by Ede Clarke
“Don’t remember,” she says with her usual ten-year-old confidence, while bouncing off the kitchen stool and down the hall.
“Try to watch the crumbs, please,” my voice trails off as she fades into the dark shadows.
Over the next few hours they all trickle in, each with their own vivid way of inserting energy exactly where their space is in each relationship in each room in each hour. The ebb and flow of the family comes alive with its distinct, familiar patterns of noise, congestion, conversation, silence, eating, cleaning, playing, negotiating, smiling, and laughter. Just as the last weeks and then days at Erie County are still very vivid for me, I sit in this moment—tonight—and know with certainty that years from now this day and the few to come will also be among the most clear and detailed memories I will hold of them, of us, together.
Jackie’s sweetness is intoxicating as I see him anticipate the needs of us and try to help before we even know we need it. A few winks in his direction let him know someone other than God is appreciating his thoughtfulness right now.
Lizzie’s ever-increasing hunger for knowledge assaults and challenges us all evening long. Eventually, I give her a five-minute quiet time to give us all room to think on our own, just for a bit. She’ll need a tour guide in life to give the answers and steer her to continue to have the confidence in asking the questions. Will that be torn out of her soon?
Clara sits among us all, smiling with her always positive attitude without flinching as this dynamic, physical family bounds around her, circling and swirling at her quiet, still delight. Wise and discerning, but rarely played out in judgment, she watches the world and pretends to take part. My hands on her shoulders, sometimes her head, hopefully show her I know she knows she hasn’t yet begun to participate. For now, she’ll pretend she is this personality that her body forced upon her.
Hector, ever the boy’s boy, continues to swat, flick, thump, pluck, ride, flex and investigate anything within reach. Now that his brain is starting to catch up with his body and passion, his insight into the workings of things is a newfound hobby. Now as he taps, thugs, and pops, he’s intently watching something in motion until he figures it out. Wonder what he’ll build first.
Beth’s ear might as well be part of the phone from seven to eight-thirty every night. And her bum might as well be part of the kitchen stool that I make her position within eyesight of me every second she’s talking to her friends. People say it’s normal at her age, but I know if I didn’t put a time limit on it, she’d be on that phone all afternoon into the early morning hours. Her anger has simmered, but in my opinion just channeled elsewhere; usually into caddy remarks of other friends or other schools or teachers or probably me. When she lets me hug her I hope she knows I’m angry too, but that love and anger can live together—only if nurtured to do so.
“So, tonight I have amazing news that you are not going to believe.” I thought I’d make this a happy occasion, happy news—happy, happy, happy. “I think you’ll be really happy about this.”
“Why are you trying so hard?” Hector outs me immediately.
“Am I?” I immediately get defensive.
“I think she thinks we won’t be happy,” Lizzie frets with lip in teeth, grinding away, looking sideways at me and Beth.
“Alright, that’s enough,” I move closer to them, sitting on the floor in front of the couch and love seat where they are crammed together, hanging off, limbs everywhere, except for Beth who recently doesn’t want to be touched, by anyone. “Do you remember how your Father was gone, but that we never really found him?” I start in and immediately get cut off by Beth.
“I knew he wasn’t dead,” she says to me and then to the ground with a deadpan serious tone.
“You were right, Beth,” I tell her and tell them. “He is not dead. He is alright. And he wants to see you guys.” I give them a second to catch their breathe. Actually, I need a chance to look at them and see if they are alright. “You guys okay?” I check in, but don’t get much back. “He didn’t explain everything yet, but he’s alright. He says he had some things he needed to work through, and that he has done that and now would like to live with you guys again. It’ll be . . . ”
“Wh . . . What . . . Why?!” flames Jackie.
“Why what, honey?”
“Why does he want us now if he didn’t want us then?”
“I don’t want him, then,” chimes in Hector. “How about that?!”
The last five days have been full of questions like Jackie’s that are impossible to navigate. The mild irritation I felt towards Ted and his impatience on the phone has now turned into a full blown boil, for I am the one fielding all the transition questions and issues. Once again he is gone and I am here. At least he’s consistent.
“I think I need help with anger.”
“Yyya, think?!” Candy affirms back with a sarcastic giggle. “Give me a break, Patty. It’s about time you got angry. At least you’re not going to Milton and Hawthorne with your woes. Throw around a pot or two and punch a pillow. Then what do you want to do?”
“That doesn’t much matter, really. What I want isn’t in this, I don’t think.” As I say it, it becomes so. I tell it to myself over again in my head, What I want isn’t in this.
“What, sorry . . . what’d you say? Patty, you’re starting to let go and that’s probably good. Right?”
“Right . . . No, wrong! I can’t just decide to start letting go. How do I . . . Sorry, Candy, I have another call beeping in. I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay? . . . okay . . . love you, too . . . thanks . . . Hello, this is Patty . . . Yes . . . What? . . . What?! . . . Are you sure? . . . Yes, I’ll come right now . . . Thank you. Bethy, it’s Patty. I need your help . . . I have to meet Clara at the hospital—the school just called . . . I don’t know . . . Can you pick up Hector at the big field and bring him home and wait for the others to come home from school? . . . Thank you so much . . . Oh, Bethy? . . . Yeah, Beth must be home by five-thirty from Michelle’s. The number is on the fridge . . . Yes . . . Thanks . . . Bye.”
They really should have valet parking at the emergency room. God, please keep her . . . Oh, God please! This is crazy busy. How far will I…Oh, there’s one. Don’t hit the other cars. Good. Okay. Purse. Phone. No! Okay. Wallet is in purse? Yes. Okay. Here we go. Walking fast. Okay. Is she gone?! Running slowly. Uneven. Careful. God’s timing is perfect. Okay. Here’s the door . . . Oh, where is she?! There’s the sign, but wheeeerez thhhee—oh, there’s the red sign. Okay. Left then left again. Information Desk. “Clara Tedesco?” I can’t hear my voice but I know the breath came out of me. From my left a white coat comes alongside and swoops me into a room where we sit and began to talk.
“Your daughter was brought in from Kenfield Elementary, as you know. She collapsed at her desk during class and was brought to us by ambulance. She never regained consciousness after the initial collapse. We did everything we could. Our efforts failed. We were unable to revive her. She died from sudden death, which in her case is cardiac related. I am very sorry.”
So young. The woman telling me all of this is so young . . . and pretty. I just look at her and think of her unblemished youth. Her youth.
“At this time we are not certain what caused the sudden death. We can investigate. We would like to investigate. If that is alright, please sign here,” she points.
I see the pen in my hand. I feel it is cold. Cold. I sign my name. Why?! I scream inside and notice my energy is faltering. No one saw the scream?
“It will take some time for the investigation. We will let you know as soon as we determine the cause. Is there someone I can call?”
“Uh . . . ” and I let out a big sigh and continue to quietly weep. The cry is inside me, so private no one could possibly hear or see or understand. And I sit here with a stranger. And the stranger is a possible connection to bringing someone I know here to be with me. But, I can’t speak . . . to this stranger . . . or even possibly to myself.
“I can t
ake you to her if you’d like. Or, you can stay here. Whatever you’d like.”
“Uh . . . ” Another expulsion of air and a slight nod begins our walk down a hall—so cold—and into a room—so dark, with shadows streaming in from adjacent rooms and a few small windows. One sliver of light crosses her blanket on a diagonal and continues onto the floor across a few tiles. It is warm when I touch the sliver. Warm. I hear my stomach grumble. Hunger. Tightening in my stomach and my shoulders and I passively hug myself, feebly attempting safety or anything to take this away. This . . .
For the first time in my adult life I have emotional pain that is not familiar. New pain is what they should give the child sex offenders and serial rapists as their sentence. It messes with your mind even more than with your heart—scraping away confidence and bravery built over time as only experience can for an adult. As in vertigo, when the miniature tiles of the inner ear break free, all that is left is off-center, nauseating, and horrifying. But unlike with vertigo, new pain is rarely set in motion while looking up. No, new pain begins without a look. It’s a left hook from the blind side. Problem is, it is our own decision to get into the ring in the first place. But, to be fair, we didn’t choose to come to the gym. That decision was made for us, and so we must train, socialize, and regularly engage in order to remain. Only remain?
“Bethy is here with the kids, Candy. Yeah, she’s staying for a while and Kenny is here, too. Yeah . . . Don’t worry about it . . . Really . . . I would tell you . . . They’re having a hard time, as you can imagine. No . . . Not yet . . . I know. I plan to call him later today or tonight after things settle down here. I understand, Candy . . . It’s not a problem . . . Please, don’t even think twice . . . It’ll be great to have you here this week and then you should go . . . Absolutely . . . No, it’s fine. No need to cancel Bangkok . . . Really . . . Okay . . . See you tomorrow . . . Yep, thanks for coming . . . Love you too . . . Bye.
“Hi, Ted.”
“I’m . . . I’m glad you called, Patty. How . . . are you? And . . . and the kids?”
“Well, Ted, that is why I’m calling, actually.”
“Look, Patty, if . . . if you don’t . . . take care of telling them, then that is . . . that is the harder route, but . . . we will still get to the same place.”
“Ted, Clara is dead.”
It wasn’t easy to say, but after telling the kids, Bethy, Candy, the school, her cardiologist, and neurologist, it seemed to have no real meaning anymore. After all, language is just code. We decide what meaning each word has. Apple means apple because I decide to buy into the meaning that everyone else wants me to buy into so we can communicate. I can also say apple but think orange. Or, I can have my own code. Or no code at all and just say words and words and words and words, but have no connection to them. Clara is dead.
The hours and days that follow are a never-ending string of tasks—reactions to people and bills and arrangements and niceties.
“Busy is probably good,” Candy affirms in my direction as she makes lunch for everyone.
“How did all these people get into my house?” I frown back.
“Yeah, isn’t that only supposed to happen the day of the funeral. They’re kind of early, aren’t they? How rude.” She knows she’s funny, crinkling her nose like that at me.
“Alright. Alright. I’ll behave. It’s very nice of everyone,” I say with a perky “smile.”
“Don’t worry, after a while you can sneak off and go read in the bedroom. No one would be surprised if you needed to get away from it all.”
But would they be surprised to find me curled up with a closed book and four kids? That’s what I want: a bed full of Lizzie, Hector, Jackie and Beth. “I want them more than Wharton,” I confess.
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
“They are stuck to me like glue through this, though. Even Beth is hip to hip.” The tears start flowing and Candy leans her side into mine, with two busy hands outstretched over the table, still making sandwiches.
“It’ll make it even harder, huh?” Harder.
“I can’t have them see him for the first time at the funeral, Candy!”
“I know, but there isn’t much time as it is. Plus, he should be making consideration for you guys. Not the other way around.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve decided we’ll do lunch today and that should . . . ”
“The day before the funeral? Like we have nothing else to do? Like Lizzie isn’t feeling awful today, and Hector isn't so sad that his head hasn’t left the couch pillow, and . . . ”
“Well, then this will be a nice diversion, won’t it. Fresh air and something to get us all going. It’s the direction we have to go into anyway . . . all of us.”
“Now, I know it’s hard to get used to the fact that he’s back, but we don’t want to be rude, now do we?” I try to coax Hector into warming up to Ted. “I know it must be hard for him that you guys won’t even sit near him. He is your father, so just try and talk with him.” No movement. “Go on, Hector. He is your father. We are to honor our parents.”
At this Beth gets up from the table and says, “Excuse me.” At least she was polite about it. Hector squeezes into me even more closely on the picnic bench as we all continue to try to have lunch.
“Hector, I will not tell you again. Go and sit by your father right now. After you eat you may come back and sit by me.”
“Here’s your sandwich, dear,” helps Bethy, placing it in front of his new spot.
“I’m not hungry,” Hector makes his point.
“No matter,” I quickly speak up. “You don’t have to eat. It’ll give you more time to catch up with your Dad. So, Ted, why don’t you tell us all what you’ve been up to?” Candy spews a bit of lemonade as laughter suddenly comes upon her. I shove an extra napkin in her lap as Kenny helps us along,
“Yes, Ted, where have you been?” Just when Candy seemed to have herself together, Kenny’s bluntness catches her by surprise and stirs the protective friend in her.
“I’m so sorry you guys. I just have the giggles and can’t seem to get rid of them. Ever have that happen to you?” she looks at Lizzie and Jackie specifically with a wink and then continues. “I just can’t get over how ironic this lunch is. I mean, how thoughtful of you, Ted, to be here for us during this time. You’ve done so much as it is. You just keep giving and giving,” Candy then turns to me and says, “Remarkable, really. Don’t you think?”
This suddenly has become one of those character moments when you know what you ought to do, but you really want to do the lousy thing instead. My spirit jabs inside and offers me clear direction as to which way is correct. Then I full-heartedly choose, “Not really, no. Ted’s always thought of others before himself. He’s very consistent.” Conviction. Denial. Hardening.
A Driezer street scene; a Hawthorne obsession; a Fitzgerald party or sorrow; a Milton metaphor; A Wolfe solitary; and a Dickinson sharp shot: Faith, not stones, is at the bottom of my mind. And when the disappointment sets in, it does not break apart my foundation, but rather further shifts me into being. Apart from the hope of love, I would crack and break for lack of water, roots, and hope of eternity.
The funeral was lovely. This is what people keep saying to me and to Beth and to Hector and to Bethy and to Kenny . . . Lovely? Lily Bart’s image at a ball; an adult grandchild having lunch with Grandma; handmade lace hanging over an antique desk edge; and an intricate, fragile lily the second day out on bloom: Lovely.
“How come no one is really talking to Dad?” Lizzie whispers in my ear.
“Honey, they just don’t know him yet. He’s new, so people will talk to him a little, but not as much as us. Look, there’s Mrs. Crinshaw. Let’s say hello and thank her for coming.”
“Lizzie, we will miss you at school this year, my dear. But, I’m sure you’ll get to know new friends and teachers in New York,” she says with a sweet smile while bending down to Lizzie’s height.
Lizzie immediately looks at me with a confused
, hurt look and bursts out, “I’m not going to New York City, Mrs. Crinshaw. And you can tell anyone who wants to know!”
“Alright, honey. Let’s apologize to Mrs. Crinshaw, thank her for coming, and then you can go off and find Jackie. Okay?”
“Sawrrry,” she says with a bell sway of her embarrassed body, hands clasped at the small of her back.
“That’s alright dear,” comforts her teacher as she turns to find Jackie.
“I’m so sorry,” I offer, not really sure why I care so much.
“No problem. I’m sure this is all so awful and strange.”
“Can I get you a refill?” Candy interjects to Mrs. Crinshaw.
“Lovely, thank you,” she replies. Lovely.
As my view opens up at Candy and Mrs. Crinshaw heading toward the punch, my eyes land on Ted. He sits alone on the couch, no one on either side of him. Pity overwhelms me as I see him as a widow and now this. The amount of energy that grief steals is noticeable in such moments as this. I don’t even want to walk across the room. The chair two feet away looks really good. But, I make my way to Ted anyway. If nothing else, I know trying to have a conversation with him will make me feel like a better person. Funny how being around people you loathe actually makes you feel better about yourself sometimes. “Ted, may I?”
“Sure, Patty, have a . . . have a seat.”
“Can I get you anything? A drink maybe?”
“No. Thanks.”
Silko’s Woman Warrior streams into my mind, hazy, with history and pain and no resolution except to accept that the women of her family hurt her. The weight of it, she wanted it to free her, to give her a voice, a purpose. It gave her anger.
“I’m so sorry, Ted. I really am.”
“Thanks, Patty.”
“So, are you sure you don’t want to stay with us here at the house? I really don’t mind.”
“No. The hotel is fine. And . . . we’ll be . . . leaving . . . soon.” It took him so long to get out that sentence that I really thought by the time he finished it, it would have a different meaning than what I assumed he was aiming for. Apparently more time doesn’t always help.
