallow a smile.

“No, it’s not. But, bottom line—you have to ask yourselves if you want to go forward. Forget that it’s unfair, evil and deceitful.
Is your Dad worth it?” John says, his hands tight in fists.

We are quiet.

John’s words hang in the air. Why are we here if not to finish what we started—what Dad started?

“I’m in,” I say.

“Me, too,” Abigail says.

“What do we do first?” Huston asks.

“Like Grace said, we get our ducks in a row,” John says. His voice saying my name is a speck of light in the darkness. It
just rolls off his tongue.

“I’ll start making some calls about facilities. There are quite a few around where I live,” Abigail says, gathering herself,
taking out her organizer once again.

Something has begun that we can’t stop. Dad’s too sick. Connie’s too vile.

The only way out… is through.

“Where do you live?” John asks Abigail, his pencil hovering over the legal pad.

“South Pasadena. It’s just south of Pasadena… kind of by—” Abigail says, writing in her organizer.

“Right by where Grace lives,” John says, writing something down on his legal pad.

“I bought a new house on California Terrace last year,” I say, for no apparent reason.

“I know,” John says absently. I stare at him. He shifts in his chair… not looking at me. You
know
?

“So…” John begins again, his voice cracking. Please look at me. He does. Quick. A flash. A glance. He knew I’d bought a new
house.

Huston clears his throat and continues. “So, South Pasadena it is, then.”

“As soon as Leo gets back, we’ll head back down to LA with the kids,” Abigail says.

“Where’s Leo?” Huston asks, standing.

“He’s at Dad’s. Changing the locks,” I say absently.

“He’s what?” John blurts. Abigail and I immediately see the problem.

“It’s not a problem,” I start.

“She’s going to know,” Abigail yelps, terrified we’ve already screwed this up.

“No, she won’t. She has to act like she has the keys, like it’s her house. How can she ask us for the keys to her own house?
And even if she does go to the house and try to get in, who’s to say Dad didn’t change the locks years ago? She doesn’t know.
No, we’re good,” I work out.

“You have to run that shit by me,” John “advises.” Abigail and I nod.

“I’ll call Manny and tell him not to come up after all. You guys can hold down the fort while we’re gone?” Abigail asks, looking
up. Huston, John and I just look at each other. We know we’ve gotten the short end of the stick. Staying up here means keeping
up the Big Lie. It also means spending more time with Dad.

I’m not sure which one will be more difficult.

S
he’s not ready to have you come in just yet,” Nurse Miller advises, as we step back into the ICU after Abigail puts in her
call to Manny. We look into Dad’s hospital room, where Connie is standing by Dad’s bedside. Dennis is sitting in one of several
chairs in the room, reading a magazine. He looks up as we enter the ICU. I wish we didn’t know about Connie. I genuinely wish
she just wanted what’s best for Dad. I try to look and see if Dad’s awake, as he was earlier this morning. It looks like he’s
sleeping. That gives me some solace. Dennis approaches our little huddle in the corner like a prince approaching a gaggle
of servants.

“Hey, man,” Dennis says, patting Huston on the shoulder in a bizarre hypermasculine move that’s supposed to pass for brotherly.

“Dennis,” Huston answers.

“Dennis Noonan,” he says, reaching his hand across to John.

“We’ve met,” John says, his hands at his sides. His eyes distant. Dennis’ hand hangs in the air between the two men.

“Oh… right. Moss. The attorney,” Dennis says, his hand sagging back to his side.

John looks at his watch.

Dennis turns to Abigail and gets down to business. “Mom was wondering if you guys could do her a favor and return Ray’s possessions
to her. It’d be a big help.”

“I’m so sorry, Dennis—I left the ziplock bag back at the hotel,” Abigail says, so genuine.

“Oh, no worries,” Dennis lies.

“Do you need it right away?” I ask.

“Mom’s just worrying. I’m sure it’s all the—” Dennis motions around at the ICU. Yes, this has been really hard on Connie,
we all nod in agreement.

“Well, we’ll get it to you just as soon as we can,” Abigail assures him, placing a hand on his shoulder in concern. She’s
good.

Dennis walks back into the hospital room. We watch. He doesn’t tell her that their plan didn’t work. He just sits in one of
the hospital chairs and picks up his magazine. Connie doesn’t even bother to look up. Maybe he put her up to this? Or did
she put
him
up to it? I have to snap out of this… it’s ridiculous. I feel like Harriet the Spy. Every second we waste on Connie is time
not spent with Dad. A chill passes over me as it dawns on me that I honestly don’t know how many seconds we have left with
him. This situation needs to be remedied. And fast.