A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (14 page)

“Pretty big fairies,” Emilygrae whispers, her chubby, Cheerio-bedecked hand absently patting the nape of my neck, smoothing
my hair. Her face is centimeters from mine. I can’t help but smile. Abigail’s a lot more bearable with her whole little comedy
troupe around.

Mateo races over to the elevator and pushes the call button. Abigail soothes Emilygrae with promises of pushing the button
for the fourth floor once the elevator comes. I set Emilygrae down just as the elevator door dings open. Mateo races inside
the elevator and it’s all anyone can do to stop him from pushing the inside button. I don’t even think he wants to push it… he
just wants Emilygrae to think he does. To know he could—but that he’s
letting
her.

The elevator lurches upward as my stomach sours once again. Find a point on the horizon. I try to get lost in the kids’ three-ring
circus as they argue about button-pushing, their little faces dead serious. Abigail plays judge and jury. Mateo’s hand rests
on her knee. Emilygrae points and argues with the fervor of a latter-day Clarence Darrow. Evie smirks and brushes Mateo’s
curls out of his glasses.

As we chime past the third floor, I have to admit to myself that Abigail is a really good mom. Despite her hero worship of
Dad, she absorbed more of Mom than I would have expected. Quietly directing, but not controlling. Supporting, but not coddling.
Loving, but not suffocating. The elevator door dings open and the kids run pell-mell down the hallway to the waiting room—the
only people in the world to be excited about coming here today.

“They really are adorable,” I say, trying to make small talk. I watch Emilygrae wedge herself into the door of the waiting
room milliseconds before Mateo can. Fighting ensues. Abigail weighs whether she should intervene or let this be one of those
blessed “teaching opportunities” where the twins police themselves. Abigail is on edge as Evie walks a few paces in front
of us, almost to the waiting room. What’ll she find when she turns that last corner: Emilygrae being threatened by an unsheathed
plastic sword at the hands of her bespectacled doppelgänger? Evie looks back just as I form the question. Abigail’s eyes dart
from Evie to the closed door of the waiting room door and back to me. Evie slouches into the waiting room and Abigail and
I follow.

“Evie’s talking about wanting to do a summer abroad in the next couple of years. Oxford,” Abigail says, her face creased with
concern.

“Oxford, as in England-Oxford?” I ask.

“The very one.”

“That’s amazing… far, but amazing,” I allow.

“I’m kind of stuck on the far part,” Abigail says.

“Makes sense,” I say.

“We have to get past the quinceañera first, though,” Abigail says, smiling.

“I can’t believe she’s almost fifteen.”

“Okay, guys… be good. We’ll be right down the hall,” Abigail says, collecting herself.

“When’s Papi coming?” Mateo asks as he plops down in the middle of the floor with various books, forgetting his earlier Battle
of Who Could Enter the Waiting Room First. It’ll soon be eclipsed by ten thousand other little battles, I’m sure.

“He should be here later this afternoon, mijo,” Abigail says, leaning over the boy and giving him a kiss on the forehead.

“Papi makes lights go on,” Emilygrae announces to me. Abigail bends over and gives her a little peck on the forehead too.

“Electrical engineer and yet can’t replace a lightbulb in the guest bathroom,” Abigail sighs, winking at Emilygrae. Evie was
a bit of a surprise, so Abigail had to scrap her big college plans early on. As Abigail stayed at home with Evie, she earned
money by watching neighborhood kids in their tiny apartment. Manny continued with college and then went on to become an electrical
engineer for a small consulting firm in Los Angeles. It’s a testament to their marriage that they made it through… well, that
they simply made it. Abigail and Manny’s happy marriage threw a wrench into my convenient “unavailable dad equals unavailable
lovers” theory.

“Papi wears a tie,” Mateo announces. He pours the entire canvas bag of Legos onto the waiting room floor.

“Plph,” Emilygrae spits, kneeling next to the Legos.

“Don’t touch them! I’m waiting for Tio Leo. He said he could build the Def Star,” Mateo decrees. I wonder if the Def Star
is a version of the Death Star, but with LL Cool J at the helm. Emilygrae immediately bursts into tears.

“Mateo,” Abigail warns.

“You… you can play with the…
those
,” Mateo says, pushing a pile of giant oversized Legos toward Emilygrae.

“Those are for babies,” Emilygrae huffs.

“You got this?” Abigail asks Evie.

“Same ole, same ole,” Evie says, yawning.

“Thanks for watching them. I’ll check back soon,” Abigail says to Evie, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. Evie tries to
act like she’s bothered by her mother’s affection, but I can see that she leans into the kiss—despite her show of attitude.

The kids barely notice that we leave. As we close the door to the waiting room, Leo emerges from the elevator. He rests his
hand lazily on the strap of the messenger bag slung across his chest. His other hand is wound through the open visor of his
motorcycle helmet.

“Hiya,” I say, smiling at him.

“Hey,” Leo answers, his eyes bloodshot.

“You okay?” I ask, as we continue down the hallway.

“Whose idea was it that we all go to our hotel rooms last night by ourselves? I must have spent a million dollars on tiny
bottles of booze from the minibar,” Leo says, running his hand through his light brown tangle of hair.

“I ate a pint of Häagen-Dazs. Not pretty,” Abigail says, over her shoulder.

“York Peppermint Patties,
Frasier
reruns, and I broke up with the guy I was seeing,” I say.

“What?” Abigail says, stopping.

“York Peppermint Patties?” I ask, looking down the hallway.

“The other part.” Abigail narrows her eyes.

“You were seeing someone?” Leo asks.

“
Was
being the operative word,” Abigail adds.

“You
was
seeing someone?” Leo asks.

Abigail lasers in. “What’s the problem?” No matter how much time has passed, my love life is still fair game.

“He was a monkeyhander,” I confess, my expression dire.

Abigail and Leo shrink back. Stunned.

“A
monkeyhander
?” Abigail blurts, like I’ve confessed to dating a serial killer.

“How did you even date him in the first place? Where do you even meet monkeyhanders anymore?” Leo yelps. We continue walking
down the hallway.

“I think it was his monkeyhandedness that attracted me,” I admit. Abigail’s mouth drops open. She’s quieted. A first.

“Didn’t you and John…” Leo trails off, his face flushing. Abigail nods.

“Yes,” I say, sighing. An
audible
sigh.

We are silent.

“Definitely
not
a monkeyhander,” Abigail mutters, her eyebrows raised.

“Definitely not,” I say, envisioning that janitor’s closet and the decidedly non-monkeyhanded events that took place within.
We all sign in to the ICU, each receiving a name badge.

“Okay, enough. This is getting gross,” Leo says. It’s odd how normal all of these rights and lefts seem after just one day.

“Definitely
not
a monkeyhander,” I repeat.

We stand shoulder to shoulder at the door, girding ourselves for what’s behind it. The door opens. We are hit with the buzzing,
whirring inner workings of the ICU. It takes me a second to recalibrate.

Dad’s hospital room looks empty. We stop at the nurse’s station. Nurse Miller, from the night before, gives Abigail the international
sign for “wait a sec.”

We cluster around the nurse’s station. We try not to look at each other or into Dad’s hospital room. I choose my shoes. I’ll
look at my shoes.

“Mrs. Hawkes-Rodriguez? Ms. Hawkes? Mr. Hawkes. Good to see you,” Nurse Miller begins. We wait. She doesn’t elaborate. We
are obviously all questioning why we were asked to “wait a sec.”

“How did Dad do last night?” Abigail asks when Nurse Miller falls silent.

“The same… the same.” Nurse Miller nods. I look to Abigail, then to Leo.

“Well, that’s good news,” Abigail says, knocking on the counter as a kind of exclamation. She smiles politely and turns toward
Dad’s hospital room. As she turns, Abigail gives me the smallest eye-roll.

“We’re going to go in,” I announce to the Wonder Nurse.

“Mrs. Hawkes wanted me to tell you she would be in at eight-thirty,” Nurse Miller blurts. Ahh, there’s the reason for the
“wait a sec.” We all turn around and wait to hear what this has to do with us.

“And?” I ask.

“I just thought—” Nurse Miller starts.

“Thought what?” I interrupt.

“Connie had a really rough day yesterday after leaving Ray’s bedside,” Nurse Miller says. Connie? It’s Connie now?

“We all did,” Abigail says democratically.

“She explained that you kids never had much of a relationship with your father,” Nurse Miller says.

“Wow, where was that question on the hospital intake?” I ask.

“I’ve got this,” Abigail says, holding up her hand. I pull back. Leo pulls his messenger bag around, nervously tugging on
it.

“I would appreciate it—” Abigail starts, her face bright red.

“Connie’s right about the age my mom was when we lost Father. We had some stepbrothers and -sisters that just came in at the
end and made everything difficult—” Nurse Miller says.

“You are aware that Dennis is the stepbrother,” I explain. I hear Leo sniffle in the background. I pull my hand back, grab
his and hold tight. Stay with us, little brother. He holds my hand in return, stepping a bit forward.

“It would just make things easier,” Nurse Miller starts.

“For whom, Nurse Miller? It might make things easier for whom?” Abigail says, stepping in closer to the nurse’s station. I
love how, even when she’s pissed off, her grammar is perfect.

“I know this is difficult, Mrs.—” Nurse Miller starts.

“Yes, having a parent who’s suffered a stroke can be very difficult,” I say.

“That
would
be difficult,” Nurse Miller concedes.

“We’ll need to get in there, then,” Abigail finishes, turning on her loafer heel. Nurse Miller looks like she has something
else to say, but looks down at her clipboard instead. Smart. Smart move.

We walk into Dad’s hospital room and are surprised to see a very alert patient. Dad’s eyes are open, and when we walk in,
his whole face reacts. We stop dead in our tracks.

This just got really real, really fast.

“Morning.” A disembodied voice from the corner scares the shit out of us. Abigail instinctively puts her arm across my body,
the way she used to when we came to an abrupt stop in the car or when we crossed the street. She seems almost embarrassed
by the gesture now.

“Huston, Jesus… you scared us to death,” Abigail says. I get my bearings. My eyes focus. The hospital room is dimly lit. Huston
sits in the darkest corner. His suit jacket open, his shirt neatly tucked in.

“I’m sorry,” Huston says, standing. He gestures for us to go outside with him. Dad’s eyes scan the room. The fear he must
be feeling. When he was unconscious it made it easier for me to dehumanize him. But now, seeing his darting eyes, his restrained
hand flailing for something to hold on to—my heart wrenches. The fear. The knowing that… well, just the
knowing
. I am pulled toward Dad. Pulled toward that panic. Pulled toward the need to comfort.

No thought. No flashbacks of piano recitals, graduations or a seat empty at dinners bought with food stamps. No judgment.

Huston walks out into the ICU. Abigail and Leo follow.

“Just a second,” I say. They walk out and huddle just outside the door, already speaking in hushed tones. Dad’s eyes immediately
fall on me. He raises his hand… it stops short, the restraint.

“It’s Grace,” I whisper, trying to stay cheerful for him. I take his hand in mine. His grip is surprisingly strong. He squeezes
tightly, letting me know he’s still in there. Still strong. Still fighting. Whatever our history is… in this moment, in this
room—there is the most basic, most visceral of connections. Dad shrugs his left shoulder—I imagine he thinks he’s shrugging
both shoulders. He keeps rolling his eyes. He looks like he’s trying to convey that either he’s embarrassed or…
sorry
? I’m totally projecting. I’m a walking Psych 101 textbook right now.

Dad’s rumbling voice winds through a sentence of pure gibberish. I can kind of make out some words by the inflection and vowel
placement.

“Really? Wow,” I answer. Trying to be an active listener. Dad shrugs his shoulder and rolls his eyes again. He tightens his
grip and kind of shakes my hand around. He’s so strong. He rattles off several sentences, very passionately, trying hard to
enunciate and be heard. By me. It sounds like he’s talking underwater… but worse. I can’t understand it. And he knows it. He’s
getting more and more frustrated.

“Huston, Abigail and Leo are just outside. They want to talk to me about something,” I say, hitting every consonant and vowel
clearly. Dad’s not deaf. He’s probably sick of people yelling at him as if he were. He rolls his eyes and shrugs again, bends
his left leg and shifts his weight. He grips my hand and shakes it around with a little half smile. I smile back, trying to
look breezy. Does he think he’s dying? Does he know he’s dying? Does he think he’s going to get better? Does he know that… Jesus,
all of the sudden there are no words.

Who could stay mad at someone in this state?

I get it now. I get the power of attorney. I get the engraved invitation. It’s a dirty trick, for sure. But I get it now.

“Grace?” Abigail calls from outside Dad’s hospital room. I turn around and gesture to her to give me a second. She smiles
and falls back into hushed conversation with Huston and Leo.

“Still bossy,” I whisper down to Dad. He laughs a rumbly, heartbreaking crack of a laugh, gripping my hand tightly. His eyes
blink, longer and longer. He’s getting tired. I take his hand in both of mine. “I’ll be right back,” I say, as his eyes flicker
closed and he lets go of my hand. My eyes dart to his chest. Up. Down. Okay… okay, he’s okay. I smooth out his hospital gown
and make sure he’s asleep. When I’m sure, I turn toward the hallway and try to compose myself by the time I reach the others.
I exhale deeply and stand next to Huston.