A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (15 page)

“I talked to the neurologist this morning,” Huston starts. Leo is already crying. I take his hand. He desperately grips it
back.

“And?” I ask, looking at Abigail. Her face is blotchy and intense.

“Dad’s prognosis is… not good,” Huston says.

B
ut he’s so strong,” I say, remembering Dad’s grip.

“I know,” Huston answers. He doesn’t make eye contact as he crosses his arms across his chest.

My eyes dart around the ICU. I’m panicking. I realize my ridiculous bubble has long since popped. The Chutes and Ladders are
firewood at this point. But how deep will it go? There are untouched memories still hidden, emotions muffled by layers of
armor. Despite whatever change I’m trying to muster, I’m still holding on to a sliver of the life I’ve cobbled together for
myself in the five years since Mom died. That sliver being the possibility that I won’t have to hurt anymore. What’s happening
right now threatens what little control I have left.

“Dad had the clot buster within an hour of the stroke, but it didn’t work. It was a massive stroke. His right side is affected,
which means he’s lost most of his speech,” Huston starts, his demeanor strained, but even.

“Didn’t work,” Leo mumbles. I wrap my arm around him. He mumbles it again.

Huston powers on, “She said that patients who have suffered the kind of stroke Dad had aren’t cognizant of what’s going on
around them. They often answer yes to anything they’re asked. We have to be ready for there to be a level of…” Huston stops,
looking at Leo and weighing whether or not he can bear to hear what follows. Can any of us?

“Brain damage,” Abigail whispers. Huston nods, studying Leo’s reaction. Leo drops his head to his chest and covers his face
with his hands. Huston, Abigail and I share a look of concern as I pull Leo closer. I wonder what I’m supposed to do with
this new information. I didn’t want Dad to be trapped in there with all of his faculties, but hearing this certainly doesn’t
make me feel any better. There’s got to be a way to fix this. This can’t be final.

I come out swinging. “They have speech therapists and physical therapists and… I mean, he’s so strong. The brain can be brought
back, it’s definitely not… he’s only sixty-eight. It’s just about finding the right combination of… the right doctors.” Huston
clenches his jaw as his face reddens. Abigail looks away, her face wistful… empty. Leo looks up and wipes his tears away. I
can see Nurse Miller out of the corner of my eye. Yes, this is the behavior of a family who doesn’t care.

“That’s all true, but Dad’s decline isn’t in relation to any of that. Dad has a feeding tube and yet he’s still not absorbing
any nutrients. His body is rejecting everything,” Huston explains.

“So he has a fight in front of him. He’s a fighter. Nurse Miller said he’s a fighter,” I say, using the word
fighter
too many times.

“Grace,” Huston starts.

“No…
no
!” I blurt. I feel the anger building in my chest and shoulders. I need to hit something. Where’s Dennis when you need him?

“Gracie,” Huston starts again. The softness of his voice breaks me.

“Don’t say it,” I plead, my stomach churning. Leo wipes at his tears. Huston takes a deep breath and studies me. Find a point
on the horizon. I look up and make eye contact with Huston. I breathe deeply as my stomach calms. Calms.

We are quiet.

“What happens now?” Leo finally asks.

“Since he’s stabilized, Dad will move to a regular room and out of the ICU,” Huston says, looking at Leo.

“None of this makes any sense,” Abigail says, growing angry.

“He’s going to need skilled nursing care. Until he… well, for the rest of his life.” Huston’s voice is detached.

“Is that like a full-time nurse?” Leo asks.

“They were talking about a more specialized facility, because of the feeding tube,” Huston says.

“We have to move him? While he’s this… sick?” I ask, searching for the right words.

“The worst part is going to be transferring him to a gurney, after that the ambulance drive can be fifteen minutes or two
hours. It won’t matter,” Huston says, his eyes elsewhere. Leo stares at Huston. His wheels turning. Equations and theory being
formulated.

“When… how much time have we got?” I ask, not knowing really to what I’m referring. Time here in the ICU or time in general.

“They’ll move him to a regular room in the next day or so and we’ll find a place for him straightaway,” Huston says.

“Wait… we have to find a place in the next couple of days?” I ask.

“What about Connie?” Abigail adds.

“Was she at the meeting this morning?” Leo asks.

“No, just John and I,” Huston answers. Leo nods, figuring out another integer in his equation.

We are silent.

“So—did they give us a list of facilities in the area?” I ask. Huston is quiet… watching, observing.

“That would be a good first step,” Abigail adds, pulling her organizer from her purse, slipping the pen out of its holder
and waiting. At the ready.

“We’ll have to look into insurance and all that. I imagine there’s going to be a lot of red tape and weird hoops to jump through,”
I say to Abigail. She adds INSURANCE under TO DO RE: DAD.

“Maybe Connie knows, we can ask her or the lawyer about all that,” Abigail says absently, pen flying over the paper. Leo is
quiet. Studying Huston.

“We’re going to have to tread lightly—not seem pushy,” I add. Abigail nods.

I continue, “We can just offer to do some of the busywork, so she can be here with Dad.” I want all the bad blood of yesterday
to be gone. Abigail nods yes, still madly writing.

We are quiet—the buzzing of the ICU, the scrawl of Abigail’s writing.

“You’re going to take him back down to LA, aren’t you?” Leo asks, his eyes focused on Huston. Abigail’s head jolts up from
her organizer. I look at Huston. His face gives nothing away.

“I have his power of attorney,” Huston says.

“
Huston
,” Leo pleads, his hands now at his hips.

“I have to be close so I can carry out the terms of the document,” Huston adds.

“You… you want to move a sixty-eight-year-old stroke patient away from his wife and home?” Abigail asks.

“Have you even thought this through?” I chime in.

“It’s what he wants. Why else would he have given me—” Huston starts, his voice smooth. His eyes are icy.

I interrupt, “What about Connie, Huston? You can’t just take Dad down to LA and leave her here! She may have issues with us,
but she’s still his wife. Or are you going to move her, too? Why don’t you move Dennis the Menace while you’re at it? Maybe
they have a cat—you can throw it in a pillowcase and pack it all up in a rented van!”

Huston is quiet.

“What are you thinking?” I press.

“It’s my name on that document,” Huston says, his voice defiant.

“This
can’t
be about you swooping in and—” I start. John emerges through the buzzing doors looking like he’s just in time for a bar brawl.
He pushes his shirtsleeves to his elbows and quickens his pace.

“I’m not swooping in, Grace!” Huston’s voice rises just enough to be terrifying. Leo and Abigail are quiet, shocked, and utterly
without words. John takes his place next to Huston.

“Bullshit!” I challenge.

“What’s going on?” John asks, looking from one of us to the other.

“Mr. Knight in Shining Armor here wants to move a sixty-eight-year-old man away from everything and everyone he knows and
loves,” I explain. The stab of me not being one of those things or people is all too painful.

“Hust—” John starts, the look on his face a combination of pity and confusion.

“He knows and loves us. That’s what the power of attorney means. That he loves us. Loves…
me
,” Huston argues, his eyes now rimmed in red. He drops his head and rests his hands on his hips.

And there it is. No more safe zones, no more distant emotions. We are here. That little pinprick of light is within reach.
I push off the prison floor and burst through the surface of the water, gulping for breath. Treading water in the middle of
this unknown sea, I take in my surroundings. I immediately set my sights on the fray. Mine to jump in.

“Huston—” I start.

“I wasn’t there when Mom got hurt and look what happened,” Huston says, valiantly trying to regain control. His eyes dry as
he looks up.

“She was hit head-on by a drunk driver,” I say.

“If I had been there—” Huston starts. He takes a long, deep breath and settles back into his stance. I lock eyes with Abigail—the
tiniest of side glances. She’s just as haunted as I am. We both look to Leo. Same. John looks studied… the calm at the eye
of the storm.

“We’re going to do everything we can to handle your dad’s estate the way he wanted. We’re going to do right by him, Hus,”
John says, his voice strong. Huston looks to him. Another deep breath. His jaw impossibly clenched. His lips compressed tightly.
Nodding. Nodding.

“Mr. Hawkes?” Nurse Miller warily approaches our group. Abigail is the only one who tries to compose herself.

“Yes?” Huston answers, stepping forward. Always the first to step forward.

“We’re missing some of Mr. Hawkes’ personal papers to complete his file: a Medicare bill, medical insurance card, and we’re
going to need his Social Security card. It wasn’t in his wallet. Men his age don’t usually, well—no matter. I’m sure they’re
at his home. Mrs. Hawkes will be here within the hour. This might be the perfect opportunity for you to go and get them?”
Nurse Miller asks, holding out Dad’s chart as proof of something. I don’t know what we did to this lady, but she couldn’t
want us around less.

“We’re here—” I stop before I give in to the
we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it
begging to come out of my mouth.

John jumps in, “We’ve established that my clients have a right to be here, Nurse Miller.”

“I left a message for Connie. I just thought… it would make things easier if—” Nurse Miller answers.

Abigail interrupts, “I think we can work together here. If we leave now, maybe Connie will still be at the house and we can
just ask her where the documents are,” Abigail says.

“That would work,” says Nurse Miller, breathing more easily. She hands Abigail the list of things we need from Connie. Abigail
scans it.

“This might be a good opportunity to mend some fences,” Abigail adds, looking at me. I nod.

“I’m staying,” Huston announces.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Abigail says, ignoring him.

“Thank you,” Nurse Miller sighs.

“Leo? Grace?” Abigail says.

We jump in line and follow Abigail out of the buzzing ICU doors and down the long hallway. We don’t say anything and none
of us look back at Huston. I do sneak a look at John in those last buzzing seconds—he looks away. As we walk through doors
and down long hallways, I can’t shake this fog of disbelief. Whenever tragedy strikes, you ready yourself for the worst, never
really thinking it’s going to happen. And when it actually does, the shock of it is half the haze of the grief that follows.
We’ve been here before and the familiarity haunts me with an eerie sense of déjà vu.

We finally get to the waiting room and Abigail takes a beat. Her hand rests on the doorknob for just a few seconds. In those
quick moments, I see her gather herself. Abigail clicks open the door, never looking at me or Leo, and enters the waiting
room to a resounding “Moooommmmmmmm!” We follow her in.

“We have to go to Dad and Connie’s house to get some documents,” Abigail announces.

“What about the Def Star,” Mateo asks, looking at Leo.

“That’s apparently where we’re heading,” I say, under my breath.

“We’ll build it when we get back, Matty,” Leo assures him, plopping the motorcycle helmet down over the little boy’s head.
He looks like a pint-sized bobblehead.

Mateo can barely control himself as he starts loading piles of Legos back into the monogrammed canvas bag from this morning.
Emilygrae gathers all the books into her backpack, all the while asking Leo when it will be her turn to wear the helmet. Evie
looks up from her book. Abigail nods to the angst-ridden teen that yes—this means her, as well. There is much eye-rolling.

“We’ll be quick,” Abigail says as the kids run down the hallway toward the elevator—in search of another button-pushing title.
Evie sighs down the hall after them.

“Connie wouldn’t even take the ziplock bag,” Abigail says, motioning to her purse, where the plastic bag filled with Dad’s
personal effects rests.

“What?” I ask, watching Mateo push every elevator call button.

“Why do they hate us so much?” Leo asks as we lurch downward. Leo transfers the motorcycle helmet from Mateo to Emilygrae.
Mateo looks lost without it. Emilygrae’s squeals of delight fill the elevator.

“It’s that son and plus we’re…” Abigail trails off.

“Either being portrayed as gold diggers or good-for-nothing kids,” I finish.

“We don’t want or need any of Dad’s money,” Abigail says, her voice defiant.

“Maybe we need to make that more clear,” Leo says.

“If we talk about money, even by denying our need for any of it, we make ourselves look like gold diggers. It’s a catch-22,”
I say.

“That’s just weird,” Evie says, as the elevator doors open on the first floor.

“It
is
weird,” I answer, placing a hand on her arm. She doesn’t pull away. A baby step forward.

The elevator dings open and all six of us traipse through the hospital lobby. Leo pulls the helmet off Emilygrae’s head and
takes her hand. Her face falls; Leo’s hand is clearly a distant second to the helmet. Mateo is holding Abigail’s hand while
his other hand holds up his pants. They’re weighted down with pockets filled with who knows what along with an assortment
of swords tucked into tiny belt loops. His Batman backpack toddles along, bouncing with his every step. I take Evie’s hand
as we step down from the curb and into the parking lot. Her fingers unconsciously curl around my hand. I swallow a smile—don’t
want to jinx my progress.