A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents

by Liza Palmer

  I sit back a bit on the bench. My shoulders have crept all the way back up to my ears. I force them down by watching the first violin move with the music. His long fingers move up and down the neck, making it look so easy. He closes his eyes for just the briefest second and I wonder what demon he’s trying to quiet.

  The crowd erupts in applause and Mrs. Callahan motions for us to stand. I find Mom in the audience once more. She’s beaming. So happy. I hate myself that it isn’t enough. As the concert goes on, I look at that empty seat as if I were waiting for a bus. Now? If I crane my neck, can I see it approaching from down the street? What about now? Brahms… Bach and Handel. What about now? Nothing. The only people looking back at me are my family—apologizing for the one person who doesn’t deserve it. I decide right then that I won’t ruin the night. I’ll be happy.

  I flip the page of music, almost tearing it. Could I be doing something to make Dad mad? I must be doing something wrong. Is my playing not good enough? I started playing to spend more time with Dad—he on his trumpet, me playing along on the piano. He and Mom found this little upright beauty for my seventh birthday at a church rummage sale. I’ve been playing duets with him ever since. I never took official lessons. It was just Dad and I sitting on that tiny bench, hunting and pecking our way through masterpiece after masterpiece. Those moments spent playing with him are some of the best we shared. Just me, Dad and music. The piano went from something Dad and I did together to something that takes me away from the pain of wondering where he is all the time and what I might have done wrong.

  I have one great parent. That’s more than most people can say. I look back down at the keys. My eyes are clear, my anger is focused, and as I pound away, the sting of Dad’s absence lessens with every swallowed emotion.

  I promised myself I’d never wait again. I’d never trust anyone except my family. And Dad stopped being family.

  From then on.

  I might have been able to handle one part of this scenario without the other. Dad’s stroke or reuniting with my family. But both? Abigail sent me a save-the-date for my niece Evie’s quinceañera. I was planning on going—I even RSVPed after I finished being blown away that Evie was already almost fifteen years old. Maybe that’s what started this. Abigail saw an opening and using that crowbar-like determination decided now was the time.

  Maybe now is the time.

  I concentrate on Tim as he moves around the table, shaking hands and averting his eyes from various and sundry shelflike breasts.

  Is there any way to prepare for what’s going on with Dad now? Even if everything else hadn’t fallen apart, would there ever have been a right time to face the man who walked away twenty-two years ago?

  And like a lightning bolt just shot through the roof of Tim’s car, my heart seizes.

  Walked. Away.

  The trapdoor blows off its hinges and splinters against a far wall. I bend forward, putting my head between my knees.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Why haven’t I ever connected the two before?

  Dad walked away. I walked away.

  “Are you hiding?” Tim asks, opening the driver’s side door.

  chapter four

  Jesus, Grace… are you okay?” Tim asks, his hand on my back.

  “I’m fine… I’m fine. It’s the… the bagel. I shouldn’t have eaten it right after the run thing,” I say.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost,” Tim says.

  “Interesting wording,” I answer, as I squish my new revelation about Dad’s and my bolting into an out-of-the-way, yet increasingly crowded, corner of my psyche.

  “If you want me to believe this doesn’t have anything to do with your family, you’re going to have to be a lot more convincing,” Tim says, his hand now at my shoulder pulling me up.

  “Can we just go?” I plead, my head still between my knees.

  “I’m not driving with you in that position,” Tim says.

  “Fine,” I sigh, slowly sitting up.

  “Are you going to talk to me?” Tim asks. Inside I can feel myself gathering up. Putting the memories back into place. The voices getting a little further away every second I catch my breath.

  “I honestly don’t know what I’m feeling, to tell you the truth,” I begin.

  “Grace—”

  “I’m serious. I’m not being all mysterious—”

  “That’d be a first,” Tim interjects with the softest smile, an endearing attempt at diffusing the situation. It’s also a gentle reminder that being with me is a testament to his character.

  “Right… right,” I answer, my voice deflating.

  “Let’s just get home and get out of these wet clothes,” Tim says, starting up the car.

  “If it’s okay, I just want to go home. My home,” I say, clicking my seat belt across my chest.

  “Come on, Grace,” Tim chides gently, as he maneuvers out of the Noah’s parking lot. If I never come back here again, I’ll be the better for it.

  “I’m not being weird and moody, I swear. I just want to take a hot shower, maybe grab a yoga class.” Maybe I’ll change my name to Starla Nightbody, move to an art colony in Taos, New Mexico, and take up glassblowing or turquoise jewelry making. Could be anybody’s guess how far I’m going to take this.

  “Are you sure?” Tim asks, looking over. Imploring. Trying his hardest to understand.

  “I’m sure,” I say, resting my hand on his leg.

  “Do you want to meet for dinner?” Tim offers, getting on the 405 freeway.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I answer.

  Tim finally pulls onto my street. A street so tree-lined and idyllic it all but bullied me into buying seasonal wreaths and happy-go-lucky welcome mats. After scrimping and saving, I took the plunge and bought my first home last year while the market was down. It was a stretch, but the house had been in foreclosure and was a great deal. I bought the worst house in the best neighborhood… and then spent a small fortune renovating it. I never thought I’d buy a home of my own. We always rented growing up and never called one place home long enough for me to see the importance of it. But as I climb out of Tim’s car, with the morning’s events weighing heavily on my mind, having a home to come home to makes me want to wrap my arms around its little two-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath heart.

  I walk around my now ornament-stripped, browning Christmas tree that’s awaiting trash pickup at the curb and unlock the outer gate. I still firmly believe it’s bad luck for a Christmas tree to see the new year. I have just two days to get this dark harbinger of doom off my curb or else I’m taking it to the dump myself; I certainly don’t need any more bad luck. I push the gate open to the inner courtyard as I wave goodbye to Tim, smiling maniacally as proof that I’m fine. I must look like a demented pageant queen.

  As I close the gate behind me, I immediately calm down. I’m relieved that it’s stopped raining long enough to allow me to get inside—the dark clouds above signal there’s another storm coming. The fountain gurgles as I walk past it, my fingers grazing the thriving lavender. I bend down to pull a burgeoning weed from between the wet pavers—the beginnings of heat from the hesitant sun feel good on the back of my neck. My street is always so quiet. Too quiet.

  I unlock the large glass kitchen door and turn off the alarm. The several large windows that frame the front of the house are still dappled with raindrops. I set my purse down on the kitchen counter and take in the blooming courtyard.

  Forgoing the name change and move to Taos, I decide on a hot shower instead. I promise myself I’ll think about everything later—just let me take a hot shower and get out of these wet clothes. I put the kettle on and tell myself that a cup of Tension Tamer tea will be the ideal remedy for all my problems. It’s on the box. It’d be false advertising if my tension wasn’t tamed right after the first sip, right? I look down at the phone.

  Another message. Huston.

  “Dad’s in the ICU at St. Joseph’s in Ojai. I’m on my way up now. I sh
ould be up there in about two hours, depending on how the 101 looks through Ventura.” Huston takes a long pause. I’ve been within minutes of my brothers and sister for five years and yet still so far away. I press my ear closer to the phone. He breathes deeply and continues, “It’s time to be a family again.” My whole body deflates and I set the phone down on the kitchen counter. A wave of nausea overtakes me. I jolt up and barely make it to the kitchen sink in time. Retching into the colander I keep in the sink to wash fresh blueberries for my morning protein shakes. Oh, God. Now, that’s disgusting. I turn on the water, rinse the colander and the sink clean, then pool the water in my hand and bring it to my mouth. Slurping up the cold water.

  Be a family again. The last time we were a family is the worst memory of all.

  “And delivering the eulogy in today’s services is Evelyn’s eldest son, Huston Hawkes,” the rector says, stepping down from the pulpit and making room for my brother.

  Huston climbs the steps determinedly, pulling a tiny piece of paper out of his inside coat pocket. I wrap my arm around Leo as he continues to sob, and look down the pew at Abigail. Her mood has been swinging wildly between rage and despondency while she tries to figure out whose fault this is and whom she needs to speak with to make this whole thing go away. She wipes her tears away with angry fists. Her husband, Manny, gently tries to soothe her. I can see her entire body stiffen. I sit back in the pew, look up at Huston and wait. Wait for him to start speaking. Wait for any of this to sink in. Wait until I stop thinking that this can’t be happening. That it must be happening to someone else’s family.

  “Thank you so much for coming. Mom would really love… have loved—” Huston takes a deep breath and steadies himself. I look up at the sweeping, coffered ceiling of All Saints Church. This is all a dream.

  Huston continues, “Mom would have really loved to have seen you all.” He stops again, taking a step back and looking up, resting his hands at his hips. He breathes. His lips are tightly compressed as he scans the church’s architecture. He breathes again. I pull Leo closer.

  “I can’t take… much more of this,” Leo whispers through sobs.

  “I know, sweetie… I know,” I whisper back, smoothing my hand over his back.

  Steeling himself, Huston continues, “The last words Mom said to me were in a voice mail message she left detailing the reasons why I shouldn’t use real wood for the deck I was building.” The large crowd sniffles a laugh, nodding in agreement. Huston doesn’t look up from the paper.

  “It seems so trivial, but it’s in those seemingly insignificant details where I felt her love the most. Where I’ll miss her the most.” Huston stops, his voice is barely over a whisper. He exhales, situating the microphone, smoothing the little paper again. This can’t be happening. Abigail lets out the tiniest sigh. Manny pulls her close. She lets him.

  “She was interested in everything about me—from why I haven’t settled down with a ‘nice girl’ to whether or not I’m going to plant lavender in my backyard.” The crowd sniffles out another giggle. My face remains vacant. Leo softens in my arms.

  “The day-to-day,” Huston says. He makes eye contact with me for the first time. I allow the smallest of comforting smiles and immediately feel hypocritical and morbid. Huston gives me a quick nod. I fidget with the hem of my skirt and clear my throat. I feel a comforting hand curl around mine—calming me.

  John.

  The teakettle whistles, steam billowing from its curling red spout. I turn off the burner and try to catch my breath.

  The rain has really started coming down again. The large windows around my house are sheeted with rain. I can smell the freshness it brings. Smells like outside. I breathe it in.

  Back then, in those critical moments, it seemed easier to walk away from everyone all at once. Even John, the man I had been seeing for almost a year. The man I struggled to get my clothes off with in the heat of the moment. The man with whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life. A man who, unlike Tim, pressed everything, pushed every button (both good and bad) and challenged every aspect of my life… whether I liked it or not. I held that tightly to Mom once. I thought she would live forever. And I was wrong. I couldn’t take losing anyone else and so… here I am in a relationship where my “boyfriend” didn’t even know I had a family, let alone ever met them.

  I look past the rain-drenched windows, drop a Tension Tamer tea bag into the awaiting mug, and add the hot water. As the minty lusciousness wafts upward, I can still see John so clearly. That brawler’s body always clashed with the suit and tie he had to wear at the law firm. I love… God, loved how his thick, wavy black hair played against those black-as-pitch eyes and that olive skin.

  In the beginning, I was attracted to him more for his general wariness and global distrust in humanity than anything else. It was comforting… familiar somehow. Whenever I visited Huston at his law firm (the visits tripled after I met John), I became more intrigued by John’s chronic look of skepticism than his obvious physical attributes, although who am I kidding… they certainly helped. Everything about him was dark—bottomless. Everything. Glasses were always half-empty to him. No one could be trusted. We were constantly running off the rails, burning too hot—testing every wall I’d built.

  I could barely handle him when Mom was alive. Once she—well, once she was gone—no chance.

  The eulogy.

  Huston continues, “When I think about Mom, I don’t think about the big stuff—graduations, weddings, births. I think about—” He stops and smoothes the paper once more.

  He continues, “I think about the phone calls about lavender that not even I could kill, the reminders about building a more eco-friendly deck, the certain knowledge that she knew me best of all and—” Huston’s voice involuntarily clutches to a stop. He quickly regains control.

  “The knowledge that she loved me more than anything,” Huston reads. His eyes are elsewhere as not one tear rolls down his face.

  “I’m going to really miss her,” he finishes, and folds the little slip of paper back up. Huston’s words are far away as I officially decide that this is happening to someone else. Someone else’s mom’s ashes are in that tiny silver box on the altar. Leo lets out a mournful sob. I pull him closer. John tightens his hand around mine. For being as physically close as I am to the people around me, I couldn’t feel more alone. The isolation is palpable.

  Huston walks woodenly down the narrow staircase. The rector takes Huston into his arms and surrounds him. I hear him whisper something about Mom that only those in the first row can hear. Mom’s in a better place, according to the rector.

  “Thank you,” Huston says, trying to get away from the rector and his theories about Mom and that this “better place” isn’t here with us.

  The rector climbs the stairs as Huston finds his seat next to Abigail. Huston’s body is tense and his eyes look distant. As he settles back in, I see him drop his head to his chest for just a moment. The second Abigail reaches out to comfort him, he lifts his head. He’s telling her he’s fine. We’re all fine.

  “And now—as we say our goodbyes, Evelyn’s youngest daughter, Grace, will play one of Evelyn’s favorite songs. Grace?” The rector looks down at me as I robotically let go of John’s hand, disentangle myself from Leo and approach the piano. I slide onto the bench—it scrapes on the marble floor, echoing throughout the church. I take a deep breath and lay my fingers on the cold keys. So quiet.

  My fingers steady as I begin playing the first chords to Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released.” The elsewhere. The quiet. I close my eyes as the song fills the church. I don’t hear the rector leading the people out. I don’t hear the shuffling feet. It feels like just another day where I’m playing piano for Mom. She’s here with me. I hear the song and feel nothing.

  Any day now I shall be released.

  When I finish, I look up from the keyboard. There’s a silence around me that’s one part terrifying, one part comforting. The large wooden door that leads
out onto the lawn where the rector is standing with a kind word and a shoulder to cry on shines brightly. I squeak the piano bench back and survey the empty church. I start walking toward the front door.

  Stop.

  Mom’s picture, the one we finally decided on after much arguing, sobbing and inappropriate laughing, sits on the church’s elaborate wooden railing. The silver box holding her ashes sits right behind it, almost hiding. Tucked away. I put my hand on the box… so cold. This can’t be happening. The Elsewhere is still here, encasing me in a bubble that’s magically keeping the pain just out of reach. I look up. There’s a little side door hidden just behind the altar. I bet there’s no kindly rector waiting for me behind Door Number Two. No kind words. No shoulder to cry on. No pain? No reminders of what I’ve lost? No reminders at all. I can walk away now and feel… nothing. Keep this little fragile bubble intact.

  I look back at the picture of Mom. She’s smiling. She’s alive. She’s looking at me behind the camera with this stare that says “Fine… for you. For you, I’ll smile.” I take my hand off the shiny silver box and grab her picture.

  And then, the picture, my bubble and I head out the side door.

  I can still hear the distant chords of “I Shall Be Released” as I walk through my newly renovated house. I pass the picture of Mom I stole the day of her funeral. It sits proudly in the hallway niche I had specially designed for it. I peel off my wet running clothes and flip my shoes off. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I unsnap my sports bra and throw it in the dirty clothes hamper, the same with my panties.

  Any day now I shall be released.

  I put my hand under the hot water, trying to get it just right. I step in and let it spill all around me. It pours over my head and slides down my face.