A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (7 page)

There’s no sound, just muffled voices and distant beeping. I can feel my family tighten around me. Leo folds into me even
more as Abigail holds on to Manny and Evie. Huston calmly walks forward to meet the doctor, extending his hand in introduction.

“Are you Evelyn Hawkes’ family?” the doctor starts. Huston nods.

Oh God.

“They did everything they could. Evelyn… your mom? Your mom died at the scene. I’m so sorry,” the doctor says.

Everything goes black.

The next thing you know, you’re dry-heaving into a hospital toilet five years later.

I
can’t hide out in this bathroom forever. I came up here to show Dad that I’m Mom’s kid; I have to get myself together. I
douse my face with water, slurping up handfuls. I pull my BlackBerry out of my pocket and dial. Straight to voice mail.

“This is Tim Barnes of Marovish, Marino and Barnes. I’m unable to take your call; please leave your name and number and I’ll
return your call as soon as I am able.” I wait for the beep.

“Hey… it’s me. I’m at the hospital, well in the bathroom… haven’t gone in yet. Haven’t seen anyone yet. I have thrown up, though.
So, there’s that. Okay… I’d better get out there. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye,” I say, hanging up. I pocket the BlackBerry.
With no further tasks before me, in or around this bathroom, I have no choice but to exit.

I open the bathroom door and look out into a maze of long hallways. More goddamn hallways. Each one dotted with door after
door of suffering.

I make a right.

I try not to look into the rooms as I walk by, but I can’t seem to help myself. Bed after bed filled with people desperate
to be out of there, to not be in pain anymore. Families clustered around the beds, trying to act lighthearted and unworried.
But even from the hallway I can see their hushed conversations and hidden side glances to one another, signaling a bad turn.

I make a left.

I pass a bustling nurse’s station. They don’t bother looking up as I pass. Clipboards, monitors and the business of healing
have their full attention.

“Gracie?” The man’s voice behind me is unmistakable. That giggly crumble. Funny, I don’t smell marijuana or body odor. I must
have gotten him on “Shower Day.” Maybe that air freshener isn’t needed after all.

“Grace?” Leo repeats. I turn around slowly, twisting my mouth into a smile, trying, imploring my face to take its horrified
look somewhere else.

“Leo?” I manage. The man who stands before me now… well, is simply not my brother. Is it?

“I thought that was you! I saw you run into that bathroom, so I waited. Thought I heard you kind of talking to yourself, but… you
know—who doesn’t? Hey, you made it up here in great time. God, you haven’t changed a bit!” he says, lunging toward me for
a one-armed hug—the ever-present laptop held in the other. The fact that Leo looks like a fresh-faced ex–fraternity boy instead
of someone who’d ask you for change on a street corner is mind-blowing. He still has the posture of someone who’s uncomfortable
with his height. Taller than Huston, Leo constantly looks like he’s dipping down to fit into a shortened doorway, seemingly
guilt-ridden for looking down on everyone both physically and intellectually. I’ve been looking up to both of my brothers
since puberty.

Leo’s traded his light brown mud-soaked dreadlocks for a pleasingly shaggy muss. His eyes… they’re the same. Mom’s. I look
away and take in his outfit. It’s amazingly put-together. No tie-dye, dancing bears or hemp accessories to be found. A charcoal-gray
sweater falls over his jeans and rather than having blackened bare feet he’s wearing a pair of actual shoes—sure, they’re
Vans, but at least they’re shoes. At thirty-three, Leo still looks like he could easily be in his early twenties.

“You look… Jesus… you look,” I stutter, pulling back from him.

Leo laughs. “Like a grown-up?”

“A
clean
grown-up,” I correct.

“It’s a trip, huh? Thought I’d get a fresh start for the new job.” Leo giggles.

“You ain’t just whistling ‘Dixie,’ ” I say for the first time in my entire life.

“And apparently you’re now an old Southern lady. It’s hot here, huh? I mean, it’s late December and it’s not even sweater
weather. I didn’t have any New Year’s plans… did you? I said it wasn’t sweater weather and I’m wearing a sweater! Hilarious,”
Leo quickly says.

“No, I didn’t have any New Year’s plans,” I answer one part of Leo’s impassioned Q&A.

“Ha, sweater weather,” Leo says.

“Oh… brought you this,” I say, pulling a can of Coke I got at a gas station on the 101 out of my purse.

“Aww, thanks,” Leo says, taking the soda, lunging in for another hug. God, I’ve missed him.

“I promised,” I say, mid-hug.

“We’re down here,” Leo says, pulling out of the hug and taking my hand. He guides me down a hallway toward… I’m not ready.
I’m…
no
, Huston’s speech about me locking it up and being part of this family speeds back. I squeeze Leo’s hand and give him a quick
smile.

We make a left and come to a far more official-looking nurse’s station and a pair of double doors. Leo sets his laptop and
the can of Coke down and begins signing in.

“We have to sign in for the ICU,” Leo says over his shoulder as he hunches over the clipboard on the counter. The nurse hands
him a name tag with HAWKES scrawled across it. Leo hands me the pen and I fill out the necessary information:

12/29

Grace Baker Hawkes

Daughter

Yes, I’m over the age of twelve

Ray Hawkes

The nurse hands me my own name tag, once again with
HAWKES
scrawled on it. I peel off the tag and press the paper against
my sweater. I hitch my purse tighter on my shoulder.

We enter through the double doors to the right.

The buzzing of the door ushers in a symphony of beeps, blips and urgent voices. This little community hospital has quite an
impressive ICU. At its center is yet another nurse’s station. Around the station are four rooms, all with glass doors and
windows. A sort of warped theater of sickness.

“Over here,” Leo says. The room is empty. I can’t see Dad yet, but I do see the outline of his body in the hospital bed. I
steady myself on the nurse’s station and swallow. Hard. I focus my eyes and follow Leo.

I walk past the nurse sitting sentry in a rolling office chair just outside Dad’s room. She nods and smiles. How thankful
she must be that this isn’t her family. I look up and into the room and my eyes come to rest on the hospital bed once again.

Dad.

I hold on to my purse for dear life. Leo folds into a hospital chair with a black motorcycle helmet beneath it. He boots up
his laptop. I walk forward. I can’t hear anything but the sound of my own breathing. Where is the giant I remember?

This is an old man.

Dad’s face is turned away from me. His eyes are closed, his body seems calm. His breathing is labored. My eyes trace his body—past
his once wide chest. His arms are covered in a now graying wheat field of hair. Just underneath his once tanned skin are purplish
bruises and browning liver spots. When did he get so old? My stomach turns and my face gets hot and clammy again. I try to
find a point on the horizon to steady my stomach, like Mom used to tell me to do when I got carsick. All I see are machines,
more tubes, more, more, more. I can’t focus. I look back over at Leo.

“How old is he now?” I ask.

“Sixty-eight,” Leo says, not looking up from his laptop. I place my hand on the metal bar on the side of his bed. Sixty-eight.
With my bubble already popped and the trapdoor splintered, the sight of Dad’s feeble body hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ve
been so focused on reuniting with my family and starting to deal with Mom’s death, or trying
not
to deal with it, that I haven’t readied myself for this. Dad. Twenty-two years. I bet I
do
look like I’ve seen a ghost… for real this time. Too real. Where is the Dad I knew?

“Okay, Gracie—you start on the… see? Right there—” Dad is standing by my piano. Thick blond hair tousles and flips, making
him look like he’s being followed around by a gentle breeze. Rough features, ice-blue eyes and a build that seems best suited
for pillaging. He moves with the music. Miles Davis. Again. Always. I’m supposed to come in on the downbeat.

“Yeah, on the… one, two, three… there—” I say, curling over the keys, playing my part. Dad sways, closing his eyes, listening
to me play, tapping the top of the piano in time.

Dad blows the spit out of his trumpet, his knees bend, and he lifts the horn to his lips. And… I close my eyes.

Our music wafts through our little apartment. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t have to. I know what everyone is doing right now.

Dad and I were the soundtrack to our family’s lives.

“Glad you could make it.” I jolt out of my reverie, look up from Dad and see—

Abigail.

I automatically check to make sure I’m not wearing a piece of her clothing.

“I found her out in the hall,” Leo says.

Abigail looks like she could be the PTA president of any school in any suburb—and probably is. I imagine her bringing tuppers
filled with cupcakes—possibly tuppers made expressly for bringing cupcakes—to the local bake sale, to raise money for a new
library. Her blonde hair is a waterfall of straw-colored wisps that fall just past her shoulders. A pink Barbie jeweled barrette
keeps the hair out of her face. Abigail’s ice-blue eyes are now encased in the parentheses of crow’s-feet. She wears the same
uniform she always has—khaki pants, a pastel sweater set, and loafers. At least someone’s had the decency to stay the same.
After the whole Leo debacle, I imagined walking in here only to find Abigail wearing a bustier and latex skirt while brandishing
a riding crop. Abigail’s sweater set means some things never change.

I marvel at how normal we look. I catch a reflection of myself in the far window, just over Leo’s shoulder. The same blonde
hair, except mine is longer than Abigail’s and is highlighted to be more white-blonde than sun-kissed. It falls past my shoulders
in a cut that’s supposed to look effortless, but costs a small fortune to keep up. I’m blessed with Mom’s upturned mouth.
I love that about my face… in the right light I can see Mom in it.

“Hiya,” I manage, thinking that maybe I broke the ice with the phone call. Maybe she’ll… maybe she’ll—what? Let me off the
hook? I stand there awkwardly, wondering what the proper greeting is after five years with threats of a tarring and feathering
hanging in the air. Hug her? Slap her on the mouth? Revert to prior performance and hawk a giant loogie on her?

“Has Leo brought you up to speed?” Abigail continues, walking straight past me without so much as a nod. Mystery solved.

“Dad’s sick,” I answer, the beeping and whirring of the machines helping me achieve the level of sarcasm I was aiming for.
Abigail’s entire body tightens. I don’t even know why I say it. I can’t seem to keep from turning into a foot-stomping brat
whenever I get around Abigail. No wonder she treats me like one.

“Yes, well, it was nice of you to rush up here,” Abigail begins.

“You
are
famous for your inappropriate invitations. At least I eventually show up,” I say, picking at the scab of Abigail’s inviting
Dad to Mom’s funeral—and the even bigger wound of his not bothering to show up.

“He had a right to be there and who knows wh—” Abigail whispers, still defending him/herself.

“Can we not do this? I mean, can you just… for like two seconds,” Leo cuts in, motioning to Dad.

“Fine,” I say, feeling guilty. I remember that at one of Abigail’s slumber parties we started fighting about some insignificant
slight that violated proper party etiquette. Leo got so upset he went over, unplugged the living room floor lamp and shoved
the plug right in his mouth, quietly electrocuting himself as we fought. We spent the rest of the night in the emergency room
while Leo told wild stories about how his vision looked like a staticky television screen.

“Fine,” Abigail answers.

“Have you seen the twins yet?” Leo interrupts.

“Twins?” I ask, scanning the room for electrical sockets.

Abigail and Leo look at each other.

“Twins?” I repeat.

“We have twins. Manny and I,” Abigail admits.

“And no one thought to tell me this on the phone?” I ask, my voice raspy as I try to continue whispering. Even after finding
out that whole people exist that I knew nothing about.

“It just didn’t seem like something to tell over the phone,” Leo says.

“How old are they?” I ask.

“Four,” Abigail answers, trying not to smile at the mention of them.

“Four,” I repeat.

“What does Evie think about all this?” I ask.

“Inconvenienced half the time—well, really she’s inconvenienced by all of us, so…” Abigail smiles.

“And the other half of the time?”

“When she thinks we’re not looking, she’s… she’s adorable with them.” Abigail beams.

“And this was… planned?” I tiptoe. Abigail is quiet.

“She did IVF,” Leo jumps in.

“Leo!” Abigail says.

“IVF?” I ask.

“After Mom—” Leo starts.

“Can we talk about this later?” Abigail asks, her voice rising.

We are quiet.

“Is Huston here yet?” I finally ask as the silence settles in.

“He was here earlier. He said he had some business to take care of,” Abigail answers, relieved.

“The kids are out in the waiting room,” Leo continues.

“Evie is watching them while I—” Abigail motions at Dad. I zoom back into the surroundings. The beeping and whirring of the
machines come back up. Dad’s labored breathing fills the room once again. How easily I forgot why I’m here. Dad coughs into
his oxygen mask and I back away, instinctively looking to Abigail.

She comes forward and stands on the other side of his bed. Dad lifts his left arm to reveal that he’s wearing a restraint
around his left wrist.

“What’s that?” I sputter.