A Life More Complete (37 page)

“No. I was just returning your call. I
talked to Melinda. She told me about Trini.” I take a moment to gather my
thoughts because I’m just not sure how to broach the subject of him and Trini
together. “Melinda said that you were with Trini the night she was arrested.” Probably
not the best way to interject that into the conversation, but oh well. He doesn’t
say anything for what feels like forever.

“Melinda needs to mind her own
fucking business. I’m not sure what she is trying to insinuate, but I’m Trini’s
lawyer. She found herself in a very precarious situation and I arrived to serve
as her legal counsel. Nothing more,” Tyler says, but his words are forced and
sharp.

“That’s what I told her. I’m sure it
was nothing.”

“It was nothing. I don’t have
personal relationships with my clients. Now seriously, I have to go.”

“Okay, sorry. Before you go,” I can’t
help but ask even though I know the response is going to bring upon an argument,
“Why’d you go get Trini? You told me you were too busy to be here with me, but
you could find the time to pick her up?”

“I’m not even going to respond to
that, Krissy. You’re being so fucking irrational right now. Good-bye.” Tyler
hangs up before a single word leaves my mouth. I should have known better than
to ask yet I push it just a little too far each time.

I go to bed, once again, vowing not
to speak to him until I arrive home. That’s like asking an alcoholic to refrain
from drinking while sitting at a bar. I pretty much suck at it.

When you wake the morning of a life-altering
event you hardly know it. Most of the time it’s sprung on you and it’s later
that you look back on it and think of the event that impacted you in ways you
hope to be able to describe one day. Those are the types of situations that can
go one of two ways. Number one: In retelling, the story takes on an ethereal
quality. The people are funnier or sadder or happier. It is the romanticized
version of what really happened. It will be the version that is told to
friends, family, and eventually your grandchildren with animation and extreme
highs and lows, but it will be the one that has the outcome of wonder and
beauty. Then there’s way number two: Everyone has one of these stories. This is
the one where everyone is sadder, the problems bigger; the big scene at the end
is literally a scene, better yet a debacle. It isn’t the story you tell to your
friends or family and definitely not your grandchildren. It is the story that
everyone tells about you, while you cower in the corner.

I pull into the parking lot an hour
before the service. The church is nearly silent, an eerie stillness that is
disrupted by the sound of the large wooden door closing behind me. The church
was built in 1907 and has been beautifully restored. The woodwork a rich, deep
brown with all its intricate detail and carvings present make the peaked
ceilings appear taller. I’ve never been a religious person, but this church
takes my breath away. A small elderly woman in a pillbox hat and a pale purple
suit greets me warmly and ushers me into a small waiting area. Her voice is
high when she speaks, almost mouse-like.

“Your father will be arriving
shortly.” The way this woman says it makes it sound like he’ll be walking
through the door. I guess it would sound a bit macabre for her to say that his
dead body will be arriving in a wooden box toted by a group of men. She
continues even though my thoughts are clearly not following. “You will have
some time to say your last good-byes before the casket will be closed and
sealed. Will there be other family with you?” she asks.

“My sisters and their husbands should
be here soon. I’m not sure about my mother,” I say hearing my voice grow soft.

“I will let them know you are already
here when they arrive.” Her voice is kind and she shuffles out of the room, the
small hat on her head never shifting with her movement.

Left alone I scan the room for
something to do. I suddenly feel the need to occupy my time with something
other than taking in the extensive amount of religious statues staring at me. I’m
starting to feel like I’m being judged by them and somehow they know I got
knocked up before I was married. I whisper out loud, “At least I did the right
thing. I’m married now.” After taking one more look at the leaded stained glass
window depicting a pregnant Mary, I pull my phone from my purse. I scroll
through a few emails and answer some easy questions before reading the
statement Melinda issued regarding Trini’s absence from the movie set. The
wording is dead on and it sounds as if I wrote it myself. It’s hard to stay mad
at her when her work is this impeccable not to mention that she is helping me
out. Just as I finish reading the last sentence Rachel and Maizey walk in. Purple
suit follows closely behind and begins to prep my sisters as she did me.

“Your father has arrived and will
join you shortly.”

Rachel looks back and forth between
Maizey and me and says exactly what we’re all thinking. “Um, you mean his body?”
Addressing Minnie Mouse in a purple suit with a little too much callousness in
her voice. Rachel has always been harsh. It’s her way. She can come across as
cold and unfeeling, but I know it is her way of dealing with things she can’t
outwardly express. None of us deal with death well. We don’t like death, but in
all honesty who does? We don’t do expressive, doleful condolences like some
people can.

Purple Suit shakes her head and walks
out of the room. When none of us can come up with the words to help us say
good-bye to a man we hardly knew, we exit the room and take our requisite seats
at the front of church. Sliding down the smooth wooden surface of the church
pew, we begin to busy ourselves with any task that requires little attention. The
next hour passes like honey in an hourglass, slow and thick.

The church starts to fill, but
nowhere near capacity. When the priest begins to speak, it’s as if someone has
stuffed my ears full of cotton. I can’t recall a word he says nor am I able to
focus on listening. Rachel gives my hand a small squeeze indicating my time has
come to deliver my father’s eulogy. As I rise she hands me a small pack of
Kleenex, which slips through my fingers and lands with small, soft thud onto
the church pew. I won’t need them. This is an homage to someone of very little
substance in my life. I place myself in the mindset that this is just like any
statement I have ever delivered in my career. Voice even and controlled,
completely composed and unwaveringly calm. I place my BlackBerry on the lectern
in front of me, looking out onto the six full rows of people in an otherwise
massive church I begin.

“For those of you who don’t know me I’m
James Mullins eldest daughter, Kristin. His two other daughters Rachel and
Courtney survive him in death, too. James married my mother in this church on
September 17, 1977. They were high school sweethearts, but unlike the fairy tale
image that it conjures up their marriage was anything but. They divorced on May
24, 1987. A father is supposed to be someone a daughter can rely on for
comfort, for support, for security, but most of all for love. Unconditional
love. Are some people destined to fail as parents? I honestly don’t know. What
I do know is my father failed. He failed my mother, my sisters and me. His drug
use and his dependency on alcohol never allowed him the opportunity to be a
father or a husband. In his defense, becoming a father isn’t like selecting a
career. There is no interview for the job, no list of qualifications or an opt
out clause at the end. How could he have possibly taken care of a child when he
couldn’t take care of himself? For twenty eight years he failed me, but I in
turn failed him.”

As I speak that sentence the sound of
the heavy wooden church door closing brings my eyes to meet his. He stands at
the back of the church holding my gaze for a long second before sliding into
the last pew. I can feel the tears begin to fall before I recognize the feeling
of weakness taking control of my body. Standing in front of the church openly
speaking my feelings makes me far too vulnerable, but I know I can’t stop, not
now.

“I failed in more ways than I can
begin to describe. I gave up, left him alone as if he didn’t exist and although
he was the parent, I could have tried harder. I will miss him for all the wrong
reasons. My guilt will be laid to rest with him. There will be no more
nightmares, no more sleepless nights or unsaid thoughts. In the end, when I lay
my own baby down at night, there will be one thing I learned from my father,
what not to do as a parent.” I suck in a quick breath as I attempt to pull
myself together. My eyes have been trained on the wooden doors, but I scan the
people staring back at me and swallow hard when I find my mother.

“I hope that in death my father can
find peace. He led a tortured life and I can only believe that his life and his
soul will carry on with peace and solace. But in the end I also say to him, I’m
glad you’re gone. Thank you.”

I carefully make my way down the
steps of the pulpit as my knees are shaking so intensely that I can’t imagine
everyone hasn’t noticed. I collapse into the spot next to Rachel before the
tears begin. Falling hard and fast, my chest heaves and a heavy sob escapes my
mouth. I am crying not for my father, but for the fact that the whole process
has been entirely overwhelming in nature. I lean in close to Rachel and put my
head on her shoulder. Her husband Paul reaches around her and rests a comforting
hand on my knee. Rachel places her head against mine. I finally whisper the
words I didn’t think I could bring myself to emit, “Ben’s here.”

When the service ends and the
mourners begin to leave, he’s waiting for me. I go to him willingly, feeling
his embrace close around me and for the first time in weeks my body calms from
its perpetual state of anxiety. My head resting against his chest nestled under
his chin in the place that my body knows far too well.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my
voice hoarse with tears.

“Bob told me.” His reply is muffled
as his lips press into my hair with the gentlest of kisses.

“Tyler’s not here. Please don’t ask
why.”

“You know I won’t. He obviously has
no idea how hard this is for you. When Bob told me I couldn’t let you do it
alone.”

“Thank you,” I sniff. “I need to get
going. I have to meet my sisters at the cemetery. I don’t want to be late. I’ve
already made a fool of myself.”

“Oh, doubt that. Could you give me a
lift? I took a cab from O’Hare. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. Sorry
about being late; my flight was delayed.”

“Are you sure you want to come?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. I didn’t
come for the sights.”

“Maybe later. Come on,” I say as he
links his hand with mine and slides the car keys from my palm. He climbs into
the driver’s seat and I direct him where to go.

Ben and I meet up with Rachel and
Maizey in the front row as my father is laid to rest. It isn’t like you see on
television. There is no weeping widow or mournful family. The faces are somber.
No one places flowers on the casket or tosses handfuls of dirt as it is lowered
into the ground. The crowd disperses quickly after the final reading from the
priest. Again we are alone, but this time someone is by my side. Desperate for
the feeling of belonging to someone, I cling to what I have with Ben for dear
life. He’s not mine and he will never be, but right now I will take what I can
get.

As we get ready to leave, I’m
inundated with my mother’s presence and before I can bail, she’s upon us.

“Kristin,” she says brusquely. Her
lips pressed into a firm straight line as she assesses me with her eyes. “Am I
to assume this is your husband?” It’s more of jab than a question. I lack the
social prowess that she’s looking for in my absence of an immediate
introduction.

“You assume wrong,” I reply jabbing
back at her. I would really like to fill her with the line about assuming
things, but I keep my mouth shut. “This is a friend of mine.”

“Well, interesting. Are you going to
introduce me or should I just stand here and stare at you both?”

Turning to look at Ben I address him,
“Ben this is my mother, Kim Borkowski.” My mother in keeping with her feminist
views or whatever it was, chose to keep her maiden name. Yet she had no problem
giving her children the name of a man she despised. Even during her second
marriage to Tom she didn’t change her name. She wanted to keep her autonomy,
that was the reasoning she gave Tom, but in my opinion, she never intended to
stay, making it easier when it came time to divorce, not to mention the fact
that it put some definite distance between her children and her. Strangely
enough, I followed this same rule, autonomy, feminist views, scared to commit
philosophy when I married Tyler. I didn’t change my name. I rationalized it in
my mind at the time that it’s part of who I am, part of my job and changing it
would just cause confusion. At least that’s what I said during a particularly
heated argument with Tyler as we were filling out the paperwork at the
courthouse. To appease him I agreed to hyphenate my last name, but in the end I
scrapped that idea and stuck with my maiden name.

I turn to face her and complete my
introduction, “Mom, this Ben Torres.”