A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (32 page)

Sister Carmella leaves us alone with Dad. We’re all looking around wondering how we landed here. How we got here so quickly.
It’s been a little under a week and we thought… well, we thought we’d all make it out alive.

We didn’t know we were going to leave a man behind.

But Dad’s ready. He’s ready not to be in pain anymore. He’s ready to stop fighting. He’s ready to be with Mom. He is quiet,
seeming to sleep.

We all stand still. Holding our breath, trying to look anywhere but at each other. My hand is sweaty and clammy in John’s.

“I thought he was going to make it,” Huston whispers, his face blank and stunned. Abigail lets out the smallest of yelps as
she swallows down her sobs. I breathe in, looking at Huston. He looks sixteen again as he clutches at Dad’s hand. His eyes
clear, his face almost mesmerized.

“We all did,” I answer.

“You did?” Huston asks, looking up from Dad.

“Sure.” Abigail’s voice is just above a whisper.

“I thought we’d have at least twenty more years with him,” I add.

“Maybe… maybe this is just.…” Leo trails off.

We fall into silence.

“I don’t want him to be in pain anymore,” Leo concedes, almost to himself, stepping closer still. The equations are just not
adding up in his head.

“None of us do,” I say, looking up at Leo. I hold my hand out. Leo shuffles over to me and takes it. I get a flash of Mom’s
funeral. Huston remains quiet and awestruck. He’s clutching at Dad’s hand as if that will keep him connected to the known
world. We’re here again. We’re here again.

“Kids?” Sister Carmella floats back in to the room to sniffles, runny noses, red eyes and ragged breathing. She’s followed
by a young man in a pair of cargo shorts and a polo shirt with the hospice company’s insignia on it.

We all look up. The hospice man takes Dad’s chart and reads it carefully. I look at Dad. I just… I… I want to shout, “I LOVE
YOU! I LOVE YOU!”

But as I look around at his four children, I finally get what love is. It’s not a word you say or something you write in a
greeting card. It’s a climate-changing phenomenon. Love…
true
love… saturates. When you really feel love for someone, the last thing you need to do is say it. It’s not bound by life or
death. Dad can feel it. We can feel it. Mom felt it. We don’t have to say anything.

We’re all covered in it.

“Do you want to say the rosary?” Sister Carmella offers. The hospice man takes the morphine drip out of a large plastic bin
with HAWKES written on the side. Huston lets out a long sigh. I finally let the tears fall. And fall. Dad knows we love him.
I can only hope to have this outpouring when I take my last breath. I look around the room in that instant and know that I
now will.

“He’d like that,” Huston answers. Sister Carmella walks up to Dad’s bedside, squeezing next to Huston so she’s closest to
Dad’s face.

“Raymond, you get to go home now. Raymond? It’s okay. You get to fly up to Evelyn now,” Sister Carmella says, loud and clear.
She knows our time is limited with Dad and she has absolutely no qualms about being perfectly clear about what’s happening.
She needs him to know he’s dying.

“In the name of the Father…” Sister Carmella starts, making the sign of the cross. We all bow our heads, trying to mumble
along with her, sobbing and sniffling. The hospice man hooks the morphine drip onto the now empty metal stand next to Dad’s
bed.

“… The communion of saints.” Sister Carmella’s voice is calm. Dad’s eyes are locked on to Sister Carmella, then over to Huston.
The hospice man clips the morphine drip into Dad’s already existing IV.

“… The forgiveness of sins.” Huston gently holds Dad’s hand, his eyes clear and bright. He stands tall as Dad focuses in on
his eldest son’s easy smile. Not one tear falls down Huston’s unwavering face. Strong. Stalwart. Steadfast.

“… The resurrection of the body.” Dad is blinking, blinking, blinking. Huston holds on as Dad’s eyes close. Leo and Abigail
both look up. Abigail sinks into Manny. He cries silently as Abigail pulls at him, her movements angry and violent. Letting
go.

“And life everlasting.” I hold on to John. His face is blotchy, his lips tight and compressed. Leo lets out a long, throaty
sob as he squeezes my hand.

“Amen,” Sister Carmella finishes. I take a deep breath.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven; hallowed be Thy name.” Sister Carmella’s hands busily move around her rosary. Dad is quiet.
Peaceful.

The hospice man checks the morphine drip, pressing on the bag, watching the drip-drip-drip, and quietly leaves.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…”

I
t was really a beautiful service,” the older man says to Abigail as he extends his hand to her.

“Thank you. Please… make yourself at home. The food and beverages are in the kitchen,” Abigail answers, pointing to her kitchen
like a game show presenter. The man nods and moves into Abigail’s house.

“Who are these people?” I whisper.

“I think that was one of Dad’s friends, played bass or something,” Abigail says, smiling to a group of black-clad people coming
through the front door. She says
bass
with particular contempt.

“That was actually his old boss at the newspaper,” Huston says, briefly falling in beside me. He absently smiles to the older
be-scarved couple who just walked in. They smile at us with concern. The percentage of “hep cats” in attendance this evening
is alarmingly high. And by “hep cat,” I mean an aging gentleman who fancies himself Miles Davis by night and toils in corporate
America by day. We can spot these guys easily by their choice of accessories: either an ascot or a tweed fedora. Someone sporting
both is an obvious slam dunk.

“Very touching funeral. The sisters did a great job,” some random woman says to me as I stand next to the fireplace in Abigail’s
living room. I look up and see Laura and Slip Is Showing from the office standing red-eyed in front of me. What are they doing
here?

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Slip Is Showing says, lunging at me for a hug. Abigail watches the exchange. I pull back from
the woman as Abigail extends her hand. I panic, realizing I don’t know this woman’s name.

“Abigail Hawkes-Rodriguez,” Abigail says, taking Slip Is Showing’s hand. Laura looks on.

“Evelyn. Evelyn Connor,” Slip Is Showing says. Holy shit. Doesn’t take a team of psychologists—no wonder I could never remember
it.

“Laura Zabala,” Laura says, extending her hand to Abigail.

“Thank you so much for coming. There’s food and drink in the kitchen,” she says, as the women walk to the kitchen.

“Hm,” I say, warming to the two women as I watch them pour themselves a glass of wine.

“Friends of yours?” Abigail asks. We are more than a little exhausted and our demeanors reflect fatigue combined with a punchiness
that comes with having nothing to lose. We’ve been through parental loss boot camp—
twice
—and I don’t know how we’re going to start over, but I do know that we’re going to do it together.

“Yeah, I guess they are,” I answer.

“Nice rack,” Leo whispers, leaning over.

“Really?” I laugh, motioning at the legion of black-clad mourners that surround us.

“Life-affirming even,” Leo adds, smiling. It feels so good to smile. I hear Huston chuckle, now at the far end of the receiving
line. He’s been distant and zombielike since Dad passed away. We’ve all been concerned that he hasn’t really processed what’s
happened. Not that we’re ones to talk. I find myself laughing one minute and sobbing the next. Usually in public. Which, I’ve
found, can be a bit off-putting to bystanders.

Huston circles back to us. “I talked to the attorney today,” he starts. We all smile at a passing woman who looks very concerned
for our well-being. We don’t know her. We’ve never known her. We smile back and nod, letting her know we’re fine.
Fine
.

“And?” Abigail presses.

“He’s started the probate, filed the necessary papers.”

“Any word from Connie?” Leo asks.

“Nothing,” Huston answers in a voice as devoid of feeling as his face.

“Does she think she’s going to be able to just stay in that condo forever with Dad’s money?” Abigail asks, pointing out the
bathroom to an ascoted gentleman with long, stringy hair drawn back into a ponytail.

“I’m thinking that it really wouldn’t be that bad of a situation. I talked to the attorney today about maybe setting up a
trust for her,” Huston admits.

“What, why?” Leo demands, the tinkling of the ambient music in the background taking some of the edge off his harsh response.

“She’s his wife, whether we like it or not,” I add, not caring where she lives. Dad’s gone. She can’t hurt us anymore.

“So, she’s rewarded for lying,” Abigail says, taking a long drink of her wine.

“It’s over,” Huston finishes, his voice distant.

“It was a lovely ceremony,” a young woman says, shaking each of our hands.

“Thank you,” we each say, as she grasps our hand.

“It’s just not fair,” Leo fusses.

“There’s food and drink in the kitchen,” Abigail says, pointing the woman to where the sweets are.

“Lovely ceremony,” an older couple says, lovingly shaking each one of our hands.

“Thank you,” we all say, as they grasp our hands.

“There’s food and drink in the kitchen,” Abigail repeats, pointing the couple to the kitchen.

“Then Dad should have divorced her,” I say.

“Which he didn’t,” Huston adds.

“So we’re stuck with her?” Leo asks.

“She’ll be in Ojai. We’ll be down here. I don’t think that’s really being ‘stuck’ with someone,” Huston says soothingly.

“Beautiful ceremony.” I look up. John.

“Oh, thank you,” Abigail answers as he pulls her in for a hug.

“That was a beautiful eulogy; your dad would have been proud,” John says to Huston, pulling him in for a hug. Huston claps
him on the back and breaks from him quickly.

“Thanks, man,” Huston says, his eyes averted.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” another woman says to Huston, as John moves in front of me.

“You doing okay?” John asks, pulling me in for a hug. I tuck in and smell the starch from his shirt, breathing it in.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, straightening his lapel. John smiles and falls in just next to me.

A young man approaches Huston. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Huston says, extending his hand.

“Huston Hawkes?” the young man presses, bringing his hand around.

“Yes,” Huston answers.

“You’ve been served,” the young man says, putting a blue-backed legal document, instead of a sympathetic handshake, into Huston’s
hand.

“What? What did you just say?” Huston fumes, grabbing the guy’s hand and pulling him back. His entire body resembles a volcano.
Time stops as we are all helpless against his imminent eruption.

“You’ve been served,” the young man repeats, his voice dripping with unfounded righteousness.

“The fuck I have,” Huston yells, swinging his fist around and connecting with the young man’s face. The young man is thrown
back against the floor. The crowd scatters—gasps of surprise and screams of horror fill Abigail’s living room.

“Whoaaa, okay… okay.” I jump in between the two men as John holds Huston back. The young man wheels up, lunges at Huston and
connects with the right side of my face. A flash of pain shoots through my body and I hear my voice cry out, but far away.
Somewhere out there. I hit the living room floor and immediately bring my hands to my face. Wet. Something is wet.

“Get the kids out! Get the kids out!” Abigail shouts at Manny. He gathers the little ones quickly. The crowd herds into the
kitchen.

“Take him. TAKE. HIM,” John yells, handing Huston over to Leo and quickly “escorting” the young man outside.

“Serve me at my father’s wake?! You’re going to SERVE ME AT MY FATHER’S WAKE?!” Huston screams, crawling over Leo—his voice
now cracking and wrenching.

As Abigail hunches down over me with a wet rag from the kitchen, I hear what sounds like someone hitting a side of beef. Over
and over again. Grunts and moans from just outside. And then a slammed door.

“You okay?” John says, coming into focus.

“Something’s wet. Someone spilled their drink,” I say, looking at Abigail. Fix it. Fix it, Abigail.

“You’re bleeding, sweetie,” Abigail soothes, taking a bag of ice from Manny and putting it on my eye. I recoil.

“Yowwww,” I mewl, grabbing John’s hand. Pulling at him. Tugging at him.

“Okay… you’re going to be okay,” John soothes.

“Where’s Huston?” I ask, looking around the room. Abigail presses the ice bag against my face and scans the room as well.
No Huston. She motions to Manny to get things back on track. Leo is crouching on the floor, picking up the scattered papers.
No Huston.

“Wine, anyone? Anyone want wine?” Manny offers, grabbing a bottle of red wine off the table. Everyone jumps at the offering.
Leo passes the papers to John. He takes them and helps me off the floor as we all follow Abigail into another, more private
part of the house.

“Was I just punched in the face at my father’s wake?” I mumble, pulling the bag of ice off my eye. John is seething. All he
can muster in response is a low growl. We file into the twins’ bedroom just off the living room. I re-situate the bag of ice
as Abigail closes the door behind us.

Huston is slumped against the wall, his face hidden in his now bloodied hands. His sobs are wrenching and bottomless. Abigail
immediately goes to him.

“Oh, Huston…” she starts, sitting down next to him. He crumbles into her, sobbing.

“I really thought he was going to get better,” Huston says, over and over again.

“We all did,” Abigail says calmingly, smoothing his hair, cradling him. Huston looks up, his face wild.

“They’re both gone,” Huston cries. Leo claps his hand over his mouth. He’s paralyzed. “We’re on the front line, Abby. If she
wants to come at us, we’ve got no one. We’re it. Dad’s gone,” Huston wails. I set the ice bag down on the alphabet rug on
the twins’ bedroom floor and kneel in front of Huston. Abigail watches.