A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (30 page)

“Has it been your turn yet?” John asks, treading lightly.

“No,” I answer, quickly.

“Right, that’d be lunacy,” John says, the smallest smile creeping across his face.

“I mean, have you met me?” I answer, crackling out a laugh.

“So, that just leaves you and Huston, because Leo’s basically been crying for the past five years.”

“How do you know Huston hasn’t lost it?”

“He’s like the walking dead these days. Even worse than when Evelyn passed away,” John says, trailing off as he says Mom’s
name.

“I know,” I agree, remembering that Huston looked, at the very least,
affected
by Mom’s death. With Dad, he’s been on autopilot.

“Well…” John leads.

“What?”

“You and Huston are more alike than either one of you will admit.”

“I know,” I agree, too weak to keep arguing. John looks stunned that I conceded so quickly.

We are quiet. I’m lost in thought. I’m trying to process the big and small events of the last day—no, the last four days.
Four. Days.
Hard to comprehend. Down the rabbit hole, through the wardrobe—however you portray it, dealing with Dad’s illness has been
like traveling to an alternate universe where time is either stopped or speeding forward. Huge epiphanies combined with seemingly
insignificant moments—making each moment feel like another invitation to dine with the Mad Hatter.

I begin speaking before I can edit what I say. “You think life is going to go on forever, that you’re going to have all the
time in the world to say you’re sorry or start over. But you don’t. You have hospice and not enough fluids and dusty photographs
and little shoes next to the couch and rubber-banded business cards.” My voice is detached.

John listens. Quiet.

“Did you know human beings are alone in their knowledge of their own mortality? You’d think knowing we only have a finite
amount of time would change the way we live day in and day out… but it doesn’t. So arrogant.”

“You can’t live in fear, Gracie,” John offers.

“I wish it were fear. That would, at least, be more interesting. I live in…
feh
. Nothingness,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

“You live in…
feh
?” John repeats.

“I’ve always loved you… even before I had the right,” I start, unable to keep from smiling. John is quiet, not knowing where
this is going.

I continue, “And I just walked away.” I shrug my shoulders, my eyes focused on a little Webelos nun walking into the St. Teresa’s
gift shop on the south side of the parking lot, her breath puffing in the cold night air.

John pulls me close. I swing my legs over and literally sit on top of him, my legs teetering on leather seats, bits of John,
and some of that 5K muscle finally kicking in. John steadies me, resting his arm on my waist, looking up at me… waiting.

I continue, “I’m being allowed to see my life, that version of my life, like I skipped to the back of the book and can read
the ending now.”

John brings his other arm to rest on my waist. I slip down and find my knees now on either side of him. Face-to-face.

“And it’s not pretty,” I say, tears welling up. Finally.

“Gracie—” John tries.

“And I hate that it’s happening to Dad… that it happened to Dad. That he never got the chance to see how his life would turn
out before… He should have stayed with Mom. He should have stayed with us. He would have never walked away if he could have
seen… if he would have seen… how it all turned out,” I say. I choke on my words. My head falls to my chest.

John waits.

I whisper, “My only consolation is that they had a great love.”

“Have,” John says.

“What?” I say, looking up.

“They
have
great love,” John says again.

“How can they
have
it? Mom’s gone and Dad’s…”

“Just because someone goes away doesn’t mean love stops,” John says, his voice quiet.

“No?”

“No,” he says. So close.

John continues, “Your mom and dad never stopped loving each other. And it’s that… that’s what’s in his heart now.”

“I want to believe you so badly.”

“How can you even question it? The love you’ve carried for your mom is beyond belief and it certainly didn’t stop the day
she passed away,” John says, pulling my face up.

“No, it didn’t… it didn’t,” I say, my voice cracking. I know the feeling of being warmed from the inside by someone who’s no
longer here. That fire never goes out. Ever.

“Of course it didn’t,” John finishes.

I am quiet. Trying to catch my breath. Find a point on the horizon. Anything to stop the world from spinning.

John continues, “And I hate to break it to you, but even though Ray and Evelyn were definitely the loves of each other’s lives,
it was probably the four of you that made them both the most proud.” His face is hesitant. He’s obviously not sure I can handle
what he’s saying.

I can’t.

The tears speed up my throat, from deep within. So deep. So buried.
Intentionally
. I knew my turn would come. I watched it happen to Abigail. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was overtaken. And now, as
I finally allow myself to really feel the loss of Mom, I begin to feel this sensation of weightlessness and freedom. A glimmer
that I can be whole again. That I might be able to heal. John’s arms tighten around me as I begin to mourn a family I didn’t
know was broken, a father I wish I’d known and a future where I must now go on without parents who loved me more than anything.

“I guess it’s officially your turn,” John says, as my sobbing finally subsides. The windows of his Escalade are steamed up.
To passersby, it probably looks a bit tawdry.

“You saw to that,” I say, taking a long, slow breath. I can finally breathe deeply and grab all the air my body has to give.
No more Chutes and Ladders. No more compartments and roller coasters. No more obstacles. But instead of feeling empty, I feel… hope.

“You said something about Indian food?” I ask, untangling myself from John. He nods, turning on the ignition.

I continue, “Nothing like a good tikka masala after a mini-breakdown.”

W
hat took you guys so long?” Huston sighs, opening the large wooden front door to his house for John and me. Without traffic,
it only took us about forty minutes to get from South Pasadena to the Palisades where Huston insists on living. It’s near
the beach, he argues. What it’s not near is any of us. I think that’s probably more of a pull than its proximity to the ocean.

“I had a mini-breakdown in the parking lot,” I answer, stepping into the foyer of Huston’s house.

“Of the Indian place?” Huston asks, taking some of the bags of Indian food.

“St. Teresa’s,” I answer. The Spanish tile is buffed a beautiful orangey-red, the arches are high and solid. When I last saw
this house it had been taken down to the studs and Huston was living in a tent in the backyard, aka the sandlot in the back
of the “fixer-upper” he bought for a few million dollars.

“Why does it matter which parking lot it was?” John asks.

“I guess it doesn’t,” Huston muses, walking into the kitchen. We follow.

“No, I see where you’re going with it. If the breakdown were in the Holy Cow parking lot, it would’ve been a lot more dramatic.
Exposed, somehow,” John argues, as we thread through the rooms leading into the kitchen.

“Plays to state of mind,” Huston adds. He’s wearing a paint-splattered Harvard Law T-shirt and an old pair of jeans. Bruce
Springsteen blares from his iPod and a bottle of Corona sits on the counter.

“Can I get off the stand now?” I sigh, taking in the kitchen. John pulls several take-out boxes and various tinfoiled batches
of naan from the plastic bag. Huston turns the music down and walks over to the refrigerator.

“You brought it up,” Huston says, passing John and me a couple of beers.

“Something I’ll never do again,” I say, cracking open the bottle and taking a swig.

Huston laughs. “Oh, please.”

“This is nice,” I say, looking around the almost completely renovated house. Who needs therapy when you have a kitchen that
needs retiling?

“That’s right—you haven’t seen it since—” Huston answers.

I cut in, “There were walls.”

“I burned that tent in a ritualistic pyre after I moved into the main house,” Huston says, taking a long swig of his beer
and eyeing the food.

“We got you the vindaloo,” I say, pointing to an orange-tinged, oozing take-out box.

“I’ll get plates,” Huston says, reaching up into one of the cupboards.

John and I settle in around the dark wooden table tucked into a little nook in the corner of the kitchen. There are four chairs
around it, but it’s tucked in so tightly to the nook that only one chair is really functional. John and I wedge ourselves
into the other chairs and don’t say a thing.

“I had Charlotte collate all the information we were talking about today,” John says, loading up his plate with rice.

“Who’s Charlotte?” I ask, dumping my tikka masala onto the plate.

“My assistant,” John says, tearing off a piece of naan.

“I think that’s probably the key to this whole thing,” Huston answers, taking a bite of his vindaloo.

“What are you two talking about?” I blurt, my mouth burning with overly spicy Indian fare.

“Whoa,” Huston says.

“If you tell me not to have another mini-breakdown I’ll—”

“Hawk a giant loogie on me?” Huston laughs, taking another huge bite of his vindaloo.

“I’m definitely not above that,” I say, taking a long swig of my beer.

“Your dad set up a bunch of accounts for the little kids: Evie, Matty, and Emilygrae,” John says, carefully watching my reaction.

“You okay?” Huston tests.

“Accounts?” I ask, feeling hungry for the answers to as many questions as possible. And with the mini-breakdown clearly in
my past, I don’t feel that constant threat of impending hysteria looming around every corner.

“Money for college, they were named on life insurance policies—that kind of thing,” John answers.

“John thinks it establishes another layer of Dad’s… involvement,” Huston explains.

“Involvement,” I repeat.

“They’re going to come after us, but having proof that Ray also wanted to take care of the little ones…” John trails off.

“Shows a purposefulness and integrity to his actions that should stay above the fray,” Huston finishes.

“Are we expecting a fray?” I ask, piling my masala and some saffron rice onto a piece of naan. I shove it into my mouth. How
long has it been since I’ve really eaten? I just picked at the sandwich Abigail brought by this afternoon.

“I think Connie made that quite clear,” John answers. We all remember the day we got Dad out of St. Joseph’s in Ojai. It seems
so long ago and the fact that it was just yesterday stuns me.

“I guess I thought that since she had her $113,000 and a town house that she might just slink into the background,” I offer.

“She might,” Huston answers, taking a swig of his Corona.

“She won’t,” John cuts in.

“She hasn’t been to St. Teresa’s. One could argue that if she had big legal plans she would want to, at least, look like she’s
tried visiting Dad,” I argue. Huston nods.

“We were all there that day. Not one of us believes that she’s done with this family,” John argues, no longer eating.

“I don’t know. I have to agree with Grace,” Huston starts.

“You have got to be kidding me.” John stops, his fork drops to his plate.

“She’s all about the endgame. If she wanted to keep this circus going, she would have had to come to St. Teresa’s to build
the sympathy vote,” Huston argues, pointing his rice-clad fork at John.

“We talked about this earlier and I didn’t agree then either,” John counters.

“It’s just a theory.”

“Call it what you want,” John says, taking a swig of his beer.

“I just called it a theory, so obviously I’m referring to it as such.”

“I just want you guys to be prepared,” John presses, trying to sit back in his cramped chair.

I smile. “That’s why we have you.”

“Right,” John answers, his face tense.

“We’re not deluded, but maybe she’s not quite the mastermind we built her up to be,” Huston offers, his voice calm.

“Then how do you explain Ojai?” John argues.

“It’s an upper-class enclave of about ten thousand people tucked away in the hills of Southern California,” I answer, giving
a small wink at Huston. He smiles.

“Very funny,” John says, his expression easing.

“Let’s just eat,” I beg.

“Fine,” John concedes.

“I’ll give you the grand tour when we’re done,” Huston says. He motions to the rest of the house with his fork.

“I’d like that,” I say, beaming at him and relishing the fact that I’m here. John picks up his fork and continues eating.
He’s quiet while Huston and I chatter on about light fixtures, subway tile and the lavender that’s now blooming in his backyard.

“Mateo, get away from that grill!” I yell, standing in a park just down the street from St. Teresa Manor early the next morning.
No sign of Connie or Dennis again this morning.

“Yeah, so I was walking in the parking lot last night and happened to see your little sex show,” Leo announces, as we watch
the kids play. My face flushes red and I immediately want to bury my head in the sandbox.

“We were talking,” I say, watching Mateo move over to the climbing structure.

“Yeah, I talk to everyone like that.” Leo laughs as Emilygrae joins Mateo on the play structure.

“I had a mini-breakdown,” I confess.

“Was it anything like Abigail’s?” Leo sighs, shaking his head.

“No,” I answer quickly.

“Where did that
come
from?”

“Same place all of ours have come from, I guess.”

“All of that… all of that was just in there,” Leo theorizes, his eyes elsewhere.

“I know,” I sigh.

“Mateo, don’t eat the sand!” Leo yells.

Once John dropped me off at St. Teresa’s this morning, I asked Abigail if she wanted to spend some time with Dad alone. She
agreed, deftly skirting questions about her show of emotion yesterday. She’s clearly not comfortable with our thinking she’s
vulnerable. She quickly jumped into issuing strict orders to wash my hands and said something about getting my taxes in on
time. I just nodded and allowed her the moment.