A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (16 page)

Abigail opens the minivan door. Mateo and Emilygrae climb into their respective kids’ seats, seats encrusted with crumbs,
action figures and random torn pieces of colorful, shiny paper. Evie sneaks into the third row as Abigail latches the twins
in.

“You can sit in front,” Leo offers. My car sickness is legendary. I nod to Leo’s ass as he bends and contorts into the back
with Evie. I climb into the front seat just as Abigail is inputting Dad and Connie’s address into her GPS system. I click
my seat belt. The system bells in and tells us that we should go right in one hundred yards.

“Where are we going?” Emilygrae finally asks, after we’ve properly turned right.

“We have to go to Ray and Connie’s house. The hospital needs some papers,” Abigail repeats, looking in her rearview mirror.
I look back into the minivan. A sea of faces looks back at me. Leo and Evie a million miles away in the third row, Leo reading
over Evie’s shoulder. I see Evie bend her body to give him a better view. Emilygrae and Mateo are front row center—wiggling
and fussing. Mateo is digging his tiny hand into the sides of his seat, no doubt looking for some old cracker crumbs to nosh
on. Emilygrae kicks her feet back and forth as she listens intently to where the GPS system says we’re going. Abigail reaches
back and gently quiets Emilygrae’s feet.

I fight every urge to start singing “The Wheels on the Bus.”

“I still don’t understand why we’re doing this,” Evie asks from the way back. Abigail glares at her in the rearview mirror.

“They’d left a message for her, but we thought we could help things along by…” Abigail trails off.

“A little olive branch,” I add, trying to think of something metaphorical that would fly over the little kids’ heads.

“You didn’t tell me Connie was going to be there,” Evie whines.

“It’ll be fine,” Abigail says.

“Why didn’t Tio Huston just do it?” Evie asks as we turn up a more residential street of Ojai. The houses are mostly ranch-style
with large plots of land. The mountains loom over the neighborhood as we are told to head due north. Right up into the mountains
of Ojai. I wait for something to look familiar. I did stay an entire summer at this house.

“Tio Huston wanted to stay with Dad… well, my dad your grandfather,” Abigail answers, her narrowed eyes letting Evie know the
question-and-answer portion of this show is now over. Evie sinks back into her book. Leo leans over and once again reads over
her shoulder, as Evie softens just a bit.

“We’re looking for nine twenty-four, guys. Can you guys see the numbers on the houses?” I ask. Emilygrae leans forward.

“One, two, free, ten, w, firtyleven,” Emilygrae announces.

“They don’t quite know numbers yet,” Abigail explains.

“Well, what about colors? Can you guys tell me the colors on the houses?” I ask, turning around in my seat, the car sickness
flirting with me.

The kids are quiet.

“They’re awwl white,” Mateo answers.

“Not all of them,” I say, turning to look out the window. Wow, weird, the entire street
is
filled with white houses. Abigail merges left and the GPS system tells us we’re getting close.

“Blue! There’s a big, blue one!” Emilygrae screams, pointing at a big, beautiful prairie-style house that sits right up against
the mountains themselves.

“Nine twenty-four,” Evie says, from the way back.

“That’s it. That’s it,” Abigail says, parking the car right in front. Abigail, Leo and I notice the car in the driveway at
once. Dad’s ancient pickup truck. The last time I saw that truck, it was driving away from our house packed full of Dad’s
belongings twenty-two years ago. I look at Abigail.

“I can’t believe he still has that old truck,” Abigail sighs, putting the car in park and turning off the ignition.

“He still has that old truck?” Leo asks from the third row.

“We were just saying that,” I say, turning around.

“So, did the last two decades not really happen?” Leo jokes.

“Hey, at least I have a new car,” Abigail says, eyeing me and my inability to get rid of my ancient BMW.

We all wait. Like we’ve been invited to a party and just noticed we’re the first ones here. It doesn’t look like anyone’s
home.

“It doesn’t look like she’s here.” Leo always had a gift for the obvious.

“We must have just missed her,” Abigail says, pulling the keys from the ignition. The kids are quiet. Waiting. We all watch
the Big Blue House for signs of life.

“What should we do?” I finally ask.

“Well—” Abigail starts, looking into her purse at the ziplock bag: wallet, keys and wedding ring. I follow her stare toward
the bag.

“You can’t be serious,” I say. Abigail shrugs her shoulders.

“Let’s go in,” Leo blurts, undoing his seat belt and beginning the contortions necessary to get out of the third row.

“Are you two nuts? We can’t just go in,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt and turning around. Leo kneels between Mateo and the
sliding door of the minivan. Mateo stares at him as his little hand rests gently on Leo’s.

“Look, she’s not here. She’s already at the hospital. We have the keys,” Leo answers, with that shoulder shrug that is supposed
to make
me
feel like the crazy one. The crazy one who doesn’t want to break and enter. I raise up my armrest and turn my body all the
way around.

“Are you trying to get three strikes?” I ask, my mouth tight.

“Very funny,” Leo says blithely, still completely unused to anyone telling him no.

“We can’t go inside someone else’s house just because we have the key,” I argue.

“It’s not
someone’s
house. It’s Dad’s house,” Leo says, Mateo’s hand still on his.

“And Connie’s. A woman who… well, let’s face it, we’re not her favorite people right now. What if she’s just at the corner
market getting some, I don’t know—orangey lipstick and hard candies? She comes back only to find us rummaging through the
house she thinks we’re going to kick her out of? I can’t see that going over very well,” I argue. Abigail is oddly quiet.

“She’s definitely on her way to the hospital,” Leo answers.

“You can’t know that,” I say.

“We need the documents,” Abigail reasons.

“And I need a million dollars, but I’m not going to break into Donald Trump’s penthouse to get it,” I say.

“It’s not there anyway… it’s tied up in real estate,” Leo says.

“Well, why don’t you just hack his computer and find out,” I mutter.

“Already have… that’s how I know,” Leo says, casing the joint.

“Look, Griffon Whitebox—” I start. Leo immediately ducks and looks around furtively. Convinced no Feds are tailing him, he
looks back at the house and then at me.

“It’s not breaking in,” he argues.

“When we have the key,” Abigail finishes, holding up the de-bagged keys. Dad’s keys. The keys are anchored with a worn leather
fob. Dad has a keychain? I guess he would have to. It’s weird to think about how many things he must have that I’d have no
guess about. I shake my head and return to the crime at hand.

“Fine, but you’re the one who’s going to have to explain to your husband why your kids have a criminal record,” I say, opening
my door and stepping out of the minivan. Leo follows.

“You are such a drama queen,” Abigail sighs again, stepping out of the driver’s side.

“
I’m
a drama queen. We need those documents
stat
! Let’s break into the old lady’s house
stat
!” I scoff, stepping aside as Mateo and Emilygrae unlatch themselves and start climbing out of the minivan. I take Mateo in
my arms and put him down on the patch of grass next to his Tio Sticky Fingers. Mateo unsheathes his little plastic sword and
stands at the ready. Leo starts to sing the theme song to
Mission: Impossible
under his breath.

“This is not funny,” I say.

“Loosen up,” Leo says. He looks back and mimes holding a gun, darting along the pathway like an international spy. I imagine
Connie in some upstairs bedroom watching all of this unfold. What a bunch of idiots we must look. Evie stands next to me watching
Leo and Mateo as they head toward that long porch. Abigail and Emilygrae walk around from the other side of the car.

“She’s totally not home,” Evie says.

“Et tu, Brute?” I say, smiling just a little.

“What?” Evie asks, focusing fully on me for the first time.

“Julius Caesar,” I say, placing my hand on her shoulder.

“Latin?” she asks, starting up the pathway. Leo and Mateo are waiting by the door.

“It’s Latin, he’s Roman. Very good,” I say, noticing that Leo has rung the doorbell. Mateo looks around wildly, whipping his
little sword to and fro. Unbelievable.

“Et tu? Brute?” Evie asks. Doesn’t say two words to me all morning and now she wants to make conversation about Roman emperors?
I’ll take what I can get, I guess. My mouth is dry. I keep checking the street for cars. I have no idea what kind of car Connie
drives, so every car is a possible heart attack.

“What it means is ‘Even you?’ or ‘You, too, Brutus?’ When Julius Caesar was murdered, those were allegedly his last words.
Brutus was his friend, well up until he stabbed him to death, I guess. So people tend to say it when they feel betrayed by
a close friend,” I explain, wondering if Abigail is going to call me out for scaring the children… you know, in the midst of
the already-in-progress felony.

“Well, you are the Edmund. You’d know a thing or two about betrayal,” Abigail says as we all walk up the long pathway.

“Shh, we’re busy breaking into someone’s house,” I snap back. Abigail exhales deeply, pats Evie on the back and gives her
what I can only describe as a “knowing smile.” As if she’s had to tolerate my brand of crazy far longer than poor Evie could
ever understand. Abigail might as well be laying a duct tape boundary down the center of our room.
Again
.

“Hello? Connie?” Leo calls, knocking on the heavy wooden door. Emilygrae and Mateo peer through the long side panel windows
that frame the door.

Leo looks back at all of us with a “Well?” kind of look on his face. Like he’s tried reasoning with the castle folk, but we’re
going to need that battering ram after all. Abigail steps forward holding Dad’s keychain. I lunge at the doorbell once more
and ring it. And ring it. And ring it.

“She’s not home. I told you she wasn’t home,” Leo says as Abigail tries the first key. No go. She flips through the keychain,
trying key after key like Russian roulette.

Click.

Abigail looks over at us as she pushes the heavy wooden door open with a loud creeeakkkkkk.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, hoping it hides my terror. This is how a billion horror movies start, after all. Creepy door
creak and everything.

“Connie? It’s Abigail—Ray’s daughter?” Abigail announces, once we’re all inside. The heavy wood-paneled foyer is impressive.
So impressive it can harbor six interloping criminals in total comfort before they meet their certain doom.

We all stand in utter silence. My heart is beating a mile a minute. I look around at our little ragtag group. Hilarious.

“This is nice,” Leo says, looking up the sweeping staircase.

“Looks exactly the same,” Abigail whispers, looking my way.

“Why are you whispering if no one’s home?” I ask.

“LOOKS EXACTLY THE SAME,” Abigail almost yells.

I wince. “Jesus.”

“Not in front of the kids,” Abigail warns.

“You mean, while we’re breaking and entering there can be no taking the Lord’s name in vain… yeah, that makes sense,” I say,
following Leo, the twins and Evie into the living room.

I stop. Just as they did. All of us staring at the same thing. I choke back the emotion and look back at Abigail. She looks
as stunned as I feel.

A large marble fireplace takes up most of the far wall of the living room. Sitting on the fireplace mantel are… pictures of
us. All of us.

I approach the fireplace, all fear of Connie forgotten, as I try to understand what exactly I’m seeing.

The picture frames are worn and the glass is smudged, making the pictures beneath barely visible. They obviously haven’t been
dusted in some time, but that doesn’t take away the enormity of what we’ve stumbled upon.

Our entire childhood. Just slightly different. We had similar pictures in our house, and while these look like they are from
the same rolls, each portrays a different moment from the same day. The shot
after
the shot. Like seeing our memories from another vantage point. An idea so radical it takes me a second to really mourn what
having two parents would have been like. I am speechless.

I reach up and touch the top part of a frame. Just checking—it’s real. The room is so quiet. All I can hear is the creaking
of the hardwood floors as we take in the… well, the
shrine
. I had always secretly hoped something like this existed, but I was sure he’d forgotten us. I’d have staked my life on it.
I’m overcome with sadness and, startlingly, with sympathy. For
Dad
.

I walked away from this family for five years. At the end of that time I was a shell of the person I used to be. Dad was gone
for twenty-two years and chose to look at those he abandoned every morning before he took on his day. How hollow must he have
been? Or am I just… Could he not have been affected? How do you just walk away… and
stay
away? What could that do to a person? I shudder at the person I was becoming: the haze of numbness that was taking over my
life, the loveless relationships… wait…
wait
… my heart clenches. Loveless relationships? Dad married Connie days after Mom died. I ran to Tim because he was nothing like
John. The growing similarities between my father and me have begun to make me hyperventilate. I breathe in and close my eyes
for the briefest of seconds. The smell of dust and… his trumpets.

And there they are. Standing in the corner of the living room, looking like some elaborate Dr. Seussian pipe organ. That smell—like
a cork-spit-and-brass combo, unmistakable. I’m immediately zoomed back. I look away. I… I just can’t take it all in.