The Bookie's Daughter (39 page)

His head cradled in my arms, I rocked back and forth in grief. I heard the paramedics clambering up the stairway. Calling out, they asked where we were. I opened my mouth and found I had no voice. I was still struggling to stanch the flow of life pouring from my father’s nose when the paramedics found us a few seconds later. Quickly assessing the situation, they moved him into a prone position and pulled me from the floor. I found myself pushed into the hallway as paramedics swarmed into the room. In a daze, I leaned against the wall trying to take in the events of the last few minutes. A paramedic brought me back into the moment by asking me for medical details. I robotically related the events and gave him a brief update on my father’s complicated medical history. He then suggested I change my shirt. I looked at him bewildered, not understanding his suggestion. “You’re covered in blood,” he said, pointing to my shirt. “You need to change into something.”

“I don’t live here.” Robotically, I stared down at my bloodstained shirt.

“How about we find you something?” He maneuvered me into my mother’s room. Opening a drawer, he pulled out one of my mother’s shirts and handed it to me. I could not move. “Listen, you have been through a traumatic event. Walking around with a blood-soaked shirt is not going to make things easier. You need to change. Okay?”

I nodded in agreement and he pulled the door shut as he exited the room. Changing quickly, I walked back toward my father’s bedroom just as my sister appeared in the hallway. Seeing my face, she knew immediately the seriousness of the situation.

“What happened? I spent the day with him and he was fine. In fact, he told me he felt better than he had in years,” she explained, stunned at the turn of events.

“I know, he told me he was fine just an hour ago.”

A paramedic came to update us on my father’s condition. “It looks like he’s had a cerebral hemorrhage. We’ve done everything we can for him and need to get him to the hospital but we don’t have enough muscle to lift him. Can you get us some help?” His tone was solemn.

“Yes, I’ll get help.” I dashed from the apartment and into the bar next-door. I returned minutes later with four men who had quickly volunteered their assistance. The paramedics directed Vanessa and me outside while they arranged the manpower to lift my father from the floor and carry him down the apartment steps. Just as my sister and I emerged from the apartment walkway, my mother arrived looking pale and anxious. Wild eyed, she tried to get to her husband but Vanessa and I restrained her. “Mom, you’ll just get in the way. They’re bringing him down the steps now. You can see him when they bring him out,” I explained softly as my father appeared from the walkway and was loaded into the ambulance.

Vanessa and I coaxed our mother into the car and followed the ambulance to Monsour Hospital. Seated in the emergency waiting room, I explained the events of the evening and tried to steel my mother for the worst. “Mom, you have to prepare yourself. Dad was talking to Sitto just before he lost consciousness. She came for him.”

The finality in my words surprised her, but she refused to accept the possibility of his death. “No, he’ll be fine. He has come out of worse. Just wait and see. The doctors will tell us he’s fine.”

By morning, the doctors informed us of the severity of my father’s condition. He had suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage and there was little chance he would recover. I left the hospital shortly after receiving the devastating but expected diagnosis, leaving my mother in my sister’s care. Stopping by my apartment, I quickly showered and changed, and then headed back to the family apartment. My father’s room was in complete disarray. I lovingly straightened up. I looked through his closet, selecting a black suit, white shirt, and red tie, which I promptly dropped off at the dry cleaners. I knew, even though others were in denial, that Al had already crossed the line between this world and the next. His mother had come to assist him in his journey, and for that, I was grateful. I would make sure he had a smart outfit for his final stage appearance. I then picked up lunch and returned to the hospital, joining my mother and sister at my father’s bedside vigil.

Throughout the day, we sat with Al and waited for an update on his condition. After performing a battery of tests, the doctors informed us that my father’s brain showed no sign of activity. The only thing keeping him in this world was the life support system. They advised us to remove the life support, and let his body and God decide his fate. My mother and my father’s family were in deep denial. Only my sister and I seemed to understand that our father had embarked on life’s final great adventure.

Over the next day, we managed to make our mother understand that Al was not going to recover. We encouraged her to make the decision that he wanted. His final wishes were well known, as he had repeatedly told the women closest to him that life support was never to be an option. Bonnie accepted the burden and agreed to adhere to her husband’s wishes, affording him a natural and dignified death. Grief-stricken, she signed the papers, but requested time to notify family and friends who wanted the opportunity to say goodbye. The finality of the moment was gut wrenching for the Abraham women. For so long, we had loved and fought with the loveable yet exasperating giant awaiting the final leg of his journey. The decision made, my mother turned to my sister in anguish and whispered, “Who am I going to fight with now?”

Vanessa and I understood the enormity of the moment. For all her bravado and emotional aloofness, we understood the depth of her loss. The connection between our tragically flawed parents was as deep and enduring as it was dysfunctional. My sister comforted our mother while I made calls to his closest friends and family. Joetta and Penelope were the first to arrive. After bidding him adieu, they sat and comforted Bonnie.

By the morning of July 10, a stream of friends and family had come and gone, leaving us alone for the final act. As the life support system was removed, I kissed my father on his forehead, wished him peaceful journey, and left my sister and mother to witness his final breath. I had been blessed with the task of attending my father’s final conscious moments and knew his body would shortly follow his spirit. My father, Big Al Abraham, died just a few minutes later, leaving a grief stricken widow and two deeply wounded daughters to mourn the man who had been the center of our universe.

The dramedy that was my father’s funeral mirrored his madcap life. An assortment of gamblers, politicians, bookmakers, hit men, police officers, customers, friends, enemies, spectators, and mysterious strangers came to pay their last respects to a man who had blazed his way through life in a frenzied dance of addiction, excess, and adventure.

Vanessa and I protectively flanked our emotionally exhausted mother as she greeted mourners. Kindhearted gamblers and bookmakers passed through the line, offering their condolences and presenting my mother with envelopes of cash that they hoped would help her climb out of the financial disaster my father had left behind.

Al’s shadow life was represented in the myriad of strangers who passed through the line that led to his coffin. Some gave fabricated explanations about their relations with my father while others stared silently at the women he had left behind. Even though we were surrounded with family and friends, the atmosphere was rife with tension, a tension that was unexpectedly released with the appearance of the Grim Reaper and his mirror.

Although the Grim Reaper’s calculated actions were grounded in cruelty, the absurdity of the moment flooded over me. Years of police raids, high-octane escapades, and eluding pedophiles, stalkers, and psychopathic criminals had prepared me for the moment the mirror made its outlandish appearance. Instead of being consumed by fear or offence, I found myself struggling to contain a fit of laughter that bubbled up from my wounded soul. As the Grim Reaper retrieved the mirror from under my father’s nose, I scanned the room, taking in the stunned faces of those closest to the coffin. I settled on a hoodlum I had known most of my life. I watched as the shock of the Grim Reaper’s actions played across his face in a mixture of dismay and disbelief. Then, I gave up the fight to hold back the laughter. While others stood frozen in shock, I lost myself in the hilarity of the moment.

Laughter—my dearest friend, my most effective tool for survival, and my saving grace—bubbled forth. I looked to Vanessa and saw she too was struggling to contain her wicked sense of humor. One glance at my mother and my laughter intensified. Heavy with grief just a moment before, I watched as she transformed from a weeping widow into the wild-eyed terminator of my youth. Aware that I had made the ultimate breech of etiquette, I welcomed my mother’s fury. Grabbing me by the arm, she dragged me into the adjoining room and turned her full fury on her hysterical daughter. “What kind of daughter laughs at her father’s funeral?” She grew even more livid when I answered her with more laughter.

I saw the slap coming but did nothing to protect myself, willingly accepting the full force of the blow. My face now red with the force of my mother’s hand, I continued to laugh at the absurdity of the moment, only coming up for air as Vanessa entered the room.

“Mom, that’s enough!” Vanessa ordered. “Go back inside. I’ll take care of Heather.” Her stoic face masked her emotions. My mother left the room with a huff and I stood silently gazing at my sister. “Well, that was a hell of a spectacle,” she said with resignation as she took a seat in the nearest chair. “Another asshole in a long line of many.” She spoke sarcastically, but I heard the subtle humorous inflection and once more fought the urge to let laughter consume the moment.

Rubbing my cheek, I flopped down beside her and struggled to keep a serious tone. “I think she knocked a tooth loose.”

“You’re lucky it was open handed. She has a hell of a right hook.” Vanessa replied as she melted into laughter. We howled in excess, tears pouring down our face as laughter consumed us in blissful release. Hearing our cackling from the viewing room, our cousin Lovely entered the room and found us sprawled out on the chairs in tears and laughter. Intent on quieting us, she instead found herself caught in our contagious laughter and joined us in our merry grief. It took ten minutes before we had composed ourselves enough to rejoin our mother in the receiving line. Temporarily in control of our emotions, we squared our shoulders and steeled ourselves for the unknown.

The Grim Reaper may have succeeded in unsettling spectators, but his bizarre performance had also afforded the grieving Abraham women with a badly needed release of emotions. I saw his actions as the perfect tribute to my father’s madcap life. With tensions temporarily broken, I became deeply aware of my father’s presence and imagined his belly shaking with mirth at the Grim Reaper’s audacity.

Our momentary relief was quickly eclipsed as mysterious figures continued to wander in and out of the funeral home. We were acutely aware that my father’s secrets hung heavily about us and our lack of knowledge regarding his shadow life was both a blessing and a curse. We guessed that trouble was forthcoming but had no clue as to what form it would take. Pushing aside our anxiety for the future, we concentrated on seeing Big Al through his final rite of passage. After two days of viewing and much unease, my father’s body was sent for cremation. The expected troubles began before his ashes had cooled.

Three days after my father took his last breath, “creditors” began harassing his grieving and bankrupt widow. The phone again became a source of anxiety, a sinister tool used by those who claimed the right to any funds my father had left behind. Menacing disembodied voices invaded the family apartment and store, demanding payment and threatening bodily harm. At first, my mother tried to hide the source of her distress from Vanessa and me, but within days, we too had received threats.

Desperate for peace of mind, Bonnie began to comb through the family finances, hoping to find a hidden nest egg that had not fallen victim to my father’s dark passengers. Her search was fruitless; Big Al’s addictions had consumed everything. He had left his family with hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. Every asset was gone. Her back against the wall, my mother placed a call to a longtime “friend” of my father’s whose long reach extended throughout the seedy underworld. Explaining the dire situation in which she found herself, my mother was relieved when he pledged his support and protection. The menacing calls ended abruptly afterward, but the unknown still loomed heavily around us.

As with so many other traumatic family events, the Abraham women found themselves with little time to absorb the enormity of Big Al’s passing. The threats and the unknown variables of my father’s shadow life interrupted the natural flow of grief. Contemplation is all but impossible when you are preoccupied with looking over your shoulder, awaiting the next threat.

Within weeks of our father’s passing, Bonnie contributed to our general disorientation by announcing that she intended to close the family store and move off the Avenue. Like her daughters, my mother was in limbo and desperate to escape the past. Although I was not surprised with her decision, her desire for a quick departure was a bit disconcerting. Even though the threatening phone calls had stopped, my once brave and snarling mother clearly feared for her life. Vanessa and I were concerned with her hasty decision but understood all too well her desire to flee the scene of so many painful memories. At forty-eight, my widowed mother wanted a fresh start. Still, we did not understand her need for such a speedy departure.