by Kelly Rimmer
I look to Dad at last. He’s propped up into a sitting position, which I know helps with his breathing. Even so, his breath is audible in a way that I’ve just not seen before. Even with oxygen and the drugs and the seated position, even in sleep, Dad is clearly struggling to get enough air.
“Is all of this because of the stress of yesterday?” I ask miserably. I lean over to kiss Dad’s cheek, then I take the seat at his bedside, opposite my brother.
“No.” Tim shakes his head. “I told you, Beth. Stress does make things worse, but we’re long past the point where keeping him calm makes much difference. He’s not sick because you upset him. He’s sick because his organs are failing.”
“And...” For the first time I let myself think the words. My eyes burn as I force myself to ask for confirmation. “So this is the end?”
“It’s close, Beth. We’re talking days at best now, not weeks. That’s what I was trying to tell you yesterday before the shit hit the fan. His blood results were bad when we moved him, but they’re catastrophic now—his kidneys are barely functioning.”
“Can’t they do dialysis?”
“To what end, hey?” he says gently. “To buy him another few weeks of pain until his liver goes, too?” I blink back tears, and Tim slides off the bed to walk around to my side. He sits beside me, his gaze soft on mine. “We’re at the point where it would be cruel to intervene. I know this is hard, but it really is for the best.”
“Will he suffer?” I croak.
“The staff will do their best to keep him comfortable.”
My gaze tracks back to Dad. Don’t leave me, Dad. Not now. But it’s hard to ask him to stay when I can see him laboring for every breath. And it’s hard to hope that he holds on if he’s going to be in pain. The first of what I know will be many tears runs down my cheek.
“Will he wake up again?” I whisper.
“Maybe. It’s hard to say.”
“I’m just not ready to say goodbye,” I choke. Tim sighs and pulls me close for a hug.
“It’s time, Bethie. It’s really time we let him go.”
* * *
When Ruth and Jeremy arrive, we take seats close to one another on the sofa in the far corner of the room.
“I’ve been thinking,” Ruth says quietly. “If Dad has only days or hours left, I don’t want to spend that time trying to dig up the past. I know the notes...the death certificate... I know these things raise questions we’ll want to answer one day, but I don’t want to waste this time. I want us to promise one another that until this is over, we put everything else aside.”
“I agree,” Jeremy says, for once, falling into step with his twin. “We don’t know much about their early life together and we don’t know how Grace died, but what we know for sure is that Dad is an extraordinary man who lived an extraordinary life. We have a limited number of hours left with him after a lifetime of love. We owe it to him to love him in these hours as if we never doubted him.” The words are rough, and Jeremy’s eyes redden as he speaks. Ruth reaches across and takes his hand.
“Can you do this, Beth?” Tim murmurs. I inhale then exhale slowly, then nod.
“Okay.”
“He raised us to care for each other, first and foremost,” Ruth says quietly. “I think the ultimate homage to Patrick Walsh’s life will be for us to focus on this family, even as he leaves us.”
Tim reaches to rest his hand over Ruth’s, as it rests over Jeremy’s. I give a noisy sniffle, then throw myself at the three of them, initiating what soon becomes a messy, awkward group hug.
* * *
A day passes and then another. We are keeping vigil by roster under Ruth’s careful administrative command—two of us here all the time, the other two home resting, waiting for the call to come. Hunter can’t take off work because he’s in court, so Chiara takes Noah. She brings him to the hospital sometimes, helping me to keep breastfeeding without any fuss, and I’m so grateful for that. When Ellis brings the older boys, they crowd around Dad on the bed, hugging him and telling him they love him. Dad’s congested breathing seems to ease a little when the boys are with him, and so the next time Chiara comes, I rest Noah on the bed with Dad, too. On her next visit Chiara brings a camera, and she takes a picture of Noah beside his grandfather.
“I know it seems strange now, but this photo will be special to you one day,” she whispers, giving me a sad, watery smile.
Dad wakes up sometimes for brief stretches, but he’s often confused about where he is and who we are even when he does manage to speak. Tim explains to me that this is a sad interplay between his comorbidities—the dementia was already wreaking havoc on his brain, but now toxins are building up in his blood, too. He warns us to expect Dad’s mental state to become more and more muddled as the end nears, and I hate every second of this. I’m endlessly torn between wanting Dad to stay, because I need him, and wanting him to go, so he can be at peace.
Sometimes I convince myself he’s going to turn a corner. After all, he’s been sick for a long time, and he’s survived crises before. Dad’s a strong man—he’s always pulled through. Maybe he’ll surprise them all and bounce back again. Maybe a week from now, he’ll be back in the other room, watching black-and-white movies on the TV and cuddling Noah when we visit. I don’t dare voice these hopes aloud. My siblings have all come to terms with saying goodbye, and I know that if I try to be optimistic, they’ll keep me in check.
On Wednesday morning, Tim and I are about to leave to go home and rest, and we’re speaking to Ruth and Jeremy in quiet whispers in the hallway, catching them up on what’s been another long night of coughing and wheezing and morphine doses. Just as we say goodbye, I glance back at the room and see that Dad has woken up and is watching us through the doorway. My siblings keep talking, but I rush back to his bedside and kiss his cheek.
“Hi there,” I say softly.
“Maryanne?” Dad says, peering at me with eyes that are glassy and hopeful, even as his cough emerges closer to a sob. “You came back.” I’m about to correct him, but then his face crumples. “I need to say sorry.” Dad is concentrating hard and visibly determined to get this out. “I was... I don’t know the word. What’s the word? I made you go away. I’m so sorry.”
These words from him fall slowly and he enunciates them with care. I want to correct him and to make him see that it’s me here—Beth, his baby girl. But at the deepest level of my soul, I feel my father slipping away, and I realize that it’s just too late to do anything but to offer him comfort. For some reason he needs to think I am this mysterious Maryanne right now, and I have no choice but to play along.
I smile softly at my dad, and I stroke his forehead gently as I whisper,
“It’s okay, Patrick. I forgive you.”
“I didn’t mean it. I just couldn’t bear it. And I did a thing, I think,” Dad says. There are tears in his eyes, and when he blinks, they roll down in a slow path toward his chin. “I did a good...what’s the word?”
“You did so many good things.”
“Job. I mean I did a good job with them.”
Oh, God. He’s speaking about us kids and I can’t bear this. But he needs this, and I can see it in his eyes as much as I feel it in my heart.
“Oh, you did a wonderful job,” I whisper.
“I missed you,” he chokes. He’s weak, and his eyes drift closed. For a moment I think he’s asleep but then he speaks again. “Are you...happy? I don’t know the word, Maryanne. Are you...what’s the word? Are you...happy of me?”
“I am so proud of you,” I say. Dad smiles at me, sad and tender, and he lifts his hand to my cheek. His swollen fingers are trembling violently.
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
“I know, Patrick. I understand.” This hurts. Everything hurts—grief is a physical pain in my chest and I don’t know how I’ll ever survive it. These are my last minutes
with Dad, and he doesn’t even know who I am. I have clung to hope that he’d recover somehow because I couldn’t bear to face the truth—but the man I knew as my father is already gone—all that is left is this tortured shell, and I couldn’t wish him another minute of pain. “Everything is okay now, Patrick. You did a beautiful job with the children, but your work is finished now. You can rest. You can...” My voice cracks, but I force myself to say it. “You can go, Patrick. You can go.”
His hand falls from my face to the bed, and he closes his eyes, slipping back into sleep.
“What was that about?” Ruth whispers behind me.
“I don’t know,” I choke. She sits on the edge of the bed beside me and rests her head against mine, then slides her arm around my shoulders to hold me close. “He thought I was someone else, and it just seemed cruel to keep correcting him when he obviously had something he needed to say to her.”
“You should go home and sleep,” Ruth whispers.
“No.” I shake my head. “I need to be here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. And I think...maybe it’s time we call Father Jenkins.”
In the end, Tim stays, too, and the four of us are there when Father Jenkins anoints Dad’s forehead and administers the Last Rites. The priest stays in the room with us after that, taking one of the floral sofas to silently pray and offer his support.
But my four siblings and I cuddle up around Dad on that big, comfortable bed, and we’re all speaking softly to him, right up until he breathes his last tortured breath a few hours later.
My father’s arms have always been around us—holding our family together, keeping us safe. He releases us now, but I know that’s only because the work is done, and the time has come for him to continue his journey alone.
SIXTEEN
Maryanne
1958
A week after Patrick returned to work, Mother and I were sitting in the garden sipping tea in silence, watching while the children played. She’d arrived that morning with a bag of clothes for the kids, and it was strange to see the four of them in their brand-new outfits instead of their usual, worn out clothes. Beth was so delighted with the ribbons Mother had gifted her that she was sitting aside from the others, stroking a ribbon with a grin on her face.
“I need to get them toys next,” Mother mused.
“Oh, Mother,” I sighed. “Please don’t overwhelm them with things.”
“All of these things are helping them get used to me,” she said stiffly. Beth was certainly taken with her ribbons, but Mother didn’t seem to have noticed that the kids would extend their hands for her gifts, then run to the other end of the yard.
I heard the sound of a car pulling into the drive, but from where we were, I couldn’t see who it was, so I rose and walked toward the gate. We weren’t expecting anyone, so I tensed right away, but when I saw the shape of the police car there, my body shifted into some hyperalert mode. Every beat of my heart against the wall of my chest felt too strong, the tea churned in my stomach and I heard everything—the birds in the trees around us, the tinkle of the children’s laughter behind me, the officers’ footsteps on the gravel as they approached me.
No. No. No.
Grace had been missing for almost a month. Father and Patrick had visited every hospital within driving distance, checking for Jane Does, and had spent hundreds of hours flashing her photograph all over the city, looking for leads. But perhaps some part of my heart had clung stubbornly to hope, because when I saw the policemen remove their caps, and when I saw the awkward sadness etched onto their young faces, I was forced to face a truth I still desperately wanted to deny.
“What’s this?” Mother said, approaching behind me. I heard her give an awful squeak and I knew she’d quickly come to the same conclusion I’d reached. “No,” she said, and then her voice became a wail. “No, Maryanne. Don’t let them tell us.”
“Mother, please,” I whispered, taking her elbow. “We can’t hide from this.”
“Miss, Madam,” the taller of the two policemen greeted us.
“Please,” Mother said, her voice strained, her sense of etiquette apparently persisting even in the worst moment of our lives. “Please take a seat with us so we can talk.”
If there was any doubt in my mind what the police had come to announce, it disappeared when they walked into the garden and saw the children. They exchanged an awful glance, and I wanted so much to weep then, but I knew I couldn’t do it outside—not with the kids right there.
“Should we go inside?”
“No,” Mother said stiffly. “We stay here.”
So we all sat around the little table, and then one of the officers said very quietly,
“I am sorry to—”
“Can I get you some tea?” Mother interrupted him, her voice rising a little hysterically. “We need tea, Maryanne—”
“Mother,” I pleaded. “Let them speak.”
“Madam,” the tall policeman said, very gently. “I’m sorry to tell you that we have recovered a body from Lake Washington last night. The body is in an advanced state of decay. However, some of the clothing was intact. It matches—”
“No,” Mother said, standing. “I really need to get that tea—”
“—the description you gave us of Mrs. Walsh’s blue-and-white polka dot dress. The medical examiner has concluded that it is almost certainly her.”
Mother sat heavily. The birds in the trees kept singing and the children kept playing even while my heart was breaking in my chest. I started to cry then, the full weight of the decisions I’d made finally coming to rest on my shoulders. Those babies would never again know the comfort of her arms, and the tragedy of that loss alone seemed unbearable.
“Well?” Mother demanded hoarsely. “What happened to my daughter?”
“There’s no way to be sure,” the shorter officer said very quietly. “Of course, we’ll do our best to find out who’s responsible, but it’s fair to say that a body dumped in the river is a somewhat reliable indicator of foul play.”
Mother made another whimper in the back of her throat and shot to her feet.
“Excuse me,” she said stiffly. As she walked to the house, she covered her mouth with her hand and began to run. Alone at the table with the officers, I gradually became aware of the sound of ragged breathing. I looked around to find out who was making the sound, and then I realized it was me.
“Do you have any idea how she died?” I asked. My voice sounded desperately high.
“It looks like she’s been in the river for weeks, Miss,” the office said awkwardly. “And with this hot weather...well, the medical examiner said he’d try to do an autopsy, but to be completely honest, I don’t hold any hope you’ll ever know for sure.”
The worst of it was, I couldn’t help but feel some relief about that, and as soon as I recognized the emotion, I hated myself.
* * *
The police wanted the address of Patrick’s job site so they could deliver the news. They said someone would go to the bank to tell Father, too.
“You can’t deliver news like this over the phone,” one of the officers said as he straightened his hat. “Once again, Miss. We’re so sorry.”
They left then, and I went inside to find Mother so that I could comfort her, or she could comfort me, or at least so that I didn’t have to be alone with the children while I carried the weight of the news. But I found Mother lying on the stretcher bed, staring at the ceiling. She was silently crying, her makeup staining the tears that ran down her cheeks and into her hair. She clutched the little pill container against her chest as if it were some kind of lovely, comforting teddy bear.
“Mother?” I asked unevenly. She looked up at me and I saw that she was seeing me through a medicinal glaze. I’d never felt as alone as I did in that moment.
Gracie. Oh, Gracie, what ha
ve I done?
I made myself a fresh cup of tea, having forgotten all about the tea that I was halfway through drinking when the police arrived. I took the fresh cup out to sit on the stairs at the back of the house and I watched the children play and I tried to fix a mask in place.
Be a grieving sister, not a guilt-stricken murderer.
Logically, I knew that I hadn’t performed the procedure myself and I couldn’t be held responsible for this outcome, but emotionally, I was entering the first phase of living under a cloud of guilt that would come and go for decades. Yes, Grace begged me to help her, but I found the doctor. I arranged the procedure. I got her most of the money. Oh, God, I even drove her there and when she was scared, I didn’t tell her that she could still back out.
“Aunt Maryanne?” Tim climbed up to sit beside me on the stairs, his expression steady and very serious. I looked at him with bleary eyes, staring at him through a haze of shock, battling to resist an urge to beg that child for forgiveness.
“Yes?” I croaked.
“Did the policeman find her? Is Mommy coming home soon?” he asked me, his little face shining with hope.
It wasn’t my place to tell him, but I knew intuitively that Patrick wasn’t going to be in any state to explain it to the children. I wasn’t nurturing or gentle or kind, not the way Grace had been. I wasn’t motherly at all...but that day I was agonizingly aware that I was all that the four of them had. I opened my arms to him and he climbed up onto my lap, shooting me wary side glances as he nestled against me.
“Sweetheart,” I said, straining to keep my voice level. “Mommy had to go away to heaven.”
“But I don’t want Mommy to be in heaven,” he said, scowling. “We want her to come home.”
“Sometimes God needs people in heaven even more than we need them here with us,” I said, lying through my teeth because I didn’t even believe in God myself, especially that day. But what else could I possibly say? I made a mistake. I did everything wrong. She’s never coming back and it’s my fault.
