A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (9 page)

Evie remains on the couch, trying to act like she’s reading whatever book rests on her lap. But I can see she’s watching me.
Wary.

“What happened to your arms?” I continue, knowing kids appreciate a certain directness.

“Fell on the zipper,” Emilygrae answers, holding up her casts for my perusal. Are they Bedazzled?

“You fell on your zipper?” I repeat. That can’t be right.

“It’s a playground thing. Like a zip line?” Evie mumbles, as if I’m the dumbest person in the world.

“Oh… right. Thanks,” I respond, shooting her a wide grin. Evie looks back down at her book. Baby steps.

“Has Huston come in here yet?” Leo asks, gently pulling Emilygrae up so he can hold her. Her little legs wrap around Leo’s
middle. She rests her elbow on Leo’s shoulder and just stares at me. No shame in her game. But Mateo has grown weary of our
conversation and doesn’t answer Leo as he re-situates himself in front of the TV—following much sword-adjusting.

“That’s who called the house,” Evie says, looking up from her book. I look over to her on the couch.

“What?” I ask.

“He told Mom about what happened to…” Evie trails off. Not knowing what to call Dad.

“Huston called Abigail?” I ask Leo.

“Hyooooston cawed Abigaayo… Hyooooston cawed Abigaayo…” Emilygrae chants, not quite solid with her
l
s yet.

“Who’s Abigaayo?” Mateo asks, still enthralled with the television.

“That’s our mami, Matty,” Evie explains. Mateo looks at Evie with a look of pure awe.

“Abigaayo is Mami?” Mateo mulls to himself.

“Dad’s lawyer called Huston when Dad had the stroke. That’s where he’s been all morning. At the lawyer’s…” Leo explains, finally
putting Emilygrae back down. She stands right in front of me. Like alarmingly close. I can feel her breath on my knees.

“Why did the lawyer call Huston?” I ask, stealing a glance at the now looming toddler.

“Huston has Dad’s power of attorney,” Leo answers.

Find a point on the horizon. Find a point on the horizon.

After twenty-two years of nothing, Dad has the audacity to demand that Huston handle his estate?

“Hi, kiddos.”

I turn toward the door of the waiting room, my head still spinning.

“Tio Huston!”

H
uston’s hair is a darker blond, what would probably be the natural hair color for Abigail and me without the help of a colorist.
He still has that air of authority he’s always had. His powerful six-four frame looms large. I realize Huston looks as I remember
Dad looking. Like a Norse god capable of swashbuckling whole townships in a single plunder. Now Dad looks like a sliver of
that memory.

“Can I see you two out in the hall?” Huston commands. Leo disentangles himself from Emilygrae as I take in my older brother.
Leo and I walk out into the hall obediently.

“I’m so glad you came,” Huston says, pulling me in for a hug. It catches me off guard, so I’m uncomfortably tucked in sideways.
I don’t want the hug to stop, so I do my best to hug back. I breathe in. Leo latches on to Huston and me for a group hug and… is
he humming? Huston and I both stop hugging and stare at Leo.

“Are you… singing?” Huston asks, still holding on to me.

“Is that ‘We Are Family’?” I laugh, looking up at Leo.

“I’m happy. I’m happy and I’m singing,” Leo explains, his face reddening. We unravel ourselves out of the hug.

“So, you’re up to speed?” Huston says, getting down to business.

“Dad’s had a stroke, he looks like an old man, there are two little kids in there that didn’t exist five years ago, Dad’s
apparently married one of the Golden Girls, and we have a new stepbrother who I’m betting works at a used car lot somewhere
nearby. That about right?” I say, looking up at Huston.

“That about sums it up,” Huston says, smiling.

“Oh, and Dad gave you his power of attorney?” I announce, my face showing my disbelief.

“We’re trying to figure out the legal angle on this thing,” Huston says.

“The legal angle? What about the moral angle?” I blurt.

“The moral angle? Jesus, Grace—I haven’t seen you in years, can you lay off the cross-examination for five minutes?”

“I liked it when we were hugging. Let’s do that again,” Leo says, pulling us in for another group hug. Still unable to say
no to or otherwise discipline Leo, we oblige—awkwardly clustering for another hug.

“I’m not crazy,” I mumble, my face shoved against Huston’s chest.

“Shhh, we’re hugging,” Leo says.

“Moral angle,” Huston says.

“WE’RE HUGGING,” Leo says.

“Okay… okay,” Huston and I say. Huston tightens his arms around us. I feel Leo inhale deeply. Through my one squished open
eye I can see him smiling. Maybe I’m smiling a little, too. A
little
. Then…

I feel him before I see him. As if the air has stopped moving. The black suit, the black hair, the black eyes—bottomless.

John.

With my one squished eye I sneak a glance past Leo and see him standing there. He lazily watches us with his hands in his
pockets. His head tilted just so. His tie loosened around his neck. Watching. Saying nothing. As Leo hums “We Are Family,”
I run the last conversation through in my head. “We’re trying to figure out the legal angle on this thing.”
We’re
. The same crack legal team that freed Griffon Whitebox has apparently reunited to handle Dad’s power of attorney.

I feel Huston shift his body and look over at John. He gives us one last squeeze and lets go. The guilt of what I did makes
me want to grab Mateo’s little plastic sword and give myself a frontal lobotomy right here. Can’t it be something that someone
else did, just once?

“It’s time to deal with this,” Huston says, his voice a deep whisper. Of course… Huston played cleanup. He and John still worked
together after Mom died; they were friends before and stayed friends after. So when I walked/ran away from John, Huston probably
had some explaining to do.

As I stand in this hallway staring at the man I walked away from five years ago without any explanation, I grow irrationally
angry. I feel like a wounded animal that’s been backed into a corner. I have no right at all, but my instinct is to come out
swinging. What a shock.

It’s high noon at the O.K. Corral.

“Hey, it’s John,” Leo announces, his arm in a supermodel-like position, presenting John like he’s the star of the fall line.

“You remember John,” Huston says. I take a deep breath, hoping to calm myself. My traitorous body reacts to John the way it
always has. My legs feel like they’re about to give out. My heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest. My breath
quickens. I feel a pang of guilt for reacting this way to John. I’m with Tim now. Tim the Monkeyhander. Ugh.

John says nothing.

“So, you’re in Ojai?” I mumble.

“Obviously,” John answers. This is going
really
well.

Leo and Huston are as quiet as church mice.

“Okay, well—better get back,” I force out, nodding to Leo and Huston as I start to walk back down the hallway toward the ICU,
past John.

John says nothing.

I keep walking, desperately trying not to say or do something I’ll regret. Say or do something
else
I’ll regret. John’s hands are still in his pockets. His head is still tilted just so. His tie still loosened around his neck.
He appears completely unaffected. As I get closer to him, my eyes move up that brick wall of a body and meet his. His eyebrow
is arched—waiting. We lock eyes. Just as our shoulders touch, brushing past each other in this impossibly narrowing hallway,
he speaks. His voice a low burr. I feel it reverberate
everywhere
.

“Walking away? How revolutionary,” John drawls. I force myself to continue walking down the hallway. He hates me. The man
I thought could defy mortality hates me. And I deserve it.

We all walk back down the maze of hallways. As we wait to get through the double doors, I try to cope with John’s dismissal.
Instead, I’m dangerously close to actually remembering what it was like to be with him. To be loved by him. As I watch John
bend over the sign-in sheet, my mind rockets through the razed amusement park of broken-down Chutes and Ladders, trapdoors
and blown-apart compartments containing every memory I’ve tried to erase. I watch him tighten his tie and collect himself
as Huston signs in next. As I look at John, at that body I once knew so well, the memories will not be denied.

“What’s this one?” I ask, running my hands over John’s naked back.

“That was during my poker phase,” he says, of the ace of spades tattoo. One of several tattoos all over his body.

“I don’t think that’s what it means,” I whisper, centimeters from his ear.

“Maybe not,” he admits.

“And this one?” I ask, my fingers brushing the nape of his neck, his black, wavy hair at my fingertips.

“That’s kind of self-explanatory,” he says, turned away from me—flashing me the tattoo on the back of his neck that he got
in his early delinquent days when he was in and out of foster homes. Expunging a juvenile record can sure brighten a future.
That and a stint in the Marine Corps.

“
Never Trust a Soul
,” I read, his bare skin goose-pimpling under my touch.

“Quite the icebreaker at firm Christmas parties,” he says, turning onto his back. The candle on his nightstand flickers with
the movement.

“Do you still believe that?” I ask, lying on my side, tracing his every sinew with my fingers. I can see the dark angles of
his body in the shadows. He turns his head and the pillow crumples under him.

“Sometimes,” he admits, turning on his side.

“Me, too,” I sigh, facing him.

“And this… this is new. What happened? Did you hurt yourself?” I ask, running my hand over a bandage on John’s bare chest.
Right over his heart. The light from the candle on his bedside table flickers.

“No,” John answers, kissing my forehead.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I press, knowing that he’s quite capable of fighting whenever, wherever. I’m not
sure knowing someone’s checkered past helps or hurts at times like this.

John shifts his body to the side, facing me—the flickering candle now backlighting the silhouette of his body. His black hair
looks somehow shinier when there’s no light at all. He begins to take off the bandage.

“Is it gross? Don’t show me if it’s gross,” I cut in, covering my eyes.

“It’s not gross,” John says. I can hear the tiny ripping of the medical tape from his chest. I lower my hand and open my eyes.

“Oh, John… it’s…” I trail off. My fingers run along the bumpy lines of my own name tattooed over John’s heart.
GRACE
.

“Do you like it?” John asks, replacing the bandage over the new addition.

“Like it? I…” I lean in and kiss him. He pulls me closer. The permanence of the tattoo moves me.

“You…” John urges, turning over to blow out the candle. He turns back over as the dark envelops us.

“You…” he leads again.

“Love it,” I finish, taking his face in my hands.

“I’m glad,” John says, watching me. His mouth curling into a smile.

“And love you,” I add. John pulls me in for a kiss.

“Grace?” Leo repeats. My mind lingers around the softness of John’s lips.

“Are you going in?” the nurse asks again. Gone. John’s lips are gone and I’m being told to exit to my right. I purse my own
lips together as I hear the door buzzing. Leo is holding it open.

“Grace?” Leo asks again. I refocus. The ICU. Huston and John are already in a deep discussion with the head nurse. I can’t
help but look at John’s chest. I wonder if it’s still there. My own heart clenches.

“Oh yeah… sorry. I’m sorry,” I say, putting one foot in front of the other. Focus.

“You okay?” Leo whispers.

“Not sure,” I answer, giving him a beleaguered smile.

“Kind of a lot to handle,” Leo says.

“For all of us,” I say, softening.

“Yeah,” Leo says, looking into Dad’s hospital room at Connie, Dennis and Abigail. The outline of Dad’s body is unbearably
small.

Leo heads over to Dad’s hospital room. He nods to Dennis as he picks up his laptop and sits back down in the chair he saved.
He leans over to Abigail, whispering something. Abigail looks toward us as Leo shifts in his chair. I focus back on Huston
and John and away from the omniscient gaze of my older sister. I approach them at the nurse’s station.

“Do you have the original? We’ll just need a copy,” the head nurse is saying to Huston. I only catch the tail end of their
conversation. Her tone is eerily similar to a high school principal’s. John ignores me as I approach.

“Yes, ma’am. Right here.” John hands Huston the original and a copy of the durable power of attorney for health care from
a file folder labeled
HAWKES, RAYMOND/ESTATE PLAN
. Huston hands them to the head nurse. Inside the file folder is a stack of copies of the durable power of attorney for health
care and some other legal-looking documents. How many times do they think they’re going to have to present these documents
to people?

When did this happen?

Sometime in the last few years, Dad would have had to sit down with his attorney and tell him he wanted Huston to have his
power of attorney, over both his health care and his finances. Giving someone that kind of power means you trust that person
over everyone else. He must have known Mom would raise a man Dad could believe in.

“And are you Huston Raymond Hawkes? I’m going to need some ID.” The head nurse scours the documents, officiously flipping
them over and over again.

“Is ID really necessary?” I ask, stepping into the fray uninvited. Huston looks from me to the head nurse awaiting an answer.

“Hospital policy,” the head nurse explains.

“Do you find a high percentage of people lie about their identities in times like these?” John asks.

“Hospital policy,” the head nurse repeats.

“Here you go,” Huston says, pulling his driver’s license out from his wallet. Abigail appears at my side.