A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents

by Liza Palmer

  “Over here,” Leo says. The room is empty. I can’t see Dad yet, but I do see the outline of his body in the hospital bed. I steady myself on the nurse’s station and swallow. Hard. I focus my eyes and follow Leo.

  I walk past the nurse sitting sentry in a rolling office chair just outside Dad’s room. She nods and smiles. How thankful she must be that this isn’t her family. I look up and into the room and my eyes come to rest on the hospital bed once again.

  Dad.

  I hold on to my purse for dear life. Leo folds into a hospital chair with a black motorcycle helmet beneath it. He boots up his laptop. I walk forward. I can’t hear anything but the sound of my own breathing. Where is the giant I remember?

  This is an old man.

  Dad’s face is turned away from me. His eyes are closed, his body seems calm. His breathing is labored. My eyes trace his body—past his once wide chest. His arms are covered in a now graying wheat field of hair. Just underneath his once tanned skin are purplish bruises and browning liver spots. When did he get so old? My stomach turns and my face gets hot and clammy again. I try to find a point on the horizon to steady my stomach, like Mom used to tell me to do when I got carsick. All I see are machines, more tubes, more, more, more. I can’t focus. I look back over at Leo.

  “How old is he now?” I ask.

  “Sixty-eight,” Leo says, not looking up from his laptop. I place my hand on the metal bar on the side of his bed. Sixty-eight. With my bubble already popped and the trapdoor splintered, the sight of Dad’s feeble body hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ve been so focused on reuniting with my family and starting to deal with Mom’s death, or trying not to deal with it, that I haven’t readied myself for this. Dad. Twenty-two years. I bet I do look like I’ve seen a ghost… for real this time. Too real. Where is the Dad I knew?

  “Okay, Gracie—you start on the… see? Right there—” Dad is standing by my piano. Thick blond hair tousles and flips, making him look like he’s being followed around by a gentle breeze. Rough features, ice-blue eyes and a build that seems best suited for pillaging. He moves with the music. Miles Davis. Again. Always. I’m supposed to come in on the downbeat.

  “Yeah, on the… one, two, three… there—” I say, curling over the keys, playing my part. Dad sways, closing his eyes, listening to me play, tapping the top of the piano in time.

  Dad blows the spit out of his trumpet, his knees bend, and he lifts the horn to his lips. And… I close my eyes.

  Our music wafts through our little apartment. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t have to. I know what everyone is doing right now.

  Dad and I were the soundtrack to our family’s lives.

  “Glad you could make it.” I jolt out of my reverie, look up from Dad and see—

  Abigail.

  I automatically check to make sure I’m not wearing a piece of her clothing.

  “I found her out in the hall,” Leo says.

  Abigail looks like she could be the PTA president of any school in any suburb—and probably is. I imagine her bringing tuppers filled with cupcakes—possibly tuppers made expressly for bringing cupcakes—to the local bake sale, to raise money for a new library. Her blonde hair is a waterfall of straw-colored wisps that fall just past her shoulders. A pink Barbie jeweled barrette keeps the hair out of her face. Abigail’s ice-blue eyes are now encased in the parentheses of crow’s-feet. She wears the same uniform she always has—khaki pants, a pastel sweater set, and loafers. At least someone’s had the decency to stay the same. After the whole Leo debacle, I imagined walking in here only to find Abigail wearing a bustier and latex skirt while brandishing a riding crop. Abigail’s sweater set means some things never change.

  I marvel at how normal we look. I catch a reflection of myself in the far window, just over Leo’s shoulder. The same blonde hair, except mine is longer than Abigail’s and is highlighted to be more white-blonde than sun-kissed. It falls past my shoulders in a cut that’s supposed to look effortless, but costs a small fortune to keep up. I’m blessed with Mom’s upturned mouth. I love that about my face… in the right light I can see Mom in it.

  “Hiya,” I manage, thinking that maybe I broke the ice with the phone call. Maybe she’ll… maybe she’ll—what? Let me off the hook? I stand there awkwardly, wondering what the proper greeting is after five years with threats of a tarring and feathering hanging in the air. Hug her? Slap her on the mouth? Revert to prior performance and hawk a giant loogie on her?

  “Has Leo brought you up to speed?” Abigail continues, walking straight past me without so much as a nod. Mystery solved.

  “Dad’s sick,” I answer, the beeping and whirring of the machines helping me achieve the level of sarcasm I was aiming for. Abigail’s entire body tightens. I don’t even know why I say it. I can’t seem to keep from turning into a foot-stomping brat whenever I get around Abigail. No wonder she treats me like one.

  “Yes, well, it was nice of you to rush up here,” Abigail begins.

  “You are famous for your inappropriate invitations. At least I eventually show up,” I say, picking at the scab of Abigail’s inviting Dad to Mom’s funeral—and the even bigger wound of his not bothering to show up.

  “He had a right to be there and who knows wh—” Abigail whispers, still defending him/herself.

  “Can we not do this? I mean, can you just… for like two seconds,” Leo cuts in, motioning to Dad.

  “Fine,” I say, feeling guilty. I remember that at one of Abigail’s slumber parties we started fighting about some insignificant slight that violated proper party etiquette. Leo got so upset he went over, unplugged the living room floor lamp and shoved the plug right in his mouth, quietly electrocuting himself as we fought. We spent the rest of the night in the emergency room while Leo told wild stories about how his vision looked like a staticky television screen.

  “Fine,” Abigail answers.

  “Have you seen the twins yet?” Leo interrupts.

  “Twins?” I ask, scanning the room for electrical sockets.

  Abigail and Leo look at each other.

  “Twins?” I repeat.

  “We have twins. Manny and I,” Abigail admits.

  “And no one thought to tell me this on the phone?” I ask, my voice raspy as I try to continue whispering. Even after finding out that whole people exist that I knew nothing about.

  “It just didn’t seem like something to tell over the phone,” Leo says.

  “How old are they?” I ask.

  “Four,” Abigail answers, trying not to smile at the mention of them.

  “Four,” I repeat.

  “What does Evie think about all this?” I ask.

  “Inconvenienced half the time—well, really she’s inconvenienced by all of us, so…” Abigail smiles.

  “And the other half of the time?”

  “When she thinks we’re not looking, she’s… she’s adorable with them.” Abigail beams.

  “And this was… planned?” I tiptoe. Abigail is quiet.

  “She did IVF,” Leo jumps in.

  “Leo!” Abigail says.

  “IVF?” I ask.

  “After Mom—” Leo starts.

  “Can we talk about this later?” Abigail asks, her voice rising.

  We are quiet.

  “Is Huston here yet?” I finally ask as the silence settles in.

  “He was here earlier. He said he had some business to take care of,” Abigail answers, relieved.

  “The kids are out in the waiting room,” Leo continues.

  “Evie is watching them while I—” Abigail motions at Dad. I zoom back into the surroundings. The beeping and whirring of the machines come back up. Dad’s labored breathing fills the room once again. How easily I forgot why I’m here. Dad coughs into his oxygen mask and I back away, instinctively looking to Abigail.

  She comes forward and stands on the other side of his bed. Dad lifts his left arm to reveal that he’s wearing a restraint around his left wrist.

  “What’s that?�
�� I sputter.

  “The stroke paralyzed his right side. They had to restrain his left arm. He was pulling everything out. The tubes. The catheter,” Abigail explains, as she buzzes for the nurse. I step away from Dad’s bedside and find a place closer to the glass wall of his room.

  “Not pretty,” Leo adds.

  “Haven’t seen my father in twenty-two years and the first glance I get is of his—” Abigail trails off, motioning to the more nether regions of our father. I wince. Dad wheezes again into the oxygen mask.

  “He’s sedated, right? He’s on pain meds?” I ask, my voice rising.

  “Yeah… he shouldn’t be feeling any pain. But they tell me that it’s uncomfortable, you know… all the tubes,” Abigail explains, looking up as the nurse comes in the room.

  “Everything okay?” the nurse asks, immediately walking over to Dad’s side.

  “He’s trying to pull the tubes out again,” Abigail explains, as she takes Dad’s restrained hand in hers. He grips her hand tightly. Find a point on the horizon. Find a point on the horizon. He knows what’s going on. He’s in there somewhere. I look up at the ceiling of the hospital room.

  “Now, Mr. Hawkes—just calm down. Everything’s okay,” the nurse says.

  “This is Grace. My sister,” Abigail says to the nurse.

  The nurse laughs. “How many of you are there?”

  “Just the four of us.” Abigail’s voice is tight.

  “You’re like those Narnia kids.”

  “Those Narnia kids?” Abigail asks, as politely as she can.

  “I just saw that movie with my kids. They loved it,” the nurse oozes.

  “It’s actually a book—a series of books,” I say.

  “Four of them, four of you,” the nurse adds.

  “Do we also remind you of the Beatles?” I ask.

  “Grace,” Abigail warns. The nurse turns away, doing her best to ignore me.

  “Four of them, four of us,” I add, under my breath. The nurse trades an empty bag of clear fluid for a full one.

  “You’d be the Edmund,” says Leo, snickering. Abigail smiles as we watch the nurse.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Huston is the Peter, Abigail is the Susan… that makes you the Edmund,” Leo says.

  “And you the Lucy,” I point out.

  “I’d rather be the Lucy than the Edmund,” Leo whispers.

  Abigail titters. “Didn’t Edmund betray everyone?”

  “I’m not the Edmund,” I sigh breezily, trying to seem as un-Edmundlike as I can. Abigail harrumphs over in the corner.

  “Your mom was here earlier,” the nurse says. She nonchalantly checks Dad’s oxygen mask, re-situating it on his nose.

  “I’m sorry?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat.

  “Our mom died,” Leo says, almost in apology.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. She said she was Mr. Hawkes’ wife. I assumed—”

  “No—Connie is Dad’s second wife,” Abigail explains.

  “Connie? Connie who?” I whisper. What. Is. Going. On?

  “Later,” Abigail warns.

  “Right… then, Mr. Hawkes is fine, he’s settled,” the nurse continues, patting Dad’s restrained hand. The nurse turns on her squeaky white heel and heads out of Dad’s room. “Oh, well, here she is now! One big happy family!” she announces, scooting past what must be this Connie person and another man as they sweep into Dad’s hospital room.

  Abigail, Leo and I turn to face the woman.

  “So good you could all be here for Ray,” Connie says, approaching Abigail and taking her hand. This woman looks like everyone’s grandmother—stark white hair, dressed in resort wear, impossibly frail.

  “We’re so sorry,” Abigail says, consoling Connie.

  “There are more of you than before,” Connie notes, her voice quivering.

  “This is Grace, my younger sister,” Abigail says.

  “The Edmund,” Leo jokes, under his breath.

  “Shut up, Lucy,” I whisper back, shooting him a look as I approach Connie and extend my hand.

  “Grace. Sure. You still play piano?” Connie asks, her hand tiny in mine.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

  “Ray talked about you guys all the time,” Connie says. I steal a glance at Dad. In the bed. So weak. So… old.

  “He’ll love that you guys made it,” the other man offers.

  Abigail, Leo and I look at the man. Uh… and who might you be? I don’t say this out loud. I’m positive I can feel Abigail relax because she thought I would.

  He continues, “Oh! Silly me, I’m Dennis Noonan, Connie’s son. From her first marriage—obviously!” He extends his hand to each of us.

  “Your mother was a lovely woman,” Connie adds.

  “Thank you,” we all mutter.

  Was.

  “There are so many of you,” Dennis exclaims. Leo sits back down in the chair by the window and looks straight ahead, leaving the laptop on the floor.

  There is an awkward silence. There are three of us in the room. Three. First we’re the Narnia kids and now this. It’s not like there are so many of us we could be the road company of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. You can count us on one hand. With fingers left over.

  “Yes, we’re quite a brood. And Huston’s still to come—” Abigail concedes, offering Connie a chair next to Dad’s bedside.

  “Oh, thank you, dear,” Connie says and sits, reaching over to grab and clutch at Dad’s hand. Dennis stands on the other side of Dad’s bed.

  Abigail finds a seat next to Leo. None of us look at each other. Could this Dennis guy be more of a child to Dad than we got to be?

  I stand next to the glass wall, crossing and re-crossing my arms over my chest. Connie is his wife now. Dennis has been in his life for years. And yet…

  I can’t help imagining Dad taking a middle-aged Dennis out for ice cream. They’re having a heartfelt discussion about how Dennis should call him Dad. Middle-aged Dennis is licking his ice cream cone—mint chip, I think—saying something like, “Aw shucks, Ray… you ain’t foolin’, are you?” And with that, Ray musses up the boy’s graying red hair and says, “Naw, son. I ain’t foolin’.” And then they throw a ball around until Connie calls them in for dinner. Meat loaf. Her grandmother’s recipe.

  I shift my weight onto the other foot and notice that Leo has focused back on his laptop while Abigail is typing something out on her cell phone… painstakingly slowly. Adults attempting to keep up with modern technology always look so bewildered. I rest my hand on the metal pane of the glass wall. The cold metal feels good under my fingers as I start to tap out “Head Over Heels” by the Go-Go’s. Mom used to bribe me with sheet music from the hits of the time to get me to practice. Therefore, my piano training is heavily based on the hits of the 1980s. I try to get lost in the beat and the intricacies of the melody. It’s not working. I pull my other hand back and play the harmony, going so far as to tap out the big climax. Abigail narrows her eyes at me from across the room. I clear my throat and try to act as if I had been about to stop on my own… at just that moment. The room zooms back.

  Watching Dad fight for every breath sends a chill down my spine. Not because I think he might die, but, frankly, because over the years I wished he’d die. Standing here in the same room with his rumbling coughs, those thoughts haunt me… shame me. It’s not like I really wished on him something like this.

  For once, there’d be a good reason why we never heard from him.

  We stand at the perimeter of the room like visiting, friendly neighbors making way for the real family.

  “Where’s his wedding ring?” Dennis asks. I look past Connie’s frail body and spy Dad’s left hand. Nothing.

  “I took it off when we got here. I just didn’t want to take the chance,” Connie explains.

  “Where is it now?” Dennis asks. I look over at Abigail and Leo. They’re riveted.

  “I gave it to the head nurse to put with all his other belongings. Wallet, keys…�
�� Connie says, her voice cracking. They’ve forgotten we’re in the room. The conversation isn’t meant for us.

  Wait a minute—why are we here?

  Connie turns to us. “It’s so funny how every little thing becomes important,” she says, her voice cracking. We all nod.

  How did Abigail even find out about this? I thought maybe Connie called her, but now I’m positive that Connie didn’t call anyone. She’s far too upset. I try to catch Leo’s eye. The weak link. Always the weak link. I don’t know exactly how to get his attention… throw a bag of blood at him?

  “Leo?” I say, as quietly as I possibly can. He looks up, as does Abigail.

  I continue, “Weren’t we going to go out and see the twins and Evie?” I ask. Abigail studies me. It is weird, I admit… I’m asking Leo to introduce Abigail’s children to me. Well, because I can crack Leo. Abigail? Never.

  “Oh, sure. Sure,” he says, shutting down his laptop. He stands, putting it on his chair, saving it. Abigail’s eyes narrow as she watches this unfold. She knows I’m up to no good.

  Connie doesn’t look up from Dad as Dennis checks the monitors. Abigail stays put, concentrating on Dad, trying not to stare. I look up at the clock just over the door outside Dad’s hospital room. It’s not even noon yet. Wait, what? It was 11:37 when I signed in—I remember the time exactly. It hasn’t even been half an hour? Leo walks out of the room and into the ICU nurse’s station. I follow. I’ve got to act fast.

  “Second wife?” I ask.

  “Apparently, Dad married her pretty much days after Mom died,” Leo says, as we wait for the buzzing door. I marvel at the ways we’ve all dealt with Mom’s death: the twins, remarrying, teaching jobs and second PhDs, drowning in nothingness. Have we all been so lost? Why couldn’t we turn to each other?

  “Who is she?” I ask.

  “Abigail talked to her for a bit this morning. She’s from here, works as a receptionist at the elementary school where Dad teaches band. Seems nice enough. I just feel bad for her, you know?” Leo says.

  “Dad teaches band?” I ask. I have so many questions.