A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (3 page)

The table waits. I set the little water bottle down.

“And where are they now?” another woman chimes in. Do I even know her name? I know she’s told it to me a thousand times. I
always refer to her as Slip Is Showing.

“They’re still here… Huston’s in Pacific Palisades—”

“Houston—like the city?” Slip Is Showing cuts in.

“Yeah, but it’s just H-
U
-S-T-O-N, not H…” I trail off.

“
O-U
-S-T-O-N,” Slip Is Showing embarrassingly finishes.

“We all know how to spell Houston,” Laura says, laughing.

“I couldn’t let it just hang there.” Slip Is Showing’s face reddens.

“So, Huston spelled with just a
u
and not like the city, is in the Palisades—where’s everyone else?” Laura urges. I thought my detour through Houston had blessedly
led us away from where this conversation was going. No such luck.

“Abigail’s in South Pasadena and Leo’s in Pasadena… where I am. Last I heard,” I say, now taking the top off my tea and blowing
on the hot water, which was apparently plumbed from the center of the earth.

“Last you heard?” Laura asks, thrusting her breasts in my direction.

“I haven’t spoken to them since Mom died,” I say. Tim is riveted. Whenever he’s asked about my family, I’ve always just said
it was “complicated.” He never pressed further—one of the traits I appreciated most in him.

“What… what happened to you?” Slip Is Showing asks, her face contorted in worry, her eyes looking on with wonder. I feel like
a white tiger behind plate glass: one part scrutinized, the other pitied.

“What
happened
to me?” I repeat, sharpening my claws.

“So, you guys weren’t close then,” Laura cuts in.

“Oh, no—we were pretty much inseparable,” I admit, feeling less and less confident with the choices I’ve made over the past
five years.

The table is silent.

“So, you just walked away?” Tim finally asks, his voice heartbreakingly quiet.

“Yeah,” I answer, my voice clear, but hollow.

Without missing a beat, “And they let you?” Laura asks, her voice angry.

“What?” I say, looking up and into her pooly blue eyes.

“You were obviously in some full-blown depression—why did they just let you run away like that?” Laura is angry. I feel a
pang of guilt for rolling my eyes every time I saw her over the last seven years.

“I don’t think I was reachable… to anyone,” I say, almost into my teacup. I didn’t exactly wile away my days on the couch,
swathed in a blanket, weeping and watching daytime television. I had never been like that in the past and certainly wasn’t
going to start then. I simply decided I wasn’t going to think about it.
Couldn’t
think about it. All of Abigail’s phone calls, Leo’s e-mails, even the letters Huston sent rush back to me. I locked them
all out and dove into work. It was the only way I could survive. This is the philosophy I’ve built my entire life around for
the last five years. A philosophy that led me here: to an intervention at Noah’s Bagels. I force myself back to the conversation
at hand. Slip Is Showing is asking me something.

“For five years?” Slip Is Showing asks again.

“Are they older or younger?” Laura asks.

“Two older, one younger,” I answer, automatically.

“How… how do you just walk away?” Slip Is Showing asks, marveling.

“It just got easier every day. For everyone, I guess,” I say, now looking around the Noah’s Bagels like I’m waiting for someone.
A lone gunman, maybe? One who’ll put us all out of our misery?

“I didn’t know any of this,” Tim says, his voice low.

“I know,” I say, unable to look at him.

The table is quiet.

“You must have really loved her,” Laura finally says.

My head jolts up and I look directly into Laura’s now welling eyes. A person I’ve never taken seriously. A person whose last
name I know only because it’s in her e-mail address. A person who has taken that chink in my armor and torn it wide open—simply
by asking a few basic questions.

“Yeah,” I say, looking away from Laura, my voice quiet.

“I’m so sorry,” Slip Is Showing says. I take a giant bite of my bagel.

“So, what’s everyone doing for New Year’s?” Tim throws out as the silence around the table grows awkward. He scoots his chair
closer and wraps his arm around my shoulder. The group of people stumble into a lighter conversation, but I can tell they
are haunted. By me. Great.

As they rattle off various parties, get-togethers and celebrations, I take a deep breath and close my eyes, retreating from
the New Year’s Eve talk that swirls around me. The wafting Earl Grey smell reminds me of Mom. She smells like Earl Grey and
outside.

And then, she is there.

“But you mustn’t forget it,” Mom reads, her arm around me, our legs a tangle in my tiny twin bed. I can hear Leo’s deep snores
from across the bedroom. Abigail creaks on the upper bunk, settling in for the night. I try to read along with her, but she’s
too fast.

“You become responsible for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose…” Mom reads, closing the book.

“Mom, is the… is the Little Prince ever going to… is he scared up there?” I ask, listening to the rumbles of Mom’s stomach.

“We’ll find out more tomorrow night,” Mom says, kissing my head.

“Just… is he… is he really a little prince?” I ask, as she crawls out of the bottom bunk.

“Sleep, little one,” she says, bringing the covers up to my chin and gently kissing my cheek.

“Yeah, but—” I say, as she stands on her tippy toes to tuck in Abigail. I hear their hushed good-nights.

“You’ve read that book a hundred times,” Abigail says from on high. Mom walks over to Leo, who’s sprawled on his bed, snoring
wildly. Mom pulls Leo’s covers tight over him and kisses him gently on the cheek.

“I just… I just like asking her about it,” I say, turning onto my side.

“Go to sleep and tomorrow we’ll read more,” Mom says, flipping off the light.

I open my eyes.

“That sounds great,” Tim offers. Was I remembering out loud?

“Thanks, I love wearing red on New Year’s,” Laura says. Apparently she’s been describing the dress she bought for her New
Year’s festivities. Whew.

“I need to get some fresh air,” I say, looking at Tim.

“Yeah… sure. Why don’t you start the car and I’ll be there in a sec,” Tim says, passing me his keys.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the keys and standing. “Have a great new year,” I throw out feebly, feeling naked and vulnerable.
The group mumbles “Happy New Year” back to me, no doubt hoping that my New Year’s celebration will include a team of psychologists.

I throw the teacup away, give the group a final wave, put my sopping wet hood up and race to Tim’s car.

The silence of the car surrounds me. I know that Tim’s in there apologizing for me. He does that a lot. Sure, he’s all for
my being who I am, but sometimes I wonder if he’d rather I were a little less… just,
less
.

As I sit fiddling with the knobs on Tim’s dashboard (something I’ve been told several times not to do), I try to fend off
the clatter of memories of Dad. So far away. I can barely… barely reach them. But, like a lost spoon in the garbage disposal,
I pull one, bent and twisted, from the depths.

“And on piano—Grace Hawkes,” Mrs. Callahan announces. The crowd applauds. The tiny auditorium is stuffy and smells of mildewed
wood. The seats are pressed close to one another and the parents of the kids in the orchestra are packed in like sardines.

I stand and the piano bench squeaks behind me. My formal dress we found at the Junior League thrift shop crumples up in the
back. I smooth it down and bow, searching the audience.

Mom, Huston, Abigail and Leo are all seated in the fourth row. Mom waves and smiles. I smile back. As I scan the row, I see
an empty chair next to Abigail. Dad. I want to hit something. Thank God, we’re starting with Beethoven.

The violins and violas bring their instruments up to their chins. The audience is quiet. My fingers are itching; I home in
on the sheet music like a laser. Focus the anger.

With the downbeat comes the quiet. The elsewhere. No empty chair. No rage. Just Beethoven. My body curls over the keyboard,
foot pumping the pedals, fingers racing across the keys. Mrs. Callahan’s guiding baton… and one, two, three, four… and five,
six, seven, eight… and nine, ten—how hard was it to just get here?—eleven, twelve. One, two, three… why did I even get my hopes
up? Four, five—I knew he wouldn’t come—six, seven, eight. I
knew
it… nine, ten, eleven, twelve… and rest.

I sit back a bit on the bench. My shoulders have crept all the way back up to my ears. I force them down by watching the first
violin move with the music. His long fingers move up and down the neck, making it look so easy. He closes his eyes for just
the briefest second and I wonder what demon
he’s
trying to quiet.

The crowd erupts in applause and Mrs. Callahan motions for us to stand. I find Mom in the audience once more. She’s beaming.
So happy. I hate myself that it isn’t enough. As the concert goes on, I look at that empty seat as if I were waiting for a
bus. Now? If I crane my neck, can I see it approaching from down the street? What about now? Brahms… Bach and Handel. What
about now? Nothing. The only people looking back at me are my family—apologizing for the one person who doesn’t deserve it.
I decide right then that I won’t ruin the night. I’ll be happy.

I flip the page of music, almost tearing it. Could I be doing something to make Dad mad? I must be doing something wrong.
Is my playing not good enough? I started playing to spend more time with Dad—he on his trumpet, me playing along on the piano.
He and Mom found this little upright beauty for my seventh birthday at a church rummage sale. I’ve been playing duets with
him ever since. I never took official lessons. It was just Dad and I sitting on that tiny bench, hunting and pecking our way
through masterpiece after masterpiece. Those moments spent playing with him are some of the best we shared. Just me, Dad and
music. The piano went from something Dad and I did together to something that takes me away from the pain of wondering where
he is all the time and what I might have done wrong.

I have one great parent. That’s more than most people can say. I look back down at the keys. My eyes are clear, my anger is
focused, and as I pound away, the sting of Dad’s absence lessens with every swallowed emotion.

I promised myself I’d never wait again. I’d never trust anyone except my family. And Dad stopped being family.

From then on.

I might have been able to handle one part of this scenario without the other. Dad’s stroke or reuniting with my family. But
both? Abigail sent me a save-the-date for my niece Evie’s quinceañera. I was planning on going—I even RSVPed after I finished
being blown away that Evie was already almost fifteen years old. Maybe that’s what started this. Abigail saw an opening and
using that crowbar-like determination decided now was the time.

Maybe now is the time.

I concentrate on Tim as he moves around the table, shaking hands and averting his eyes from various and sundry shelflike breasts.

Is there any way to prepare for what’s going on with Dad now? Even if everything else hadn’t fallen apart, would there ever
have been a right time to face the man who walked away twenty-two years ago?

And like a lightning bolt just shot through the roof of Tim’s car, my heart seizes.

Walked
.
Away
.

The trapdoor blows off its hinges and splinters against a far wall. I bend forward, putting my head between my knees.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Why haven’t I ever connected the two before?

Dad walked away. I walked away.

“Are you hiding?” Tim asks, opening the driver’s side door.

J
esus, Grace… are you okay?” Tim asks, his hand on my back.

“I’m fine… I’m fine. It’s the… the bagel. I shouldn’t have eaten it right after the run thing,” I say.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” Tim says.

“Interesting wording,” I answer, as I squish my new revelation about Dad’s and my bolting into an out-of-the-way, yet increasingly
crowded, corner of my psyche.

“If you want me to believe this doesn’t have anything to do with your family, you’re going to have to be a lot more convincing,”
Tim says, his hand now at my shoulder pulling me up.

“Can we just go?” I plead, my head still between my knees.

“I’m not driving with you in that position,” Tim says.

“Fine,” I sigh, slowly sitting up.

“Are you going to talk to me?” Tim asks. Inside I can feel myself gathering up. Putting the memories back into place. The
voices getting a little further away every second I catch my breath.

“I honestly don’t know what I’m feeling, to tell you the truth,” I begin.

“Grace—”

“I’m serious. I’m not being all mysterious—”

“That’d be a first,” Tim interjects with the softest smile, an endearing attempt at diffusing the situation. It’s also a gentle
reminder that being with me is a testament to his character.

“Right… right,” I answer, my voice deflating.

“Let’s just get home and get out of these wet clothes,” Tim says, starting up the car.

“If it’s okay, I just want to go home.
My
home,” I say, clicking my seat belt across my chest.

“Come on, Grace,” Tim chides gently, as he maneuvers out of the Noah’s parking lot. If I never come back here again, I’ll
be the better for it.

“I’m not being weird and moody, I swear. I just want to take a hot shower, maybe grab a yoga class.” Maybe I’ll change my
name to Starla Nightbody, move to an art colony in Taos, New Mexico, and take up glassblowing or turquoise jewelry making.
Could be anybody’s guess how far I’m going to take this.

“Are you sure?” Tim asks, looking over. Imploring. Trying his hardest to understand.

“I’m sure,” I say, resting my hand on his leg.