A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (22 page)

“I know it’s not real. I know he says yes to everything. I just…” I admit.

“I’ll come with you. Maybe see if we can gather up some more documents,” John offers.

“You’ll drive?” I ask, continuing out of the ICU.

“I’m sure as hell not driving in that buckboard you call a car,” John says.

“Thank you… thank you—not about calling my car shitty, but you know—” I say, opening the door to the ICU and heading out into
the maze of the hospital. John keeps up with me while we make the various lefts and rights that have burned themselves into
my brain.

The elevator dings open and Huston looks up from inside.

“I think Frank from Legal finally set Nurse Miller straight,” he says, stepping out into the hall.

“I’ll draft a letter on the firm’s letterhead confirming the conversation,” John says, his arm blocking the door from closing.

“Thanks. Where are you guys off to?” Huston asks, as the elevator door bangs against John’s arm.

“Leo brought the Madonna from Dad’s house and Dad said there were two,” I explain, pressing the one button.

“Dad said there were two?” Huston asks, stepping back into the elevator.

“He held up his fingers. Two fingers,” I explain, holding my fingers up as proof.

“I thought I might be able to find some more documents,” John adds.

“I can’t believe he did the two-finger thing,” Huston says, almost to himself. He rides down in the elevator with us.

“I asked him if he wanted me to get the crucifix, you know—they’re always together. Two…” I explain, as the floors ding by.
Huston nods. “And he said yes… that that’s what he wanted.” The door dings open on the ground floor.

“But, Grace, you know—” Huston starts.

“I know it’s not real. I know he says yes to everything. I just… thought it could help,” I say, finally finishing the original
sentence.

“It’s a good idea, Gracie,” Huston says, his voice softening.

“Thanks,” I say, starting out through the lobby, the tears clogging my throat. The bizarre zigzaggian reality of my grief
is still a mystery to me. One minute I’m fine and the next I feel like screaming. One minute I’m okay and the next I feel
the pain is never going to end. The last time I had these feelings I shut them down. I can’t let myself do that this time… however
tempting it is.

“I have a meeting with Dad’s lawyer in twenty minutes. I’m going to make sure he’s up to speed on what’s been going on. Hopefully
you guys can find some more documents,” Huston says, walking us on out into the parking lot. I’m on a mission.

“We’ll do our best,” I say, keeping pace to John’s car. Huston falls back as John and I continue.

“I’ll have my cell phone on,” Huston yells.

“Okay!” I say, over my shoulder.

“John?” Huston calls. John turns around and walks over to Huston, while I continue. I don’t know what they say to each other,
probably some “Take care of the overly emotional girl” kind of shit. Emotional, my ass—I just don’t want to dilly-dally in
the parking lot any longer than I have to. If that makes me “emotional,” well, so be it.

“You coming?” I yell to John over my shoulder. He quickens his gait and falls in next to me.

“Do you even know what I drive?” John asks.

“Uh… you were driving that—” I shift around in the parking lot.

“It’s this one,” John says, beeping a shiny black Cadillac Escalade unlocked.

“It’s not ostentatious or anything,” I say, climbing into the immaculate front seat.

“Hey, I’m a poor foster kid from the projects… allow me my little luxuries,” John says, starting up the engine. He revs it
for effect. We both laugh, then stop, self-conscious.

We are silent as we wind through the streets of Ojai—a city whose natural beauty is completely lost on us. I look over at
John with his left arm curling over the steering wheel, his body leaning as he drives. I think about his hand curling over
mine.

“Thanks for doing this,” I say, crossing my right leg over my left. Closer. I want to be closer to him.

“No problem,” he says, glancing quickly over at me.

We are quiet again.

“Here it is,” I say, pointing to the Blue House.

“Okay… just wait… let me stop the car first, Gracie,” John says, putting his arm across me—holding me back from leaping out
of the moving SUV. Now I get why Abigail does it.

We walk up the pathway. I’m still nervous about going in, thinking that Connie and Dennis are hiding in the bushes somewhere
ready to jump out and accuse us of breaking and entering. At least the kids aren’t with us this time.

I try the keys in the door one by one. John peers in the side panel windows and walks the full length of the porch, taking
in each side of the house. Then I realize, like an idiot, it’s probably the newest key on the chain.

Click.

I push the door open as John walks back over and follows me inside. I quickly close the door behind us and John checks to
make sure it is locked—just in case Connie and Dennis stop by.

“The office is up the stairs,” I say, walking through the foyer and on up the stairs. John stops in the foyer and takes in
the living room. The room I can’t even look at. He stands there, almost stepping in, but not. I see him scanning the entire
room: the picture-shrine mantel, the coffee table filled with bifocals, magazines and rubber-banded business cards. The sad
little couch bed with the pair of old shoes at the foot.

“The office is up here,” I say again.

“There are no pictures of Connie,” John says, still looking into the living room.

“That’s what we were saying,” I say, peering in from the foot of the stairs.

“It’s just so wrong,” John says, shaking his head.

“I know… The office is up here,” I repeat again.

“Yeah… yeah, right behind you,” John answers, finally turning away from the living room, looking sad.

I stop at the landing and take down the crucifix. It’s surprisingly heavy. A lot heavier than I thought. And older. This has
definitely been in the family for a long time. John passes me and heads up to the office. I hold on to the crucifix and go
up the stairs behind him.

“In here?” John asks, motioning down the hallway.

“Yeah,” I answer, walking to the office. Two. Dad told me two. That’s not a yes. But it’s not nonsense. It’s a clear sign
that there’s someone in there. He knows he can’t speak and he’s devised another way to get across that he wants both pieces
of iconography. There’s someone in there. This doesn’t have to end… we might be able to save him.

“Your dad has a pretty impressive portfolio,” John says, kneeling on the floor. He’s digging deep into a file cabinet that’s
inside the closet.

“We need to hurry up,” I say, standing at the door.

“Brokerage accounts… Oh, holy shit, he’s got a Fidelity mutual fund, you couldn’t even get into one of those for a few years,”
John says, flipping through file after file.

“Are you serious?” I say, taking the piece of paper.

“Did you know your dad came from money?” John asks, looking up from the page after page of assets.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, grabbing a canvas tote bag from the closet and kneeling down. I set the crucifix down and stack huge
piles of papers in the bag.

“But you said you guys were on welfare growing up,” John says, looking up.

“We were,” I say.

“Ah,” John answers.

“Yeah,” I cluck, fighting off emotions I still don’t know what to do with.

“Here,” John says, holding the tote bag a little wider.

“Thanks,” I say, looking up from the closet floor. He kneels down next to me.

“You okay?” he asks, the bag getting fuller.

“No,” I say, tears starting to well up. I can’t stop them this time. I’ve been numb for so long that this pain is bubbling
up through every new crack in my foundation. The walls are down, and like an angry mob with torches and pitchforks, my emotions
are getting ready to storm the castle whether I like it or not.

“Okay… okay… just…” John takes the bag and leans it up against the closet door. I sit back on my haunches, my head in my hands.

“I’ll… just give me… shit… I’ll get it together,” I plead, wiping away the rebellious tears.

“No one is asking you to get it together,” John soothes, moving closer.

“We don’t have time for this, we have a job to do.”

“Okay, let’s make a deal,” John says, brushing the hair out of my face—strands getting caught on my now wet cheeks. He spends
time swiping them back behind my ear.

“What?” I ask, snot bubbling out of my nose. John wipes my nose with the sleeve of his coat.

“I think you’re right in a really shitty way. There isn’t time for this and it sucks. This whole thing… all of this with your
dad has been hijacked—and it’s not your fault,” John says gently, keeping his hands on the sides of my face.

“What can I do?” I ask, sniffling.

“Okay, here’s what we do. We get the crucifix back to your dad, the documents back to Huston, and get ready for whatever happens
at the hospital.” John stops, lifts my face up and looks me right in the eye.

“Okay… okay, I can do that,” I say, gathering myself. Breathing. Breathing.

“Okay,” John says, wiping the last of my tears away. So soft.

“I can do this,” I say again, focusing in.

“I know,” John says, pulling me closer.

“I know you know,” I say. Ugh. I KNOW YOU KNOW?!

“I know you know I know,” John laughs, just inches from me now. The quiet of Dad’s office is all but gone.

“I know you know I kn—” I can’t help but attempt a joke. John stops me with the gentlest kiss. Light. Warmth. Comfort.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back.

“Didn’t you say that you would have said ‘I love you—’ ” I point out.

“I love you,” John says, without hesitation. I brush his lips with the tips of my fingers. I can’t help myself. He watches
me intently.

“I know,” I answer.

“So you’re Han Solo now?” John laughs. Right. I unwittingly called up Han Solo’s nonchalant response to Princess Leia’s declaration
of undying love in
The Empire Strikes Back
.

“No…
right
?” I babble. John helps me up off the floor of Dad’s office.

“No, right?” John repeats.

“I always thought that was an asshole line, too. But now I think I get it.”

“Are we honestly talking about
Star Wars
right now?” John asks, his head tilted.

“No, well, yes—but no.”

“You sound like Leo.”

“I always knew I loved you, but I never really believed you loved me. That I…” I trail off. Where I’m going with this sounds
pathetic.

“That you?” John presses.

“That I deserved to be loved back,” I finish, my stomach turning. My brutal honesty is working as a sort of organic ipecac,
ensuring that I will most certainly vomit again if I insist on voicing my innermost thoughts further.

“Yeah, I can understand that,” John agrees. I breathe deep.

“I guess I wasn’t the only one who was abandoned,” I say, pulling him close.

“Nope,” John answers, his eyes darting around Dad’s office.

“I’ll never walk away from you again,” I promise, steadying his body.

John takes a deep breath, his eyes averted and searching. He lets out a wry laugh, but finally allows his gaze to rest on
me again. His head tilts as his eyes lock on to mine.

I let my hand fall onto his chest, his crisp oxford-cloth shirt just underneath. I unbutton the top button of his shirt. Then
the next. Then the next. John’s breath quickens. I open the top of his shirt, my hands moving eagerly over his now bare chest.
His gaping shirt barely hangs on to his broad shoulders.

Then my eyes fall on my own name. Engraved across his heart. He notices and starts to raise his arms to protect himself. I
gently ease his arms back down to his sides and look up at him. He looks anywhere but at me, panicked and vulnerable. I run
my fingers over my name as his skin goose-pimples underneath. He flinches. My deliberate, almost intrusive exploration of
him goes against every fiber of his being. I can feel his heart beating. Quick, strong thumps under my hand. Under my name.
John reaches his hand up and takes mine in his.

“You go any further and I’m not going to be able to stop,” John says, a roguish curl to his mouth. I look up at him.

“Right,” I agree, my hands now hovering just above his naked skin.

“This isn’t quite where I envisioned our big reunion,” John says. Dad’s haunted office comes zooming back and immediately
my face flushes. I feel monumentally embarrassed.

He leans back, buttoning up his shirt, and continues, “Let’s just call this intermission.”

“Intermission,” I repeat, tightening my hands in fists, hoping it’ll somehow trap the heat from John’s body.

“Get the crucifix. I’ll get the bag,” John says.

I
’m running down the hallway of the hospital with a giant crucifix in my hand. I must look like some kind of crazy, jogging
exorcist.

“Grace—slow down,” John says, his heavy footsteps just behind me as we make the final turn before the ICU nurse’s station.
He’s acting like he can’t move faster than me, but I can see he’s hardly trying. And without the giant crucifix in his hand,
he doesn’t pack quite the same visual punch as I do.

“Almost there,” I say, my back to him.

“We’re making quite an entrance,” John says as I set the giant crucifix on the counter of the final nurse’s station.

I sign my name. The nurse passes me my name tag. I pat the
HAWKES
sticker onto the same hoodie I’m apparently going to die
in and watch as John leans over and signs in after me. The bend of his back. The black hair cut sharply at the nape of his
neck. The hint of the tattoo that looms just underneath his starched collar. Mine for the unearthing. I force myself to shake
it off.
Intermission
. I pick up the crucifix and wait by the door. John pats his MOSS name tag onto the lapel of the custom-tailored suit jacket
he put back on after almost being mauled by me in Dad’s office and apparently again right here at the nurse’s station.