You Only Get So Much (7 page)

Chapter 12

I look at myself in the
bathroom mirror. I examine the bluish rings that hang under my eyes. My beard,
still full, is specked with gray and white. These signs of maturity aren't
welcome. I know I'm not that old. When I look at my parents —now, they
seem old. I seem . . . established in my skin. But not old. I guess age is a
thing that you see differently from different sides of the hill. When I'm in
the park and see two twenty-something kids giving each other goo-goo eyes on a
blanket, I see them as young. If I saw someone doing the same thing at my age,
I'd think they were stoned to be so ridiculously happy.

I'm lonely.

Which is the height of
irony since I'm surrounded by more people today than I have been for years. In
those long days at the cabin my head was filled with stories and character
arcs. I'd form fully plotted novels in my head and revisit them throughout the
day. The characters that I'd create—a mad chef or a dorky mechanic or a
sexy housewife—would occupy my thoughts. What did they do? Who cared
about them? Where were they destined to go?

But today I'm alone. No
chefs or mechanics and certainly no sexy housewives. I can't focus on them
because there are real people around me. Family. People who need my attention.
Why me, though? How did I become that guy? They deserve better. There is
nothing in all my 41 years that I can honestly say that I've done that would
benefit someone other than myself. I'm selfish and awkward.
 
And I'm surrounded by people, while
never, ever feeling quite this alone.

I miss Jane. I miss
Aspen.

*
* *

It's Sunday afternoon
and I'm standing in front of a Weber charcoal BBQ grill in the backyard. The
thing is black like a beetle, with four long legs. I'm a propane guy, but
apparently Trevor wasn't. So when my mom called yesterday and invited herself
and Dad over for dinner, I had to improvise.

"
I can cook
burgers
," I had offered, though it was more of a question.

"
Yes, I guess you
could do that
," Mom had replied. "
We'll be dropped off at 2 p.m., William. And
make sure the house is cool for your father
."

My mom had this recurring
thought, which reached far back to when we were kids that you shouldn't turn
the air conditioning on in the house until you arrived. "
No use in wasting
the juice
," she'd say. There were times that the house was 80-plus
degrees before we got home, leaving us roasting all night long.

"
It'll be cool,
Mom
," I had said. "
Don't worry
."
 

At 2 p.m. sharp Vera and
Charles Redmond arrive.

"He's in a
mood," she says, referring to my dad. "We'd better just stay in the
shade of the backyard. He likes it there."

The mood that my father
was in was quiet. He didn't make a sound when the retirement home's driver
dropped them off and had yet to even acknowledge that he was anyplace other
than the areas he was confined to at the GreyHawk. His room with the tiny little
window and view of a truck tire came to mind. I still couldn't believe Mom
allowed that to go on.
 

His head was heavy and
it drooped down, hanging lifelessly. It bounced and swayed as I wheeled him
down the side yard to the shade in the backyard. He was thin and the marks on
this wrists were still visible. Red.

Mom busied herself with
Gracie, pulling her onto her knee, getting an instant smile and playing with
her short hair. Kendall and a very subdued Ethan sat on a swing under a maple
tree on the other side of the yard.

I maneuver Dad into the
shade next to me at the grill and lift his head up, so he isn't staring at his
own lap. His forehead below his thin hairline is greasy.
 
His head now rests back against the
chair and his mouth hangs slightly open. His eyes are unfocused behind his
photo-gray eyeglasses.
 

"How are you,
Dad?" I ask.

No response. Not that I
was expecting one. I spread the frozen burgers over the grill and instantly the
smoke from the charred meat fills my nostrils with memories of summer and
endless lines of picnic dishes. It's funny how smells can transport you to
another place. When I smell garlic, I see garlic fries being served at a
Seattle Mariners baseball game. A game they are undoubtedly losing. When I
smell lilac-scented candles, I think of Jane's and my bedroom. When I smell cut
grass I think of my father, but not this shell of a man sitting next to me. Is
he in there still? Does he know what's going on around him? Is he criticizing
me for using frozen meat and not fresh ground hamburger? That's probably the
least of his concerns.

The man who raised me
has been forced away by the Multiple Sclerosis. He's somewhere else. Obviously
there are a myriad of medical concerns raging inside him. Tucked away in a horrible
tangle below his graying skin that I can't see. The grill smoke burns my eyes
as I recall the last time my father and I were alone together. If you don't
count our short interaction at the retirement home—before Mom came
in—the last time my father and I had a conversation alone was a few days
after Jane and Aspen died. Of course he didn't say anything. It wasn't a
conversation at all. Men have a way of not messing up a perfectly good silence
with mindless words that feel scripted or forced.

It was at the old house,
the one I bought after I cashed in on
Isolated Highway
. He drove himself over, which
even all those years ago, was a scary proposition. I was in the dining room
trying to hang a curtain rod and cover the three large windows that I had neglected
to attempt for a long time. Jane had asked, repeatedly, for me to do it, but I
was gone or too busy to be bothered with it.

He had parked in the
driveway, walked in unannounced, saw my struggles and helped. That's it. Didn't
say a word. We worked quietly on stools, arms extended in the air until the
dining room curtains, the ones that Jane had wanted hung for so long, had
finally been installed. I'm not sure why I thought it needed to be done. I
guess it was my way of trying to make up for everything that went wrong between
us, yet I had no way of making up for what I'd done. I needed something to go
right. Any little thing.

I think Dad knew that I
had screwed up, although he had no idea of the struggles Jane and I had. He
just wanted to express his love and concern for me when I was at my lowest
point, but didn't know how to put words to it. All the things my friends said
and all the well-intended conversations with family did nothing for me really.
But that time with my dad—curtain rod in hand—was memorable.

Two men working in
complete silence. An unspoken bond between father and son. A pillar of support
that didn't need to be packaged or perfected. It just was.

As I flip the burgers,
my eyes burn, but it's not the smoke that's making my eyes water. I miss my dad
too, although he's sitting just six feet from me.

Chapter 13

"Young man, we
haven't met before," Mom says to Ethan as we're about to sit down at the
table to eat. "A proper greeting requires a handshake."

Ethan gets to his feet
and shuffles over toward her. He walks gingerly and I note that he is wearing
very loose-fitting gym shorts, no doubt to allow the two stitches on his penis
some unencumbered room with which to rest. I have very little fear of any funny
business between Kendall and Ethan thanks to the zipper incident. He begged me
not to tell his parents, which I reluctantly agreed to so long as he promised
that I would never have to discover such a scene again. No boy sleepovers. It
was a good rule.

"What are your
intentions with my granddaughter, Ethan?" Mom asks.
 

The expression on his
face is blank—no comprehension of the question.

"Leave him be,
Grandma Vera," Kendall says. "We're just friends."

I catch the look between
Kendall and Ethan that my mother missed. She just saved him from a Grandma Vera
water-boarding. The pain he experienced days ago, would have been no match for
the merciless barrage of personal questioning that may have ultimately led to
him running from the backyard and never looking back.
   

Mom has always been hard
on outsiders. Every girlfriend Trevor and I dated in high school was raked over
the coals when they were introduced. And it was a requirement that they be
introduced to Mom before any official date could occur. The tough
ones—girls strong enough to take her on—were keepers. They didn't
all make it though. The line of girls who never even made it past the first
interview with Mom was long—and sad.

It's terrible to think
that you can't even bring your girl home to meet your parents for fear that
she'd be ripped to shreds, but some of them were worth it, like Jane was. For
some reason Mom's torture test didn't faze Jane. Jane didn't talk about her
past much, something that Mom latched onto right away. Yet she had an answer
for every question and didn't seem bothered by being asked. This of course gave
me an inflated sense of self, because she had to go through the fire just to be
with me, which meant I was worth it. Or at least I thought so then.

The only other girl who
really got the one-two punch from Mom and survived to tell the tale was my high
school girlfriend Michelle. I haven't thought of her in decades. Michelle
Sherwood. She was something else—beautiful—but that was a long time
ago when I was just a stupid kid.

I shake my head loose of
the memory of Michelle and reintroduce my senses to the dinner around me. We
eat in silence. Mom, helping to feed Dad, who despite his afflictions, is still
able to down a solid, albeit small, meal. I take this as a good sign. He
doesn't have to eat mush through a straw or some concoction through a feeding
tube.

"I wanna go to the
park," Gracie says while I clear the table. "And play on the
merry-go-round."

I'd been putting it off
for days, not because I had anything against the park, but because her playing
on the playground was terribly boring and I quite honestly didn't want to sit
there.

"Yes, William, we
should do that," Mom says before I can open my mouth and make up an
excuse. "Your father will enjoy the park too."

So, off we go on foot to
the park down the street. Mom, pushing Dad in his chair. Me giving Gracie a
piggyback ride. Kendall and Ethan, walking side by side far behind the rest of
us. One big happy family.

Little did I know that
our gathering was about to get more permanent.
 

Chapter 14

"William, I don't
like to talk about money," Mom says, which is her code for
we're about to
talk about money, so listen up.

"OK," I say,
sitting up a little straighter on the park bench overlooking the playground.
Ethan and Kendall are helping Gracie on the monkey bars and looking none too
pleased to be doing it. The park is busy with the chatter of dozens of children
and doting parents chasing after them.

Dad is parked across
from us, silent as usual.

"We've come to the
end of our resources, William," she says.

"I'm not sure I
know what that means," I say.

"It means the
savings that I thought I would never even have to touch is now depleted and we
can no longer afford to stay at the GreyHawk."

All those ignored phone
calls from Emanuel Sanchez were obviously pleas for my financial assistance. Of
course I knew this, which is why I childishly ignored him. Apparently that
didn't work.

"Mom, I don't have
any—"

"I know you don't,
otherwise why would you live like a hermit in the forest for two decades?"
she says.

"Twelve
years."

"Right, just 12.
Anyway, we relied on Trevor. He helped us out, but now that he's gone I don't
know what else to do. We have nowhere to go. They are going to give away our
place at the GreyHawk to someone else. They are very cruel that way. Ready to
send us out onto the street."

I find it ironic that
Mom feels it's cruel to get kicked out for not paying their bill. That's how it
works, no matter how old and sweet you are. And Mom isn't all that sweet to
begin with.

I wasn't lying about my
financial situation. I don't have the money to pay for their care. I make just
enough in royalty checks from
Isolated Highway
to get by each month and I do not live a lavish
lifestyle by any means. My cabin is paid for. The truck—a piece of crap
—is paid for. That's all I own. If I was starting over on my own today,
I'd be the one getting booted for not paying my rent.

Should I get a job? What
would I be qualified for? Selling life insurance again. Real estate? God, I
hope it doesn't come to that.

"What about Trevor
and Jennifer's estate?" I ask. "Can't we dip into that?"

Since I was the
court-appointed guardian for the kids, I was also in control over the money
left behind by the insurance and estate. I had already decided that the only
money I would pull from the estate trust was money to cover the expenses at the
house, like the mortgage payment, utilities and groceries. I felt this was fair
because it was for the benefit of the kids. I wasn't about to take advantage of
what my brother left behind for my own personal gain. I'm not a thief.
 

"Of course not,
that was meant for the girls," she says.

"But you need it
and it's not doing any good in an account," I tell her.

"That money isn't
meant for me; and damn it, that's not why I'm talking to you about this,"
her voice is getting strained and I can tell this is difficult for her.
 
"I don't want to be a burden,
William, and neither does your father; but we need a place to stay and Trevor's
house is big enough for all of us."

The Cedar House? Oh, no.
This can't be happening. My head spins. My parents moving in? You hear stories
about failures in life returning home to their parents' house to live above the
garage or dwell in the basement, but parents moving into their kid's house? Not
too often. No less, a dead child's home which is currently being inhabited by
me and the girls.

"How can we provide
the level of care that Dad needs?" I ask, trying to think of something
that might dissuade Mom from this move, which she has clearly already decided
on. I'm not even sure why I asked.

"He has received
little attention at the GreyHawk. The nurses leave the majority of the tasks to
me as a courtesy, which I appreciate. He needs to eat, like we all do and he
likes his sunshine. His medicine is mostly covered by his government benefits.
He'll need two trips a week to the physical therapist, but I can always take
him on the public bus system, if it's too much for you."

Guilt tripping could
have been Mom's profession.

"No, that's not too
much," I say, referring to the physical therapy appointments alone. She's
making a foothold with the physical therapy and hoisting them both up for the
full stay. How can I say no? Should I say no? Do I have the right to say no? If
I hadn't come back to Spokane, Mom and Dad would probably already live at the
house and would be taking care of Kendall and Gracie. I shouldn't be the one to
stand in the way, as uncomfortable as it may be.

"Then it's settled,
we'll move in this week," she says, as if this was ever a discussion in
the first place. She knew the answer before she came.

"Where will you
stay?" I ask. "The place only has three bedrooms and that little
guest room."

"That's part of why
I wanted to visit today. I see that you've not moved into Trevor and Jennifer's
room, so we'll take that one. Besides, it's on the first floor so we can get
the wheelchair in and out easily."

"Where am I
supposed to sleep?" I say, feeling like a teenager again, asking my mommy
for something.

"I suppose you'll
continue to stay on the couch, although it seems to me that Trevor's office is
nicely appointed and has room for a bed, if you're not interested in sleeping
on the couch any longer."

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"Not interested in
sleeping on the couch any longer," I say.

"Well then this is
just the boost you need to move your belongings into the office or that room
April was in."

"Great."

I look over at Dad, who
has been staring blankly at the few feet of grass in front of him this whole
time. He lifts his head up a bit and ever so slightly turns it toward me. Mom's
not paying attention. Dad doesn't say a word, but he locks eyes with me and I
swear I see him nod his head up and down slightly. A gesture of thanks maybe?
Or a recognition that Mom will always get her way, so there is no use arguing
with her. This, I feel is more likely. Either way, I like that Dad is
communicating with me. Even with nods. And it seems as though he's going to be
around a lot more to do it. Maybe, just maybe, he's actually pleased about
that.