You Only Get So Much (2 page)

Like two peas in a pod.

"I get that,"
I say and then after a moment add, "You really grew up."

"And you got
old," she says.

And I feel old too.
Kendall is old enough to drive, make out with boys—I shuttered to think
that making out probably isn't the only thing she's doing with this Ethan punk.
My stomach twists and I feel sweaty again.

Kendall is a beautiful
young girl sullied only by her attire, makeup and the sour expression on her
face. No doubt, the funeral of your parents isn't a positive emotional
highlight, but I get the sense that this is Kendall's everyday face. Discontent
in black and white.

"You should pay
your respects to your parents," I say.

"I don't see you
going in there."

"I was just about
to go in," I lie.

"It's almost
over."

"All the better
then," I say.
  

"Let's go. You can
be my cover story," Kendall puts her arm through mine and leads me away by
the elbow.

"Hey, what about
me?" Ethan says, clearly disappointed.

Over her shoulder, she calls back to him,
"I'll text you later. My uncle has to go to a funeral."

Chapter 2

Despite chaperoning
Kendall into the service, my presence, or more accurately, who I am, isn't
noticed until the graveside service when my mother, Vera, takes note. She had
been sitting in the front row of the sad little collection of chairs under a
green awning, facing the two holes in which the caskets are about to be lowered
into. She leaves my father Charles, sitting in his wheelchair in dramatic
fashion—during the service—noting loudly enough for the permanent
residents of the cemetery to hear her excuse herself.

"I'm going to say
hello to William," she practically shouts into my father's ear. "It
seems as though he has returned to us in our hour of need."

What exactly she meant
by this statement isn't entirely clear to me, nor would it be until the following
day.

William, she always
calls me William, never Billy or Bill, as friends and my late wife did. To this
day, she is still the only person who uses my given name when addressing me.

She is now commanding
the attention of every person at the graveside service, including the priest.

"I need you at the
reading of the will tomorrow," she says.

No
Hello.
No
It's good to see you.
Or
How are you?
Or
Nice beard
.
Just,
"I
need you . . . tomorrow
."

She says no more and
returns to her prized seat just inches from the death holes her son and
daughter-in-law are about to be lowered into. The priest, who had stopped
talking when my mother had stood up, returns to his canned speech when she sits
back down.

I had always done my
best to put the actions of my mother—throughout my entire life—into
perspective. She was direct, not cold. She was organized, not calculated. She
was efficient, not abrupt. Trevor and my younger sister April didn't seem to
have the same ability to see her actions in the best light possible, or they
had chosen not to.

I can't remember a time
when Mom wasn't plump. Not plump, like fat, but plump like a Keebler Elf. Her
short stature didn't detract from that visual either. She tended to wear pants
made of fabric patterns that would have better suited a sturdy couch than a
woman. Bright green, red, blue, yellow—all the shades of the
rainbow—adorned her pants collection. Trevor once joked that if we were
ever shipwrecked on a deserted island, he hoped Mom's pants collection was nearby
so they could signal planes passing at 30,000 feet. Truer words were never
spoken.

She was a homemaker and
in some ways still was, even at the retirement home. In today's terms she'd be
referred to as a Tiger Mom or Helicopter Parent, but decades ago they just called
those people bitches who hovered and suffocated their children with attention
and demands. But to Mom's credit, she had never missed one of her kid's
baseball games, piano recitals or ballet lessons.

Had she been able to,
she would have coached or taught each of these activities to ensure some
volunteer didn't ruin her child's chance at getting into an Ivy League school.
Because as everyone knows, a baseball playing piano protégé, who can do a
pirouette in pointe shoes is a lock for Yale.

Trevor and I resisted
the pressure put on us by Mom and rose above, for the most part. It drove
Trevor to the top of his field and had made me modestly successful at one time,
yet it had ground April into dust. What's good for the goose wasn't always good
for the gander. It was contrite, but true.
 

Mom was rough, but as
the oldest, I'd also been entrusted with more responsibility and thus, more
independence than either Trevor or April. If my mother needed me to be
somewhere—like the reading of the will—I'd be there.

My presence at the
reception on the other hand was not entirely my choice. Kendall had asked for a
ride, noting that I'd scared off her boyfriend and her only means of transport,
which was not entirely true.

*
* *

The reception, which
followed immediately after the funeral and graveside service was orchestrated
by my little sister April, which gave it a much more depressing and cheap feel
than you would normally expect from the funeral of a prominent doctor and his
lovely wife. The home of the late Trevor and Jennifer Redmond served as an
awkward backdrop for the event, but realistically there wasn't another family
home large enough to house it. The elder Redmonds—my parents—were
in a retirement home and April lived . . . well, nobody knew for sure. And of course,
I wasn't expected to be around either. Credit to April for stepping up, or at
least making an attempt.

Trevor and Jennifer
always called the place the Cedar House, because it was on Cedar Road. Naming
it gave the house a much more mansion-like feel than it really deserved. Sure,
it was a nice place, but Donald Trump wasn't bidding to buy it.

So here I sit in my late
brother's large home on Spokane's Five-Mile Prairie overlooking the city. I'd
done my best to keep my distance from my mother, in a foolhardy effort to avoid
a public discussion of my whereabouts for the past 12 years. Those questions
would come, but this wasn't the place for them.

I find myself standing
near the dining room holding a paper plate containing a peanut butter and
cheese sandwich sliced into thirds, macaroni salad from a grocery store and
half a banana. It was April's doing, no doubt. Cooking, on a budget or
otherwise, was not her forte.

"She's sort of
moved in," Kendall says, nodding toward April.

Kendall is still in her
black-and-white rebel costume. She takes my plate and replaces it with an open
bottle of beer. It's non-alcoholic.

"Sorry, this is the
only beer we have," she tells me. "Not sure why April bought that
kind."

"I'm not sure why
they even make this stuff," I say, happy to replace the food, which I
wasn't planning to eat anyway.
 
Who
would want to eat peanut butter and cheese? Not me. I wanted to ask Kendall why
a 16-year-old—or was it 17-year-old—thinks it's OK to carry around
an open beer, even a non-alcoholic one, but decided to let it go. I already
know what the answer would be.

"What do you mean
she moved in?" I ask.

"Mom and Dad asked
her to stay over to watch me and Gracie while they took their vacation and she
just never left," Kendall says. "Apparently they didn't trust me to
watch Gracie alone. April's staying in the guest room downstairs."

April had a thing for
guest rooms. And couches. And random sex partners. I was in college when April
dropped out of high school to pursue "other interests." These
interests included stocking shelves at a video rental store and smoking
pot—not exactly the career path Mom envisioned for her youngest child.
Somewhere along the way April rounded up a GED and worked part-time at a bead
store that doubled as an illegal marijuana dispensary.

I note as April walks
past, that she looks terribly frail. She unloads another batch of peanut butter
and cheese sandwiches on the kitchen counter. Her skin is pale—almost
translucent. Her sandy blonde hair is thin and stringy. It hangs loosely around
her face. She was using something stronger than pot. That was clear. I'd been
in enough bars in rural Montana to recognize a tweaker. The sniffing, shakes
and incessant scratching. She isn't exceptionally skinny, which is a good sign.
At least she's eating.

Our eyes meet but she
doesn't come over, nor do I make the effort to do the same.

For years Trevor had
forked over handsome fees to rehab clinics in an effort to set our little
sister on the straight and narrow. He had kept a credit at a local rehab
center, just in case April decided to enroll herself. I assumed the credit
remained on that account—untouched.
 
She did her best to hide her addiction, which presumably meant she was
aware of it and dealing with it. Not that awareness made it any better.

April flitted about the
house refilling glasses and offering food to people she barely knew. Her
boundless energy had to have come from a pipe or vial. She'd crash at some
point unless she got another high. Soon April is off to another room, being
busy and avoiding conversations. Avoiding me too.

I recognize a few of the
doctors who had worked with Trevor. But for the most part, absent the family,
the assembled collection of mourners is a mystery. Which means they don't know
me either. This is a plus. I don't intend to stay long.

Kendall is still at my
side.

"How are you
holding up?" I ask her.

"Fine, I
guess," she says.

Her sweet voice doesn't
match her rough, black and white, fishnet-stocking exterior. She is putting on
a front. I could tell. What more did I expect her to say though? I was
practically a stranger.

"If you need
something, let me know," I say—a line taken directly from Funeral
Mourning 101. What exactly could I do for her? I wasn't expecting to bond with
devil-worshiping, Goth-wearing Kendall—or even little Gracie for that
matter. Which is better for all of them anyway. I'm not good for my family.

My hotel is only booked
through the night. I'll respect my mother's wishes, appear at the reading of
the will, and make my way back to the cabin. No harm done.

The sooner I can get
back home and out of their lives the better.

*
* *

Gracie is playing on the
deck that overlooks the north side of Spokane. The railing is toughened glass,
so the view is completely unobstructed to the neighborhoods below.
 
On a clear day like today, you can see
all the way downtown. A troop of dolls is gathered in a circle around Gracie
and she is handing out pine needles to each one and talking to herself. She is
alone, but animated as if with playmates. Gracie brakes the pine needles in
half and serves them to her dolls. A snack from nature. She continues to talk
and gesture with her hands, the warm spring sun beating down on her long blonde
hair and her small back.
 

She is so small.

She looks so similar to
my late daughter, Aspen, that she is almost painful to watch, even after all
this time. The years haven't changed my feelings for Aspen, especially the
guilt for what happened to her. What I let happen. When I see Gracie, I see
Aspen and the crippling boulder on my chest doubles in size.

 
"She's been sleeping with me in my
bed the last few nights," Kendall says of Gracie. I hadn't realized
Kendall was still at my side.

I don't know if sleeping
in your sister's bed is normal or not. I suspect so, but have no reference
point.

"Ever since they
told us about Mom and Dad she won't sleep alone," she says. "I tuck
her in and she stays up in her room reading or looking at pictures in books
until I go to sleep. Then she comes to my room and just climbs in."

"You put her to
bed?" I ask.

"I always
have."

Always have? What about
Trevor or Jennifer? Why is a teenager doing the work of a parent?

Maybe she is
exaggerating.

Jane, my late wife, had
always been the one to tuck in Aspen. I would do it if I was home by then, but
that wasn't very often. I worked ungodly hours away from home or locked in a
room so I could write in peace. Jane was insistent that I at least go through
the motions of being a parent, even if I was completely clueless as to what
needed to be done for Aspen.

I remember being
instructed to play the Tooth Fairy one night after Aspen had lost one of her
front teeth. Jane had to attend some neighborhood meeting and so it was up to
me.

The gig was simple.
Swipe the tooth and replace it with some pocket change for her to find in the
morning. Unfortunately Aspen had chosen that night to pull all of her storage
boxes out of the closet and pile them in the middle of her bedroom floor and
not tell me. For what reason, I'll never know. After taking the tooth I
realized that I'd forgotten to grab some quarters as payment. In my haste, I
tripped over one of the storage boxes and landed in a heap among all the toys
in her room. Aspen awoke to me grunting out muffled profanities at her stuffed
animals. The tooth was now missing and there was no payment from the Tooth
Fairy. Shattered dreams all around.

The lecture I received
that night from Jane about ruining Aspen's imagination and wonder, was long and
profound. Aspen stopped asking to leave her baby teeth out for the Tooth Fairy,
claiming that she didn't want her to hurt Daddy again. A tragic story of
imagination gone sour.

So if nothing else, I
knew the importance of bedtime and tuck-ins. Asking Kendall why she was in
charge of that task might bring up feelings I wasn't exactly equipped to
discuss.

"How did you find
out—about what happened to your parents, I mean?" I ask Kendall.

"They called me
into the counselor's office at school," she recalls. "The principal
and my grade's counselor were there. They told me."

"I'm sorry you had
to find out that way."

"Didn't matter.
News is news," she says, shrugging her shoulders. "They drove me to
Gracie's school, so I'd be there when she found out."

"Your grandma
wasn't there?"

"No, we don't see
them much."

"Right," I
say.

A chirping noise burst
out of Kendall's pocket as she received a text message and wandered off,
leaving me alone to watch Gracie.

Gracie doesn't even know
who I am and has not glanced my way once.

There was so much that
I'd missed over the years. A new wave of guilt and remorse washed over me. I
don't know anything about these people—my family—and they certainly
don't know me.

When I left Spokane 12
years ago, I had no intention of coming back, ever. The more distance the
better. It's better for all of them if I just leave now. They'd know Uncle
Billy was still kicking around somewhere and that would be the end of it.
 
Assuming they even cared. They needed
to move on too, right? Start the healing process. That's what all the experts
say.