The paramedic who was in touch with the hospital says a quiet, “He was gone when we got here. This long without a heartbeat…” He doesn’t have to finish. Six minutes is the limit I’ve read, and Dad has gone nearly sixty.
There is a moment of silence then—and another, and another. Even the surf seems to have stilled, though whether in helplessness, disbelief, or tribute to Tom Aldiss I don’t know.
But reality won’t allow for more. Reality demands … something.
“What now?” I ask, bewildered. No one has moved.
“Autopsy?” Margo leans close to whisper to me. “Do we want to know conclusively whether he did or did not have Alzheimer’s?”
“No,” says Anne from behind us. Calmed by Bill, she sounds rational. “He didn’t want to know.”
“Organ donor?” I ask.
“No clue.” This, too, from Anne. Pushing between us, she drops to the floor, uncaring that she’s in the way of the men who will be gathering their equipment but determined to see through her role as Dad’s caretaker.
* * *
Relieved that she’s there, I leave the shed and call Jack, who picks up after a single ring. “He’s gone,” I say.
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
I haven’t cried up to this point, but his voice brings tears to my eyes. I’m thinking of loss, so much loss, and disappointment, so much disappointment—and of want and need and desire, so much of those, too.
“I’ll bring Joy,” he says.
“Please.”
“What should I tell her?”
I hesitate. It’s my job to tell her that her grandfather has died. But Jack has to give a reason for rushing her home, and either he lies about that or … what? What would be best for my daughter?
“Tell her he collapsed,” I suggest, but even in such a short time, seeming by instinct, he gets Joy all too well.
“She’ll ask more.”
“Tell her the paramedics are here.”
“What do I say if she asks if he’s dead? Kids jump ahead. I would.”
“What would you tell her?”
He considers it for only a beat. “I’d tell her the truth. But I’m not you, Mal. You’re her mother.”
“Okay. Tell her if she asks.” Joy may not be a full adult, but she’s halfway there. A straight question warrants a straight answer. And while I have no reason to trust Jack to give it with the sensitivity I would, I trust him completely.
* * *
It makes no sense—not my trusting Jack, not the anticlimax in the potting shed as the paramedics load up, not Tom Aldiss leaving the house on the bluff for the very last time.
It makes no sense that Bill Houseman should be Anne’s strength, or that I’m the one to snatch up a missed scrap of gauze from the potting shed floor, or that the ambulance is barely gone when several townsfolk drive by to lay flowers on our front steps in honor of a man whose honor they had once seriously doubted.
It makes no sense that while Margo insists that her husband and sons not cut short their trip, I am eternally grateful when, after delivering Joy into my arms, Jack stays—and that Anne says nothing.
It makes no sense that when Mike Hartley arrives with a truckload of switchgrass, beach plum, bayberry, and goldenrod, we insist he plant them, at least, Margo and I do. Living and green is what we need. Anne only comes around after Bill points out that Tom wanted it.
Taking Joy with him, Jack goes to the bluff to direct Mike and save us those questions, at least. There are so many others we can’t answer—like where and when to bury Dad and dressed in what—like whether the funeral should be at the funeral home, the church, or the graveside and who should eulogize him—like whether he even wants a wake—and even before all that, there’s the urgent issue of organ donation. Death isn’t a topic we ever discussed with Dad, and if Anne doesn’t know, who will?
One name comes to mind and, suddenly, having him here is a must. Paul Schuster is a grown-up. Technically, we are, too, though right now it doesn’t feel that way. It occurs to me, as I key in the call, that when it comes to the death of a parent, a child is a child regardless of age.
When Paul answers, I blurt out the basics, after which I break down. I didn’t cry when Joy arrived, simply held her while she did, and I do come close to crying each time I look at Jack, who is in our house only because Dad is not. But while my eyes tear up seeing the empty chair in the living room as I make this call, it isn’t until I hear the voice of Paul, who was such a stable part of my childhood, that my control dissolves.
He murmurs disjointed words of comfort, seeming as upset by my tears as he is by my news. Like Jack, though, he is able to think. “Tom and I did talk about this. No to organ donation, despite my efforts to change his mind. As for the rest, it’s all on paper. I’ll bring that.” And fifteen minutes later, he arrives.
Paul Schuster’s is a welcome face, framed as it is by kind memories. Though never as tall and thin as my dad, he moves with a fitness that belies his age. His face is lightly lined, his brown hair faded. He wears slacks and an open-necked shirt, carries a worn leather briefcase, and has hazel eyes, which I only notice now because of their compassion, to which I cling. He is there for us. It’s a steadying thought.
I’m not the only one who finds strength in Paul. My sisters do as well, to judge from our collective composure as we sit at the kitchen table listening to Dad’s letter—which is so him that, in other circumstances, we would have laughed. He spells out in detail what he wants in these first days, naming the director of his funeral home of choice, his preferred style of casket and desire for peonies on top, and the location of his plot in the town cemetery. A draft of his obituary is attached, as if he knew of Margo’s hidden talent and was leaving the finished version to her. He wants to be buried in his judicial robe, and he wants people to be able to pay their respects for one full day and one full day only. He is specific about that. Tom Aldiss is controlling from the grave.
But we don’t mind. We now have direction, little jobs to do at a time when we’re still in shock.
* * *
This is what funerals are for. They keep the family busy to distract them from the actual loss.
Physical activity works best. For us, that means cleaning the house. If the flowers that have shown up on the front steps are a sign, people will be following. The town grapevine is in full swing, reports Lina, who is otherwise silent and always efficient. Though we’ll have to be the ones to direct her on what to toss and what to keep, she immediately sets to neatening and polishing. She also digs out the large coffee urn that hasn’t been used in years.
I have two other priorities. First comes the planting on the bluff. Since I arranged to have it done, I’m the one who stays behind to supervise while Margo and Anne go to the funeral home. And they’re the right ones to work with the director there. Anne lived with Dad all these years, while Margo, his firstborn, thinks as he does. And me, who may or may not be his biological daughter? Better at home.
Not that I don’t feel guilty staying. Theirs is the heavier task. But their doing it together is a good thing. Margo insists on driving, and Anne, clutching a wad of tissues, doesn’t argue, so they’re meshing on this at least. I want to think it’s a harbinger—because it occurs to me, as I watch Margo’s rental disappear over the crest, that with Dad gone, we’re alone. Whether we keep in touch is up to us. Whether we find common ground on which to move forward is up to us. Whether we have any relationship at all is up to us.
And then there’s Paul. While my sisters welcomed his presence in the kitchen, I’m not sure they feel any further connection. I do. With Dad gone, Paul’s here, and he has answers that I want.
Once Margo and Anne have left, I walk out to the bluff. Though Jack and Joy are up to their knees in plantings, they are quickly with me, Joy full of frightened questions. Where have her aunts gone? Where is Papa right now? Even, albeit in an awkward whisper, what will she wear to a funeral, since she didn’t bring anythin
g black?
They both also ask how I am. Joy’s concern I expect. Jack’s is a gift. When, at my urging, Joy returns to the planting, he lingers, holding my hand for a few last moments.
“If you have to go back to work…” I say, offering him an out.
“No. My partner is there. She’ll cover.”
I know little about his work. I never asked, and the timing is crazy now. But isn’t this a distraction, too? “Who is she?”
“Sara Donovan, married, three kids. A couple years back, we merged our practices. I cover for her when her kids are sick. She’ll cover for me now.” He wraps a hand around my neck, support of the first order.
“Thank you,” I say, clinging to the warmth of suede-soft gray eyes before he turns back to the bluff.
Returning to the house, I join Paul on the front steps, where I offer him the same out I offered Jack. “If you have to go back to work…”
He smiles sadly. “I’d rather be here. Tom is—was—a close friend.”
Was. The correction startles me, which is ridiculous, since that’s why Paul is here, since that’s why these flowers are here and why my sisters are not. How to process my father’s death? I feel so many conflicting emotions that I jump right up again, put a hand on the top of my head, and say to Paul, “Uh, uh, would you give me a minute? I mean, please don’t leave, but just, uh, just stay right here?”
“Of course.”
And I’m off, running inside and up the stairs. I need my camera, my security blanket, which waits, patient and steadfast, in the bedroom. Gripping it, I feel calmer. This is who I am when the rest of the world is in flux.
Outside again, I jog to the bluff to document the planting. Joy continues to add fertilizer and water to the hole in which the bayberry bush beside it will soon sit. She knows exactly why I’m doing this at this particular time. We’ve talked about my need for the Nikon. She has accused me of hiding behind it when I don’t want to mix with parents at school concerts. Bless her, though, she says nothing now. And Jack? After staring at me in mute sadness, he, too, goes back to work.
When I return to Paul, I’m more composed. Setting the camera down with its nose aimlessly aimed at a vivid blue hydrangea, I put my palms together and, feeling decidedly sheepish, press them between my thighs. “Sorry about that.”
Paul is easy. “I understand. You didn’t expect this when you left New York.”
I chuckle. “Nope.”
“For what it’s worth,” he says on a wry note, “I didn’t expect it either when we agreed to meet for lunch.” He grows serious. “I saw Tom every week. I probably should have come more often, but, well, there just wasn’t much to say. I’d tell him about a new case or about some gossip in the firm, but I don’t know if he wanted to hear it. He always knew who I was. But there were times, especially lately, when he barely acknowledged me. It was anger. He didn’t like the man he’d become, and I exemplified the one he used to be. Lately, if I lasted here ten minutes, I was lucky.” He pauses, then says, “So, was I coming to visit for him or for me?”
Though his confession suggests the latter, the little I remember of Paul argues for the former. He always struck me as selfless, in stark contrast to Tom. Tom craved attention. He was the center of his world. Would he have appreciated the effort people made cutting flowers from their own gardens and driving them here? I’m not sure.
“He was a complicated man,” I say, looking out at the sea. It is still there, the sea is, always there and comforting in its constancy.
I feel Paul’s eyes on me before they shift away. “He had a good heart.”
I don’t know about that, either. But this is a time to remember the positive, or, at least, to try, and I do have the best of intentions. But Tom is gone, and here is Paul, who knew him well and may be our only source for answers. “He left questions.”
Paul looks at me again. When I meet his gaze, he sighs. “You mean about Elizabeth?”
“Yes. And his relationship with my mother.”
He considers that. “He loved your mother.”
Well, there is the matter of her adored peonies, which he wants on his casket. And he has certainly referred to her enough in recent days. But is that because I’m here, or because he feels guilty for not being a better husband, or, simply, because he only remembers things from the past, like the early days of their marriage?
“Did he?” I ask Paul, wanting his opinion. I do want it to be love. Totally aside from the anguish that finally led to divorce, I want some of what we grew up with to be real.
“In his way.”
I’m not sure what way that is. “They were divorced, so something clearly went wrong. What did he feel for her?”
Paul lifts a single brow. “Love, loyalty, fondness. Hate, distrust, obligation. Definitely complicated.”
Like my relationship with Jack, I think. But the thought is soon overrun by other questions. “Where did Elizabeth come in? Did you know that she and my mother were friends before either of them met Tom?” Yes, he knew that, to judge from the pinch of his mouth. “And then, twenty years ago? What happened that night? That. Night. So many questions there. What was Elizabeth’s frame of mind when they went out on that boat? Her business was tanking, wasn’t it?” As her lawyer, Paul would know, does know from the distress on his face. But he may not feel free to tell me, and I don’t want him to leave, so I rush on. “Margo remembered hearing a gunshot that night. Dad swore he didn’t have a gun. We now know that he did. But did he have it back then? And if so, did he use it? Did she?”
We weren’t on the boat. We can’t know for sure. After hearing everyone else’s opinions all these years, though, I want to hear his.
But not yet, I realize with a jolt. Not. Yet. Right now, right here, I have a window. Margo and Anne are in town, Jack and Joy are on the bluff, and we’re alone, Paul and I. Here’s my chance.
“There’s something personal,” I begin, “and it’s probably insane, but if anyone would know, you would, and I may not have time again to ask.”
His expression softens with the kindness I recall. “You’ll have time, Mallory. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But this is really personal, not for anyone else’s ears.” Anne knows my suspicions and no doubt Margo will soon, but they don’t have to know I’ve asked Paul. “There are times—were times when I wondered if Dad loved me.”
“Of course, he loved you.”
“As his daughter?”
Several beats pass. “Am I hearing something else?”
What the hell. He’s right. Beating around the bush is stupid. “Was he my father? Biologically? Was my mother the unfaithful one of the pair?”
Paul knew both of my parents. He talked law with Dad and most everything else with Mom. By rights, he could be on his feet in protest, scolding me for even thinking such a thing, telling me I’m wrong. But he is calm. The only sign of surprise is a straightening of his spine and maybe, just maybe a tic in the crease at the corner of his eye.
“Did he ever give you cause for doubt?” he asks.
“Not in words. But I annoyed him.”
“Annoyed, how?”
“He frowned when I entered the conversation. Like my existence grated on him.”
“Did he ever—”
“No,” I cut in, sensing where he’s headed. “He never hit me. It was all disapproval. I wasn’t smart enough—photography was a bogus art form—I didn’t have the right friends—Jack Sabathian was trouble. He was an exacting father, but at least the others understood why. I never did. He just … treated me differently from them.” I barely breathe. “You were his closest friend, Paul. Did he ever say anything to you?”
Paul frowns in contemplation. “Tom was a prideful man.” He doesn’t dismiss my charge, though. “Did your mother ever say anything?”
“No, but I never asked. I felt like my place in the family was conditional on my not making trouble. Asking my mother—putting her on the spot—might have done that. I kept hoping
she would say something herself. Then she died.” Feeling the tragedy of that, I put my elbows on my knees, chin on my hands, eyes on the horizon.
Beside me, Paul is silent. But, of course, he knew the circumstances of Mom’s death. He had sent me a condolence note so thoughtfully written, so kind, so true to my mother that I cried over it. I still have it back in New York in the hand-painted box Mom gave me when Joy was born. She had meant it for things I wanted to keep for Joy, like the tiny band that circled her ankle in the hospital nursery, photos from those early years, and baby teeth retrieved by the tooth fairy. Now it also holds mementos of Mom herself, like the hoop earrings she wore the last time I saw her—and the very beautiful note from Paul. She didn’t envision my using the box for these, didn’t plan on dying so soon.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “She should not have died that way.”
“Not when she’d finally become someone she liked.”
His kind eyes are pensive. “I always sensed a restlessness in her”—he smiles fondly—“the proverbial bird in a cage. Was she finally fulfilled?”
“Very. More confident than I’d ever seen her. That’s one of the reasons I agonize. I could have asked her. She was in a good place. I kick myself for not doing it.”
“What about her will?” Paul asks. “Was there anything in it to give you a hint?”
I consider how much to say, but wills are in the public domain, are they not? “She left me more money than the others. The lawyer said she did it because I was a single mother, and my sisters were okay with that. So maybe that’s the only reason?” I ask, studying his face for a clue.
“Maybe,” is all he says, seeming mystified, too.
“Part of me wonders whether she did it because she figured Dad—Tom—wouldn’t leave me a cent—and if that’s the case, it’s fine,” I insist, lest Paul think me a gold-digger. “I have plenty of money. I don’t need his.”
Paul sighs. “I can’t tell you about that. I didn’t do his estate plan. Nate Yeager did. He’s in the firm. He’ll be in touch.”
A Week at the Shore Page 28
