by Penny Reid
He didn’t move. “You’re gonna let us sleep in the same room?”
Her smile widened and she chuckled at her son. “Married couples don’t sleep together in Chicago? Is this a new custom? What’s wrong with you? You’ve been spending too much time with the puritans.” She patted his shoulder, motioning him forward, “Now get in here. She’s got nice teeth but I don’t think she bites.”
Dan’s eyebrows lifted high over his forehead as he walked slowly into his room, as though he was reluctant, or didn’t trust her to mean what she said.
“Daniel, show Kathleen where the bathroom is, and where to find the towels.” She fussed at the doorway, glancing up and down the hall like she was looking for something. “I’ll start the tea—but no pressure to come down for a cup. You must be tired, do as you please.”
Eleanor strolled into the room and gripped me by the shoulders, placing a kiss on my cheek. “If I don’t see you before you go to bed, sleep tight.” Then she turned to Dan and did the same, reaching for the doorknob as she left, and pulled the door shut behind her.
I stared at the closed door for a moment, then looked to Dan. “I like your mom.”
“Yeah. I like her, too.” He smiled, then frowned, his gaze moving over me. “I want to ask if you’re okay, but I don’t want to keep asking if you’re okay. So I’m gonna limit myself to asking once every six hours.”
Huffing a laugh at that, I walked to the bed and sat, placing my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. “I don’t know what I am.”
I felt the bed depress as he sat next to me, his hand coming to my back and moving in slow, massaging circles. “You be whatever you want to be. Good cop, bad cop, I’ll be here to role-play whichever part you need.”
That made me laugh and I turned, tucking myself under his neck, and wrapped my arms around his chest while he encircled me and held tight.
“I’m sad,” I said.
He sighed. “That seems normal.”
“Is it? Because I don’t have one good memory of my father.”
“Now that is sad. My dad wasn’t around much, and he might be a sonofabitch, but I got a handful of good memories with the guy.”
“I don’t know why I cried, at the hospital.”
“My mother has that effect on people. She’s like a Hallmark commercial that way.”
I shook my head at him, adding, “Mostly, all I feel is acceptance.”
“Acceptance?”
I nodded, not really understanding it myself. “This was inevitable. He’s been sick for years. He hasn’t recognized me for years. And, even before that, he never really knew me. And maybe I didn’t know him. So I am sad, but mostly about that . . . I think.” I shook my head, blinking away the image of my father hooked up to all those machines—or the shell of him—and rubbed my forehead. “I’m not making any sense.”
“You don’t have to make sense.” Dan guided me to his chest as he lay us back on the bed. “Your father is dying. If there were ever a time in your life to make no sense, now is the time.”
I stared at the ceiling of Dan’s room, also covered in posters, looking but not seeing. “It’s so strange.”
“What’s that?”
“My mother doesn’t speak. When I visit her, she stares at nothing. But I’ve always felt—” my voice broke, so I swallowed and cleared my throat before continuing. “I’ve always felt she knows I’m there. That’s she’s locked inside herself, but she knows when I come to visit. She can’t speak to me, but she can hear me. But my father, he never heard me. Even when he was well, he could see me, but he never looked.”
Dan was quiet for a moment, then asked, “How often do you visit your mom?”
“Every time I’m in town, so usually twice a month.”
We were quiet for a moment, Dan stroking his hand up and down my arm. “Can I come with you?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” I lifted to my elbow, gazing down at him, feeling a rush of warmth that he’d want to come with me. “We’ll—we’ll go next week.” Or maybe the week after.
Tomorrow they take him off life support. He’ll be gone next week.
I didn’t look forward to telling my mother about my dad, and I’d have to talk to her doctor’s first. I’d need their input before sharing the news of his death. I knew that in a way, in the way that mattered, he was already gone. He’d been slipping away even before that.
Dan nodded, his fingers moving into my hair to push it away from my face while his stare turned introspective. “Things are going to be tough for the next few weeks.”
“That’s okay. I can handle it.”
His mouth curved subtly while his gaze moved over me, his eyes warm. “I know. You’re tough. It’s one of the things I like and admire most about you. But know I’m here for you. I want to handle some of it.”
I studied him, unable to stop myself from wondering how much more it would take—how much more drama, how much more of my dysfunction and baggage—before he threw his hands up in the air and walked away.
All I did with him was take. And take. And take. And disappoint. And I couldn’t give him anything in return, not even myself, not even my gratitude.
Before I could make up my mind how best to respond, or manage to swallow the lump in my throat, he said, “Otherwise I’ll just get up to no good.” His fingers fiddled with the ends of my hair.
Giving him a small, albeit sad, smile, I shook my head. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just nod your head, and when Tiny Satan shows up, send him my way. He’s not worth your time.”
“But he’s worth your time?”
“No. He’s not worth anybody’s time. But I gotta admit,” a devilish glint sparked behind his eyes, “I did enjoy pissing him off.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lobbyist Spending in US
In 2016, the total spending on lobbyists and lobbying in Washington, DC amounted to 3.15 billion U.S. dollars. The top five lobbying groups were:
Pharmaceuticals/Health Products: $246,663,814
Insurance: $153,010,996
Business Associations: $143,241,396
Electronics Mfg & Equip: $121,237,108
Oil & Gas: $119,229,657
—Open Secrets.org
**Dan**
Kat was pissed. Luckily, she wasn’t pissed at me.
We’d arrived at the hospital at 9:00 AM. My ma came with us. She was great. She was supportive but didn’t hover. She fetched stuff, like the good coffee from the employee break room, and thought ahead about bringing a shawl for Kat, ’cause the ICU was so cold. She also snuck in cookies and tissues in her purse.
Eugene arrived around 10:00 AM and that’s when Kat went from making easy small talk with my ma about Boston traffic to—I swear—turning into a freaking icicle. The way she looked at him had me shivering. I hoped she never looked at me that way, like I’d betrayed her, and she was going to impale me, squash me, and then maybe set me on fire.
This was my first time meeting him in person, so I was a little surprised by how young he looked—maybe 60, tops. He was also fit, tall, and dressed like he had someplace fancy to go. To be honest, I’d expected a sinister looking miser, pushing 102 and refusing the use of a wheelchair in favor of a cane, a bad attitude, and sheer grit.
Eugene didn’t look particularly surprised to see us, and endured Kat’s silent treatment with admirable patience. What else could he do? He’d kept the fact that her father was dying from her. For three weeks. He was lucky she let him keep all his teeth.
I introduced my mother to Eugene, they exchanged a few words, no big deal. Kat left us to sit with her father for another ten minutes, saying she wanted to be alone to say goodbye. That didn’t sit right with me, made me antsy to take action, but it was her decision. Nothing I could do.
Meanwhile, Eugene signed some papers. The attending doctor reviewed what to expect once more. Eugene indicated that he understood.
They took Mr. Tyson off li
fe support at around 10:30 AM.
The doctor was right, he didn’t last long after everything was removed. Kat stared at her dad’s face until he stopped breathing, and then she continued staring as the line on his heart monitor flattened. The nurse switched off the machines, giving her a minute on her own.
I didn’t know the guy, didn’t particularly like what I did know, but it was sad. My ma held my hand as we looked on from behind the glass. Eugene was on my other side, the old guy looked somber.
“Your cousin Debora says hi, by the way,” my mom said, her voice sounding faraway. “She’s riding her bike to work every day after the DUI, lost fifty pounds.”
“What?” This was a shocker. “All the way down to Logan?”
“That’s right.”
I frowned at that. Actually, I was frowning at Kat, wishing I could go into the glass box, wrap her in my arms, and take her home to Chicago, get her away from all this depressing shit.
“Wait, how’d Debbie know I was in town?”
“She saw you at the airport and called me.”
My attention flickered to my mother. “When was this?”
“Last night. I was packing my things, leaving after my shift, and she calls me. She tells me you just landed at Logan with your wife,” her gaze came to mine, and the look she gave me wasn’t exactly accusatory, but it was on the spectrum, as she added, “Kathleen Caravel-Tyson.”
“Oh jeez.”
“Imagine my surprise, especially since I was Mr. Tyson’s nurse for the last three weeks, off and on.” She lifted her chin toward the glass box.
“Small world,” Eugene murmured.
“Yeah. It is,” she agreed, sighing, sounding sad.
“So Debbie called you.”
“And Margaret. She saw you, too.”
“Margaret?” Margaret was my Aunt Sheila and Uncle Kip’s kid. “When’d she see me?”
“Walking by the gift shop downstairs. I got her a job here earlier in the summer.”
“Huh.”
“Your spy network is impressive, Mrs. O’Malley,” Eugene said, his tone matter-of-fact. At first I thought maybe he was making a joke. But after I studied him, I realized his admiration was serious.
“Yeah, well, it helps that I’m related to half of Boston, and most of the police force, and all of the first responders.”
And half of the gangs, thieves, and drug dealers.
I was still studying Eugene, so I didn’t miss his microscopic smile at her response, nor did I miss how quickly his expression sobered, his eyes clouding with something like misery, his gaze still on Kat.
“Does Mrs. Zucker know you’re in town?” my mom asked. I could tell she was making chit-chat to fill the silence.
“Uh, no. Not yet.” I made a mental note to call the lady.
“When is the last time you talked to her?”
“Last week. But, I didn’t talk to her, I spoke to her plumber. She’s having problems with the upstairs bathroom.”
My mother gave me a sideways look. “You just had that fixed last winter.”
“Yeah, but now it’s a problem again.”
She grunted. “Maybe go over there this week and take a look yourself.”
I nodded at the wisdom of this, distracted by the image of Kat standing from her chair and covering her father’s hand with hers.
“How long did you know Zachariah Tyson?” I asked Eugene without thinking, suddenly curious.
“His whole life,” he responded flatly.
“What can we do?” My ma’s eyes remained on Kat while she addressed Eugene, sounding melancholy. “When is the funeral? Will it be in Boston?”
Eugene glanced at my mother. “It’ll take place late this afternoon, at the family cemetery. I’ve already arranged for a rabbi and wooden coffin.”
My mother moved her gaze to his, held it, and I recognized the look. She disapproved.
“So fast?”
“According to our custom, funerals typically take place within twenty-four hours after death, and burial immediately after.”
“He won’t be embalmed?” My mother looked confused. “What about a viewing?”
“No. He’ll be washed—again, according to custom—but not embalmed. And there will be no viewing.”
She sputtered for a minute, shaking her head. “What about people who need to travel? The rest of his family? They won’t get here in time.”
Eugene’s glare seemed to soften as he looked at her, the faint smile returning to his eyes. “Usually, after the funeral, there is a gathering at the home for additional mourners, which marks the beginning of shiva.”
“Shiva?”
“In Conservative Judaism—actually, in all Judaism—the week following the funeral is known as shiva. The family stays at home and receives visitors, who provide support and help them pray after their loss. But in this case, there is no one else. Just Kathleen, her husband, and me. There will be no gathering, and there will be no visitors.”
“No one? No mourners? No one wants to pay their last respects? Friends? Relatives? Coworkers? What about people from the synagogue?”
The older man contemplated her for a moment. “Zachariah removed himself from the Jewish community well before the Alzheimer’s took hold. Therefore, if there were people who wished to call on Kat this week, it wouldn’t be friends from the synagogue, there to provide support, bring food, or to pray with her and reflect on her father’s life. His world ceased to function that way a long time ago, Mrs. O’Malley.”
“His world?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry, did we get transported to Mars without my knowledge? Is this an alien spaceship?”
His eyes seemed to twinkle, but his tone was subdued as he said, “Upon his death, Zachariah Tyson was the thirtieth richest man in the world, with a fortune totaling over seventeen billion dollars.” The twinkle dimmed. His eyes lost focus, and then he moved his stare back to Kat where she stood next to her father’s bed, her arms wrapped around her middle. “When you have that much money, only your child mourns you.”
My mother, to the very best of her ability and with the help of Google, observed shiva for the next seven days. And everything was kosher. Everything. When we’d arrived home from the funeral, she was carrying bags of meat and cheese from the kosher grocer on Harvard St. as well as a Jewish-American cookbook.
My ma’s special trip turned out to be unnecessary. Eugene arranged for three meals a day to be delivered to the house for me, Kat, and my mother—all of them kosher. Apparently, Kat wasn’t supposed to do any cooking or housework, according to the rules of the shiva thing.
I wasn’t 100 percent certain what made something kosher, but as far as I could tell it involved special preparation and absolutely no bacon.
During these seven days, whenever Ma was home, Kat was babied within an inch of her life. My mother insisted she relax, read a book, sleep, watch a movie, knit, nap some more. Kat didn’t check in at work; again, she wasn’t allowed.
My mother also gave Kat sneak attack hugs and kisses every time they passed in the hall, or on the stairs, or in the kitchen. At first, I thought about pulling Ma to the side and asking her to back off, give Kat some space. After the second day, I dismissed this idea when I spotted Kat’s face as my mom placed a kiss on her cheek and held her in a long embrace.
Kat looked peaceful.
During the day, she seemed relaxed in a way that reignited that familiar tightness in my chest. It ached, and I wished—hoped—one day she’d look that peaceful all the time. Or at least most of the time.
After that, I let my ma do her thing. Clearly, she was the expert.
On the third day, after Kat had gone to bed, I found my ma in the kitchen. She’d just come home from her shift at the hospital and I asked after my sisters. And, for that matter, whether my aunts and uncles, or any of my cousins were going to stop by. The house was eerily quiet, and this house had never been quiet. Growing up, and whenever I’d visited since moving to Chicago, someone w
as always stopping in, coming or going or staying for dinner. Or hiding from the rest of the family, usually down the cellar where she kept the beer.
“I told them we’re having a Jewish shiva, someone’s staying here who was in deep mourning, and to stay away. I don’t want to overwhelm Kathleen.”
Ah. That made sense. I was just impressed everyone had actually listened. Especially Seamus the shitbag.
“We’ll have a family dinner once the seven days are over,” she replied tartly, giving me a pointed stare. “So don’t you go asking any of those dumbasses up the corner to come over.”
I tilted my head to the side, glaring at my mother. “Ma. Come on. I’m not Seamus. I’m not like that anymore. And I wouldn’t do that to Kat.”
“You better not.” Her tone was so salty, it made me thirsty. “I want her to feel comfortable here, I want her to think of this home as her home.” My mom sighed, glancing at the ceiling. “I just wish there were something more I could do. Maybe I could take a few days off next week.”
I reached across the kitchen counter and covered her hand with mine. “You’ve done a lot. I know she wasn’t expecting it, but I’m sure she appreciates it.”
She huffed a little laugh. “Yeah, I know. She thanks me every time she sees me, like I forgot she just said thank you five minutes ago.” Looking at me, her eyes narrowed, turned sharp. “You did good, Daniel. Your wife is an angel.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“And she loves you.”
Startled, I blinked at my mother, the comment hitting me like a punch to the gut. But I was careful to clear my face of any expression. Instead, taking a drink of my beer and changing the subject to one I knew would distract her.
“Please tell me you’re not inviting Seamus over for the dinner.”
She pulled her hand from mine and glowered. “He’s your brother, Daniel.”
And so we argued—as we did—about my good-for-nothing older brother and all the reasons I needed to forgive him, and all the reasons she needed to write his dumbass off.
