About three bites into our hamburger, June set hers down on the plate.
“You know Linda, your father and I never had a fight,” she said. “Not in all the years we were married.”
“Never?” I asked knowing I had witnessed a doozy of an argument over the racetrack years ago.
“We always agreed,” she said.
“Did you always defer to him so there wouldn’t be a fight?” I asked with a devilish tone in my voice. Without the wine, I wouldn’t have been bold enough to ask this question.
“I didn’t have to. I don’t think we ever disagreed.” June took another drink of her water-downed vodka.
If June hadn’t been drinking would she answer that way? Denying what she knew wasn’t true, she stuffed the truth into a dark spot where she didn’t see it so she could keep the myth of her marriage alive.
Today, as a recovering alcoholic, I regret the chances I took, drinking and driving and then depositing a drunk old woman at the door to her condominium hoping she made it up the elevator and down the hall to her apartment without injury. I wonder if food and drink was the glue holding us together or if it was the dividing line between truth and fiction.
“The expected is what keeps us steady. It’s the unexpected that changes our lives forever.”
- Shonda Rhimes
Chapter Twenty-Five
I’m not sure which niece’s birthday we were celebrating. If it was Alex, then it would have been the beginning of November, a pleasant time of year in Florida with warm days and cool evenings. If it was Lauren’s then it would have been the beginning of April, also an enjoyable time outside between seasons in Florida.
Steve’s wife, Karen had come for a visit with the two girls and her mother, Diane. All four of them stayed in June’s crowded apartment. Even though she invited them to stay with her, the minute they left, she ranted and raved over how miserable and exhausted she was. June was approaching eighty years old and no longer had all the energy she used to.
June gave them her bed and slept on the couch during their visits. The little girls would have been perfectly happy sleeping on the living room floor, like having a slumber party. June wouldn’t allow it. She was in a tizzy for weeks before their arrival trying to plan the meals and map out activities for them. All of which were unnecessary since Karen made their vacation agenda long before ever stepping foot on the airplane. I tried to explain this to June but she would have none of it. In her mind, they were her guests not mine and she would decide. Her stubborn streak appeared just in time to interrupt a fun family time.
“You know I have to set the rules while they’re here,” June told me on our Saturday grocery store run.
“What are the rules?” I asked.
“No jumping in the elevator. The girls always want to do that, you know,” she said.
“What’s wrong with that? Richard does it all the time,” I asked.
June’s face turned red, her expression soured. “They’ll break the elevator. I won’t allow them to do it.” Mostly June loved Richard but she hated it when he undermined her well thought out plans. He made mischief every chance he could and she wanted things to go her way and in her poorly thought out order.
I knew better than to say the elevator would remain operational if two seventy-pound children jumped up and down a few times. She’d never speak to me again. The rest of the rules covered meal times, bed times and use of the television remote control. Did she know these people were coming to vacation?
To give June some relief, I invited everyone over to celebrate the birthday. Richard and I planned to grill steaks, bake potatoes and fill the table with all the trimmings. A personalized cake with ice cream and candles to blow out would be the perfect ending. I also stopped at Wal-Mart to pick up one of those helium balloon canisters. The patio looked festive with balloons of all colors floating from our chairs.
Richard is known in our family circle as the Magic Man. He has a small repertoire of tricks to delight both young and old. After we stuffed ourselves silly with cake and ice cream, the magic show began. I took that as a cue to clear the table and clean up. I’d seen these tricks so many times over the years I could do his routine in my sleep.
The thing about his tricks are that the older the nieces got, the smarter they became.
“Uncle Richard, they’re the same size,” Lauren laughed when he hauled out two curved pieces of colored paper that created an optical illusion.
“How’d you get so smart?” he’d ask, deflated his secret had been figured out. “I bet you don’t know how I can do this.”
With that he fished a balloon out of a bag, stuck it on the nozzle of the half full helium tank filling it part way. Pinching the end, he held the balloon to his mouth and sucked in some of the gas.
“Happy birthday to you,” he sang in a high, squeaky, Donald Duck kind of a voice that helium causes.
I doubled over laughing, Alex and Lauren squealed with delight and June stared wide-eyed at Richard with her mouth agape. She’d never seen or heard the helium trick before.
The girls tried it next, much to their mother’s consternation. Alex laughed so hard she couldn’t form words. The anticipation of the squeaky voice far out did the actual speech. I held my stomach it hurt so much, full of cake and ice cream being jostled around by hysteria.
Richard filled another balloon and handed it to June. We waited while she held the balloon between her fingers trying to decide whether she should partake. Then it happened. She held the balloon to her lips and drew in a deep breath.
“Am I really going to talk funny?” she squeaked like Minnie Mouse.
I howled, Karen and Diane roared, Richard laughed, the girls giggled non-stop. June took in another breath and started talking again. Doubled over with laughter, I couldn’t stand up straight.
June took in a third gulp. By this time the sound of laughter mixed with unintelligible words in the tone of a duck permeated the night. Tears rolled down our faces and June relished being the center of attention.
Had I mixed her drinks a little too strongly that night? Did she come to the realization that jumping in the elevator was harmless? Was June growing older and little by little letting her guard down and finally starting to enjoy life as part of our family?
That night she made a memory that will live in our family archives for a very long time.
“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
- Soren Kierkegaard
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next letter I pulled out of the pile was addressed to me. I don’t know how this letter made it into a box on June’s shelf. Maybe she wrote it and never mailed it to me. When my first story was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul, I was ecstatic and of course mailed her an autographed copy of the book.
3/31/11
Dear Linda,
Thank you so much for sending the book of dog stories. Your article on Ginger is delightful. I really think that having a dog in your family is one of the special pleasures we can have.
Of course, there is one problem. Are you having trouble coping with Ginger’s ego now that her story has been published?
Give her a hug from me and enjoy the season.
Love,
June
In 2009 Richard and I made the most impulsive decision of our married life to move 150 miles north of Delray to a new area in Brevard County, Florida called Viera. I’d been laid off from my job of fifteen years in the corporate headquarters of Office Depot. Richard was ready to retire and we both needed a change. What we didn’t anticipate however, was the Great Recession.
June didn’t take the news well and refused to come with us. No amount of coaxing or bribery could change her mind. I knew she’d push back as irrational a response as she could think of. She had no one else close in her life, no children of her own, no
one who took an active interest in her well being besides Richard and me.
“I won’t be able to sell my apartment,” she argued.
“Richard and I will buy you a condo near us. You can pay rent if that makes you feel better,” I answered. “We’ll cover you until your condo is sold.” This might be a stretch for us financially but one we were willing to take to keep June safe. Although still in fairly good health, she was closing in on ninety years old.
“I’m not moving. You go.” She stomped her foot, her stubborn ways surfaced at the news she didn’t want to hear. Or when what she thought benefited her and her alone was being yanked out of her control. Moving and starting a whole new life would be scary for me too so I understand her point of view. Going it alone seemed even more frightening to me.
I’ve often thought about why June never learned to drive a car. She was an intelligent, independent woman and driving is part of being self-sufficient. She wanted us all to believe, my father included, she was afraid of everyone else on the road, not her own skills behind the wheel. After all these years of watching her talk people into giving her a ride wherever she needed to go, put June in control. She got the rest of us to drop our own lives and drive her around town whenever she needed to go on an errand. I built my personal schedule around June and that’s exactly what June wanted me to do.
I was raised to respect the wishes of my parents and grandparents, adults in general. I’d been taught not to talk back so I didn’t. If that’s what she wanted, who was I to say. She took care of herself without my help, and that wouldn’t change just because I wasn’t nearby any longer. June threw a temper tantrum because I was no longer under her control.
The day I left for good, I went to say goodbye. I don’t remember what we said to each other. I only remember hugging her as June’s small, frail frame became lost in my arms. The last memory of June that day was feeling the sharpness of her bony shoulder blades sticking out through her sweater. We both quickly released our hug; I turned and walked down the corridor, anxious to drive to my new home and my new life, not having a second thought about what I was leaving behind. Except for June.
“I’ll miss you,” June called out. “I love you.”
I stopped. June had never spoken those special three words to me before. Ever. Growing up, those words had never been tossed around by anyone in my family let alone my parents.
I turned around. As she lifted her hand to wave goodbye, she rubbed her hand against her face, hoping I wouldn’t notice her tears.
“I love you too,” as I waved goodbye. In my heart I felt a pang of remorse at leaving her here all alone but I didn’t stop myself from walking away.
***
Richard and I lived in our new home for about six months. It had been a rough road, adapting to a new place and new way of life. I’d been unsuccessful in finding any kind of work. The year was 2009, the height of the great recession. Since I no longer had a regular job, I immersed myself into my passion, writing.
I read about a creative writing workshop at a local university and signed myself up. The first day of the seminar, my body tingled with excitement. I decided to take the classes in personal essays, fiction novel writing and screenplays. When I walked into my first class, one on individual stories, I didn’t know if the high came from the fact that I really wanted to hone my writing skills, or that the professor standing at the front of the room welcoming his students, was one, handsome, sexy hunk of a guy.
A man in his fifties, gracefully graying, who obviously spent some time in the gym, wore a pair of broken-in jeans and a tight fitting t-shirt. I stared. This class would be even better than I imagined.
“Let’s get started,” he said running his fingers through a gorgeous head of hair. “Write a letter to your father.”
I gulped.
The rest of the students began writing at a furious pace. I struggled to get even one word on the page. This wouldn’t be easy. My guilt at leaving June was never far from my thoughts. I finally got something down before the dreamy professor called time and asked us to stop.
“Who would like to read first?” he asked. No one raised his or her hand.
He leaned in to read my nametag. “Linda, read yours to us.” The brief whiff of his cologne did little to calm me even though it smelled quite delicious.
I screwed up my face as if to say, “Do I have to?”
“Go ahead. We’re simply learning. None of us is passing judgment here. Those are the rules of my classroom.”
I didn’t want to be one of those whiny people in a class who expect to be taught something but don’t want to participate in the process. I drew in a deep breath and began to read.
Dear Dad,
I know you asked me to take care of June before you died. Richard and I have tried hard to do that over the years. But now we needed to do something for ourselves. She’s stubborn and refused to move here with us. I know you know that side of her. We’ve found peace here. My hope was that June would find it here too.
Gasping for air, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Like a rushing waterfall, they streamed down my face. I fished through my purse for some tissue while the other students stared.
“You didn’t expect that to happen did you?” the professor asked.
“No,” I managed to squeeze out. “My father died twenty years ago and he asked me to take care of his wife.”
“If writing and reading don’t evoke some kind of deep thought and emotion, then you’ve wasted your time. Good job,” he said. “Who wants to go next?”
A man in the back raised his hand. His letter to his father created a scene where he saw his father eating at Burger King but didn’t stop to talk to him. The crevice of time too deep. My reason for turning on the tears seemed insignificant in comparison.
My father spoke to me from some other realm that day. He let me know in a very public way all was well and Richard and I had his blessing. We had looked after June well and he considered my promise kept. If I learned nothing else from the cool and hunky writing teacher, at least I broke the ice for all the sad and tearful letters to fathers who unknowingly burdened their children with baggage too heavy to lift time and time again. I allowed them to release their pain even if only for a little while.
“Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.”
- Erica Jong
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rushing to get out the door for work, the phone rang. Not that I worried about being late to my part time job trying to get a real estate agent’s files organized. She paid me ten dollars an hour and I spent time throwing out year old flyers. The job gave me a little pin money and got me out of the house but no long-term career path. Today something told me I should answer the phone.
“Linda. It’s Rosemary. I live next door to June.”
My stomach clenched into a knot. I knew very well who Rosemary was and where she lived.
“I’m going to put my neighbor, Barbara on the phone,” she said.
Rosemary was also an elderly widow, but at least ten years younger than June. The two enjoyed gossiping over an evening cocktail accompanied by some cheddar cheese chunks and low salt Triscuits. At least that’s what June told me.
“Hi Linda. I’m Barbara and I live down the hall,” the stranger said. “June fell. We found her in her bedroom this morning.”
“Is she alright?” I couldn’t think of what else to say.
“She won’t let us call the paramedics.” She gave the phone to Rosemary.
“How is she?” I asked again.
Rosemary took in a breath. “I’ve never seen her so angry. She made me swear I wouldn’t call you. I don’t know how long she’d been there but I noticed her newspaper outside her door and it was after ten o’clock. Joe lifted her off the floor and you know Joe isn’t healthy.”
Each time I begged June to get the Life Alert after I moved away, she insisted she didn’t need it because she and Rosemary had a pact. They each had keys to the other’s apartment and if the newspaper was still outside, it should be cause for alarm. Rosemary was going to save her. That’s exactly how it played out. June boohooed me every time I insisted it wasn’t a reliable plan.
At some point, she gave in however, and called one day to let me know she purchased one. At the time, I thought I won. Little did I know, June was always the one in charge. She paid the bill for it each month and wore the button around her neck but nothing else.
Joe was another neighbor who June often hung out with during the day. He’d suffered a couple of heart attacks before the age of 65. His wife Darlene, worked during the day so he and June kept each other company. I know he kept his eye on her while letting her vent about how I left her but he was hardly in a position physically to lift a 95-pound woman off the floor. What kind of tragic situation had I created for June and her friends by moving away?
“Didn’t she have the button around her neck?” I asked.
“She never takes it off but she won’t push it,” Rosemary said.
What was my job here supposed to be? June wanted to be left alone to die. I wasn’t nearby any longer, but was I helping her do that or was I keeping her from doing it? The flaw in her plan however, was that her neighbors cared about her. Now they called me because they didn’t want to be held responsible for watching over her.
Based on this conversation with Rosemary and the unknown and never before mentioned neighbor, neither knew they were a part of June’s grand plan. She told me they were all on board in order to keep me away.
“She’s okay though. She’s not in any pain and she’s sitting on the sofa,” Rosemary said.
The conversation became muffled. “Barbara wants to talk to you again.”
A Bittersweet Goodnight Page 17
