A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (4 page)

“Do you want to meet for dinner?” Tim offers, getting on the 405 freeway.

“We’ll talk about it later,” I answer.

Tim finally pulls onto my street. A street so tree-lined and idyllic it all but bullied me into buying seasonal wreaths and
happy-go-lucky welcome mats. After scrimping and saving, I took the plunge and bought my first home last year while the market
was down. It was a stretch, but the house had been in foreclosure and was a great deal. I bought the worst house in the best
neighborhood… and then spent a small fortune renovating it. I never thought I’d buy a home of my own. We always rented growing
up and never called one place home long enough for me to see the importance of it. But as I climb out of Tim’s car, with the
morning’s events weighing heavily on my mind, having a home to come home to makes me want to wrap my arms around its little
two-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath heart.

I walk around my now ornament-stripped, browning Christmas tree that’s awaiting trash pickup at the curb and unlock the outer
gate. I still firmly believe it’s bad luck for a Christmas tree to see the new year. I have just two days to get this dark
harbinger of doom off my curb or else I’m taking it to the dump myself; I certainly don’t need any more bad luck. I push the
gate open to the inner courtyard as I wave goodbye to Tim, smiling maniacally as proof that I’m fine. I must look like a demented
pageant queen.

As I close the gate behind me, I immediately calm down. I’m relieved that it’s stopped raining long enough to allow me to
get inside—the dark clouds above signal there’s another storm coming. The fountain gurgles as I walk past it, my fingers grazing
the thriving lavender. I bend down to pull a burgeoning weed from between the wet pavers—the beginnings of heat from the hesitant
sun feel good on the back of my neck. My street is always so quiet. Too quiet.

I unlock the large glass kitchen door and turn off the alarm. The several large windows that frame the front of the house
are still dappled with raindrops. I set my purse down on the kitchen counter and take in the blooming courtyard.

Forgoing the name change and move to Taos, I decide on a hot shower instead. I promise myself I’ll think about everything
later—just let me take a hot shower and get out of these wet clothes. I put the kettle on and tell myself that a cup of Tension
Tamer tea will be the ideal remedy for all my problems. It’s on the box. It’d be false advertising if my tension wasn’t tamed
right after the first sip, right? I look down at the phone.

Another message. Huston.

“Dad’s in the ICU at St. Joseph’s in Ojai. I’m on my way up now. I should be up there in about two hours, depending on how
the 101 looks through Ventura.” Huston takes a long pause. I’ve been within minutes of my brothers and sister for five years
and yet still so far away. I press my ear closer to the phone. He breathes deeply and continues, “It’s time to be a family
again.” My whole body deflates and I set the phone down on the kitchen counter. A wave of nausea overtakes me. I jolt up and
barely make it to the kitchen sink in time. Retching into the colander I keep in the sink to wash fresh blueberries for my
morning protein shakes. Oh, God. Now, that’s disgusting. I turn on the water, rinse the colander and the sink clean, then
pool the water in my hand and bring it to my mouth. Slurping up the cold water.

Be a family again. The last time we were a family is the worst memory of all.

“And delivering the eulogy in today’s services is Evelyn’s eldest son, Huston Hawkes,” the rector says, stepping down from
the pulpit and making room for my brother.

Huston climbs the steps determinedly, pulling a tiny piece of paper out of his inside coat pocket. I wrap my arm around Leo
as he continues to sob, and look down the pew at Abigail. Her mood has been swinging wildly between rage and despondency while
she tries to figure out whose fault this is and whom she needs to speak with to make this whole thing go away. She wipes her
tears away with angry fists. Her husband, Manny, gently tries to soothe her. I can see her entire body stiffen. I sit back
in the pew, look up at Huston and wait. Wait for him to start speaking. Wait for any of this to sink in. Wait until I stop
thinking that this can’t be happening. That it must be happening to someone else’s family.

“Thank you so much for coming. Mom would really love… have
loved
—” Huston takes a deep breath and steadies himself. I look up at the sweeping, coffered ceiling of All Saints Church. This
is all a dream.

Huston continues, “Mom would have really loved to have seen you all.” He stops again, taking a step back and looking up, resting
his hands at his hips. He breathes. His lips are tightly compressed as he scans the church’s architecture. He breathes again.
I pull Leo closer.

“I can’t take… much more of this,” Leo whispers through sobs.

“I know, sweetie… I know,” I whisper back, smoothing my hand over his back.

Steeling himself, Huston continues, “The last words Mom said to me were in a voice mail message she left detailing the reasons
why I shouldn’t use real wood for the deck I was building.” The large crowd sniffles a laugh, nodding in agreement. Huston
doesn’t look up from the paper.

“It seems so trivial, but it’s in those seemingly insignificant details where I felt her love the most. Where I’ll miss her
the most.” Huston stops, his voice is barely over a whisper. He exhales, situating the microphone, smoothing the little paper
again. This can’t be happening. Abigail lets out the tiniest sigh. Manny pulls her close. She lets him.

“She was interested in everything about me—from why I haven’t settled down with a ‘nice girl’ to whether or not I’m going
to plant lavender in my backyard.” The crowd sniffles out another giggle. My face remains vacant. Leo softens in my arms.

“The day-to-day,” Huston says. He makes eye contact with me for the first time. I allow the smallest of comforting smiles
and immediately feel hypocritical and morbid. Huston gives me a quick nod. I fidget with the hem of my skirt and clear my
throat. I feel a comforting hand curl around mine—calming me.

John
.

The teakettle whistles, steam billowing from its curling red spout. I turn off the burner and try to catch my breath.

The rain has really started coming down again. The large windows around my house are sheeted with rain. I can smell the freshness
it brings. Smells like outside. I breathe it in.

Back then, in those critical moments, it seemed easier to walk away from everyone all at once. Even John, the man I had been
seeing for almost a year. The man I struggled to get my clothes off with in the heat of the moment. The man with whom I thought
I would spend the rest of my life. A man who, unlike Tim, pressed everything, pushed every button (both good and bad) and
challenged every aspect of my life… whether I liked it or not. I held that tightly to Mom once. I thought she would live forever.
And I was wrong. I couldn’t take losing anyone else and so… here I am in a relationship where my “boyfriend” didn’t even know
I had a family, let alone ever met them.

I look past the rain-drenched windows, drop a Tension Tamer tea bag into the awaiting mug, and add the hot water. As the minty
lusciousness wafts upward, I can still see John so clearly. That brawler’s body always clashed with the suit and tie he had
to wear at the law firm. I love… God,
loved
how his thick, wavy black hair played against those black-as-pitch eyes and that olive skin.

In the beginning, I was attracted to him more for his general wariness and global distrust in humanity than anything else.
It was comforting…
familiar
somehow. Whenever I visited Huston at his law firm (the visits tripled after I met John), I became more intrigued by John’s
chronic look of skepticism than his obvious physical attributes, although who am I kidding… they certainly helped. Everything
about him was dark—bottomless.
Everything
. Glasses were always half-empty to him. No one could be trusted. We were constantly running off the rails, burning too hot—testing
every wall I’d built.

I could barely handle him when Mom was alive. Once she—well, once she was gone—no chance.

The eulogy.

Huston continues, “When I think about Mom, I don’t think about the big stuff—graduations, weddings, births. I think about—”
He stops and smoothes the paper once more.

He continues, “I think about the phone calls about lavender that
not even I could kill
, the reminders about building a more eco-friendly deck, the certain knowledge that she knew me best of all and—” Huston’s
voice involuntarily clutches to a stop. He quickly regains control.

“The knowledge that she loved me more than anything,” Huston reads. His eyes are elsewhere as not one tear rolls down his
face.

“I’m going to really miss her,” he finishes, and folds the little slip of paper back up. Huston’s words are far away as I
officially decide that this is happening to someone else. Someone else’s mom’s ashes are in that tiny silver box on the altar.
Leo lets out a mournful sob. I pull him closer. John tightens his hand around mine. For being as physically close as I am
to the people around me, I couldn’t feel more alone. The isolation is palpable.

Huston walks woodenly down the narrow staircase. The rector takes Huston into his arms and surrounds him. I hear him whisper
something about Mom that only those in the first row can hear. Mom’s in a better place, according to the rector.

“Thank you,” Huston says, trying to get away from the rector and his theories about Mom and that this “better place” isn’t
here with us.

The rector climbs the stairs as Huston finds his seat next to Abigail. Huston’s body is tense and his eyes look distant. As
he settles back in, I see him drop his head to his chest for just a moment. The second Abigail reaches out to comfort him,
he lifts his head. He’s telling her he’s fine. We’re all
fine
.

“And now—as we say our goodbyes, Evelyn’s youngest daughter, Grace, will play one of Evelyn’s favorite songs. Grace?” The
rector looks down at me as I robotically let go of John’s hand, disentangle myself from Leo and approach the piano. I slide
onto the bench—it scrapes on the marble floor, echoing throughout the church. I take a deep breath and lay my fingers on the
cold keys. So quiet.

My fingers steady as I begin playing the first chords to Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released.” The elsewhere. The quiet. I close
my eyes as the song fills the church. I don’t hear the rector leading the people out. I don’t hear the shuffling feet. It
feels like just another day where I’m playing piano for Mom. She’s here with me. I hear the song and feel nothing.

Any day now I shall be released.

When I finish, I look up from the keyboard. There’s a silence around me that’s one part terrifying, one part comforting. The
large wooden door that leads out onto the lawn where the rector is standing with a kind word and a shoulder to cry on shines
brightly. I squeak the piano bench back and survey the empty church. I start walking toward the front door.

Stop.

Mom’s picture, the one we finally decided on after much arguing, sobbing and inappropriate laughing, sits on the church’s
elaborate wooden railing. The silver box holding her ashes sits right behind it, almost hiding. Tucked away. I put my hand
on the box… so cold. This can’t be happening. The Elsewhere is still here, encasing me in a bubble that’s magically keeping
the pain just out of reach. I look up. There’s a little side door hidden just behind the altar. I bet there’s no kindly rector
waiting for me behind Door Number Two. No kind words. No shoulder to cry on. No pain? No reminders of what I’ve lost? No reminders
at all. I can walk away now and feel… nothing. Keep this little fragile bubble intact.

I look back at the picture of Mom. She’s smiling. She’s alive. She’s looking at me behind the camera with this stare that
says “Fine…
for you. For you
, I’ll smile.” I take my hand off the shiny silver box and grab her picture.

And then, the picture, my bubble and I head out the side door.

I can still hear the distant chords of “I Shall Be Released” as I walk through my newly renovated house. I pass the picture
of Mom I stole the day of her funeral. It sits proudly in the hallway niche I had specially designed for it. I peel off my
wet running clothes and flip my shoes off. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I unsnap my sports bra and throw
it in the dirty clothes hamper, the same with my panties.

Any day now I shall be released.

I put my hand under the hot water, trying to get it just right. I step in and let it spill all around me. It pours over my
head and slides down my face.

That mystifying “exact science” of compartmentalizing all the pain, sectioning off whole eras of my life, rumbles back like
stampeding cattle. I’m powerless over it. As I feared I would be. I’d hoped I could postpone this day indefinitely. Live in
this nothingness forever. So I’d be more ready when the magician waved his wand and the two halves of me were rolled back
together with an elegant “Ta-da!!!”

I
walk out to the living room and sit on the bench of my rented piano, my damp body feeling a combination of slippery and sticky—in
all the wrong places. I tighten the towel under my arms and settle my fingers on the keys.

Any day now I shall be released…

My voice is whispery quiet.

Trapdoors and bubbles. Chutes and Ladders. All a minefield.

Any day now
…

The funny thing is I’d managed to convince myself that the calm I’d felt since then was some sort of evolution. Instead I’d
just grown comfortably numb.

I shall be released…

I play the song over and over and over and over again. My fingers pound the keys. My towel hangs on for dear life. The house
vibrates around me.

I close my eyes and a slideshow of memories and snapshots speeds past my consciousness like brake lights on a rainy night.
The good with the bad. My playing speeds. The rain pummels the windows. I’ve worked so hard to keep these memories and feelings
at bay. Amazingly, I’ve only had one slipup in the last five years. And that one wasn’t even my fault.