A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (35 page)

“They must have. That Abigail is the worst, always trotting out those little Mexican kids. She should be ashamed of herself,”
Connie says, tossing the documents back down onto the banister of the witness stand. Abigail curls her fingers under the court
bench.

“And do you think Ray’s kids blackmailed him into making each of them beneficiaries under this one-million-dollar Metropolitan
Life Insurance policy that he purchased just after your separation?” John asks, handing a copy of the document to Connie along
with one to the clerk. “Exhibit Eleven, Your Honor.”

“There are four kids. They were raised on hate by that woman. They got to him. My poor Ray never had a chance!” Connie breaks
down.

“Ms. Noonan, do you need a minute? We can take a quick recess for you to collect yourself.”

“No, I’m fine,” Connie assures, once again.

“Your Honor, at this time, I’d like to enter in Exhibits Twelve through Twenty-one, which show that Ray left several other
insurance policies and bank accounts solely to his children,” John says, passing the exhibits to the clerk, then on to the
judge.

“Mrs. Noonan?” the judge asks.

“They got to him—each one of them,” Connie repeats.

“You testified earlier that Ray bought you the town house on Daly Street during the troubles you were having in your marriage.
Your Honor, I’d like to enter the deed for the Daly Street town house as Exhibit Twenty-two into evidence. Why didn’t Ray
ever put you on title to the property in the years since he gave it to you?” John asks, putting a copy of the deed in front
of Connie.

“He said it was some kind of tax thing. I trusted him,” Connie answers.

“You testified earlier that you have lived in the nine twenty-four Dean Street house with Ray Hawkes throughout your marriage.
Your Honor, I’d like to enter into evidence the deed for the residence located at nine twenty-four Dean Street, Ojai, as Exhibit
Twenty-three into evidence. Why didn’t Ray put you on title to this house either? The house where the two of you lived as
husband and wife?” John asks, setting a copy of that deed in front of Connie as well. The clerk passes along a copy to the
judge.

“He said it was a tax thing too. Ray minded the books. I trusted him,” Connie answers.

“Well, okay, then why didn’t he give you his power of attorney instead of Huston Hawkes, his eldest son from his first marriage?
Your Honor, I’d like to enter the power of attorney and the durable power of attorney for health care as Exhibit Twenty-four
and Twenty-five in evidence,” John says.

“Well, that oldest one’s a lawyer and the littlest one is a criminal. Those kids had him wrapped around their little finger.
He would have done anything,” Connie explains.

“So, all these things. Insurance policy after insurance policy. Bank account after bank account. College funds for the grandchildren.
Deed after deed. Powers of attorney. Last will and testament. All of these documents done at different times, over a period
of years, it is your testimony that he did these things because his own children bamboozled him, blackmailed him. But why
do you think he did all this? What was he trying to do?” John asks.

“I don’t know, I guess they got to him.” Connie says.

“So, over a course of years, your husband basically gave away your home, your
homes
, I mean, your money, your future, everything, everything you built together, to a bunch of kids he left twenty-two years
ago?” asks John.

“Objection, Your Honor, asked and answered,” Connie’s attorney interrupts.

“Overruled; answer the question, Mrs. Hawkes,” the judge says.

“Yes, that’s what happened,” Connie says, shifting in her chair.

“So, are you the love of his life or not?” John asks, arms wide.

“Yes,” Connie says again.

“I’ve got to be frank with you, Mrs. Noonan, if I were Ray and you were the love of my life, I would have taken better care
of you,” John says.

“Objection,” Connie’s attorney shouts, standing.

“Overruled,” the judge says.

“Why didn’t he? Why was he so worried about these ungrateful kids? There was plenty to go around. Why were you the only one
who got left out?” John presses, approaching Connie.

“Because they made him,” Connie says again.

“So he cared more what they thought of him. He wanted their love more?” John presses.

“Yeah… no…” Connie stutters.

“Well, which is it?” John asks.

“I was his wife!” she yells.

“Yeah, I get that. But why did he care more about his kids?”

“We were the loves of each other’s lives,” Connie says again.

“And yet you’re left with nothing.”

“It’s all because of them!” Connie yells, pointing at us.

“Because he loved them more.”

“Yes,” Connie says, the mask slipping slightly.

“So, you’re saying he loved them more,” John repeats.

“Yes,” Connie says, exasperated with John’s inane questions.

“You’re saying they’re the loves of his life?” John acts confused.

“What? No…”

“So he made sure the loves of his life were taken care of,” John says.

“It was supposed to be mine. All of it,” Connie says, impatiently.

“But let’s review, you just said they were the loves of Ray’s life.” Connie nods. “And what Ray wanted was to make sure that
the loves of his life were taken care of.”

“But he never even saw them, he left them twenty years ago. Never looked back, even,” Connie argues.

“You just said that they must have been visiting Ray when you were in Oxnard—do you need the court reporter to read that back
to you?” John motions for the court reporter.

“No.”

“You can’t have it both ways, Ms. Noonan. Did he abandon them or not?” John presses.

“It was all supposed to be mine!” Connie shouts.

“Supposed to be yours?” John quickly asks.

“Ray went and made that oldest one his power of attorney,” Connie says.

“Isn’t that a choice that couples usually make together?” John presses quickly.

“I hadn’t seen Ray in years when he—” Connie catches herself. Her face drains of color and her eyes wildly dart from John
to Dennis and back to John. The mask finally shatters completely. The crowd reacts in unison. Finally seeing what’s under
the mask. Recoiling from her.

“You hadn’t seen Ray in years when he chose his son, Huston Hawkes, to have his power of attorney,” John repeats.

“No… I… I… it didn’t—” Connie flounders.

“I have nothing further,” John says, walking away from her.

“She knew all along,” Leo whispers, shaking his head in disbelief, as Connie stands and begins her descent from the witness
stand.

“Of course she did,” I whisper back.

“What kind of person does that?” Leo whispers back, trying still to figure her out. We watch Connie’s attorney help her down
from the witness stand. Dennis sits tightly, his arms crossed, his face crimson, and makes no effort to help his mother anywhere.

The wooden gate creaks open and Connie is led down the center aisle. The crowd whispers and stares as she passes.

Connie looks straight ahead, clutching her attorney’s hand as he sits her down in the back of the courtroom.

“At this time, Your Honor, I’d like to request a dismissal of Mrs. Hawkes’ will contest, as evidenced by her own admissions
of malicious intent and her actual knowledge of Ray Hawkes’ true objectives with his estate,” John says, standing. Connie’s
attorney walks back down the aisle and opens the bar, taking his place once again at his podium.

“Your Honor, the only thing that was proven here today is—” Connie’s attorney starts.

“Save it, Counsel. I’ve heard enough. I hereby deny Ms. Hawkes’ motion to invalidate the last will and testament of Raymond
Mateo Hawkes and hereby order Mrs. Hawkes to reimburse the Hawkes children for their attorney’s fees and costs. Case dismissed,”
the judge announces, banging the gavel down.

The sounds of the world are muffled all around us.

John spins around and finds us, giving us a broad smile, just so we can see. He is positively beaming. I make eye contact
with him.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my shoulders finally relaxed. John leaves the courtroom, giving me a quick wink as he passes. Always
the professional. I know he’ll be right outside waiting for me.

The crowd disperses down the center aisle. This time, their eyes are soft and pitying as they look on us. We sit still, clutching
each other’s hands. Dennis stands and walks toward the door along with the throng of people leaving.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” Dennis hisses, as he continues back to his mother. None of us acknowledge him. For
once, I stay above the fray. This fight is over. Dennis walks over to Connie, whispers something to her and continues right
out of the courtroom, leaving Connie sitting there.

We all stand.

Huston unfolds his body, stretching. His body finally relaxing, his smile easy, his hands reaching for the sky. Abigail stands,
straightening her skirt, allowing her arm to rest around Huston’s waist. He takes her hand and holds it tight. Abigail looks
to Leo, tucking a stray hair behind his ear, soft and gentle. Leo bends into Abigail’s caress.

I stand at the end of the row. My hand is sweaty now from Leo’s tight grip never letting me go. I’m connected. We’re like
little paper dolls, strung hand to hand. Acting as one.

Huston starts to walk out of the courtroom; all of us file out like ducklings. Connie sits exactly where she was—utterly alone.

I, on the other hand, have a family.

I take a deep breath and settle onto the table. The paper under me crinkles and folds. Under my body, against my body… into
my body. I eye the door. Only the threat of public nudity makes me stay put.

“Why don’t you go ahead and lie back,” Dr. Singh asks, flipping out the dreaded stirrups. So vulnerable. Yet I’m oddly calmed
by her commands. I stare at the ceiling, trying to get my breathing under control. I’m beginning to panic. I close my eyes—
Two times two is four. Four times four is sixteen. Sixteen times sixteen is… What the hell is sixteen times sixteen?
Okay, focus—carry the three and then the six… wait a minute… okay, count the dots in the ceiling, then.

John smoothes his hand down my arm and takes my hand. I hadn’t noticed that my arm was raised in a knee-jerk defensive pose.
I stop focusing on the dots on the ceiling, the times tables in my head. I breathe deeply and find John: my point on the horizon.

“You’re about six weeks along,” Dr. Singh says, motioning at the computer screen. Through the black-and-white static and bubbles
of amorphous blobs, I can see a distinct little peanut. A little six-week-old peanut.

Our peanut.

“Six weeks,” I repeat.

“Holy shit,” John whispers, flushing as he apologizes to Dr. Singh for his language. Dr. Singh presses a few buttons so we
can watch our peanut come more and more into focus. Before I know it, a tear slides down the side of my face. I breathe deeply,
trying to get control. Dr. Singh passes a tissue box over to me. Obviously, I’ve done a poor job with the control thing.

“Thank you,” John says, taking the box and blowing his nose before he pulls out another tissue and wipes away the tears now
streaming down his cheeks. Apparently he’s not doing any better keeping his emotions in check. I find it adorable. I rest
my hand on his arm, pulling him toward me, touching him, comforting him. He gives me a quick embarrassed smile and brushes
my bangs out of my eyes, his hand lingering as we lock eyes. The tears fall. The emotions take over. Together we allow our
little peanut to unravel us.

Life. A little life. Joy. Possibilities. Family. Trust. New beginnings.

The staticky image blurs as my eyes fill with tears. I bring my hand to my belly and look up at John. His face contorts. He’s
going to be a father. And I’m going to be a mom. Who would have thunk it: the juvenile delinquent and the lost girl are going
to be parents. This’ll be the luckiest little peanut in the world.

I think of Huston, Abigail, Evie, and Leo, who are in the waiting room. Sure, they’re out there wrangling the twins. But they’re
here; they’re trying not to get excited before our news is confirmed; they’re thrilled for us. We’re family, after all.

If it’s a girl, I think we’ll name her Evelyn.

And a boy?

Well, the world could certainly use another Ray.

I was born and bred in Pasadena, California. I’ve held every degrading job one could think of, until I finally realized my
only talent lies in writing. Thank God, someone else thought so, too.
A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents
is my third novel.