A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (11 page)

“Why does Dad have a lawyer?” Leo asks.

“Do you remember Nana Marina? Dad’s ‘rich mommy,’ as you so colorfully put it? She had that big, blue house—the house that
Dad—well, Dad and
Connie
—are living in now. I guess when Nana Marina died and Dad inherited the house, he hired this guy to handle her estate. He
must’ve then rehired him to handle his own estate planning, well… a year ago when he drew these up,” Huston says, holding up
the file folder.

My entire body is tight. I’m holding back every single instinct I’m having. It’s like some new version of Pilates that’s centered
on repressing all your emotions for a count of ten, while focusing on your pelvic floor.

“Didn’t we spend a summer at that house?” Abigail asks absently.

“The summer Mom and Dad went to New York,” Huston says.

“So he could make it in the jazz scene,” Leo adds, his voice dripping with sarcasm, the words
jazz scene
in giant air quotes.

“I was… what, fifteen?” Abigail asks.

“It was the summer before Dad left, so I was sixteen, you were fourteen,” Huston says, looking at Abigail. She nods. We all
nod. The summer before Dad left. We move again as the double doors swing open, letting in another worried family.

The summer before Dad left.

I look away from them and turn back to Dad’s hospital room. Connie, Dennis and the head nurse are conferring. The head nurse
is going over Dad’s chart as Connie clutches at Dad’s hand and Dennis simpers at his bedside. John is respectful of their
space, but I can see him inch closer.

“But, you could sign the power of attorney over to Connie, right?” I ask, treading lightly.

“No,” Huston answers. Clear. Concise. Definite.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Grace, enough. It’s not your name on that document,” Huston says.

“Huston—” I start.

“It must be nice to never have to make a decision.” Huston’s voice is low and downright ominous.

“Huston,” Leo eases.

Huston cuts him off. “This is my decision and, as always, you can resent me for making it, but at the same time, you’re all
looking to me for direction. Same as always.” Leo recoils. Huston’s eyes dart over to Leo with remorse.

“No one asked you to make this decision,” I argue.

“He did!!” Huston yells, pointing into Dad’s hospital room. The entire ICU turns to our little corner.

“Okay… okay… I’m sorry,” I say. Huston rests his hands on his hips, hanging his head. He regains control quickly.

“Two apologies in one day—call the
Guinness Book of World Records
,” Huston sighs, attempting a smile.

“I called them once. Thought I could get the record for—you know how you stack a bunch of quarters on your elbow and then
you flip them, flip them over and catch them?” Leo says, excitedly miming the whole business.

We are all quiet.

“It was a bananas number of quarters you had to flip, so I just stuck to collecting lost or left-behind grocery lists,” he
says, as if this were completely normal.

We are quiet, lost in our own little worlds. And then we truly process what batshit-crazy thing Leo just said.

“
What?
” We all ask one after another. Leo doesn’t miss a beat.

“Whenever I go to the store, I always look for lost or left-behind grocery lists. There have been some great ones.”

“Great ones?” Abigail laughs.

“What constitutes a ‘great one’?” I ask.

“I like trying to figure out what people are making, what kind of lives they have… who they’re cooking for. I’m incredibly
jealous of people who buy kale,” Leo explains.

“Kale,” I repeat. Huston smiles, finally calming down.

“You have to really know what you’re doing in the kitchen to buy kale,” Leo says dreamily.

“A kitchen… isn’t that where the doggie bags from business dinners go?” Huston asks, yielding.

“I haven’t made something without a hot dog in it for years,” Abigail sighs. I laugh. Abigail sneaks a quick glance at me,
smiling.

“John’s waving me in,” Huston says, walking toward the hospital room. Abigail follows at his heels.

“You’re such a weird kid,” I whisper to Leo, as we trail.

“It was either that or growing my fingernails to like twenty feet or something,” Leo says, opening the door to Dad’s hospital
room for me. “I would think you’d prefer the grocery lists.” I shoot him a quick look and focus in on the scene already in
progress.

“—Our privacy,” Dennis finishes. I only catch the tail end of his request, but I can certainly guess how it began.

“Mr. Hawkes—” The head nurse looks to Dennis.

“Noonan. Mr.
Noonan
,” Dennis corrects her.

“Mr. Noonan, once again, I’m afraid Mr. Hawkes has a right to know what’s going on with his father’s health. He has his power
of attorney. I know this is going to be a difficult transition, but I’m sure—” Connie clutches at Dad’s hand, never turning
around. No longer even noting our presence.

“Ms—” Dennis begins.

“
Nurse
Miller,” she answers.

“Nurse Miller, this man has no right to any information, I assure you. He was no son to Ray. He left you… he left all of them… when?”
Dennis stutters.

“Twenty-two years ago,” Huston finishes. His voice is steady and low. My heart breaks into a million pieces.
Again
.

“Twenty-two years ago! He wasn’t a father to them at all!” Dennis announces.

“Whatever our relationship, it’s simply not pertinent to the power of attorney, Mr. Noonan,” Huston explains.

“Not pertinent! Get a load of this guy,” Dennis guffaws.

“Then why did he put his name on the document, Mr. Noonan?” Abigail asks, her voice calm, but climbing.

“I don’t know… you could have, you could have made him,” Dennis answers.

“He could have just as easily put your name on there,” I say. Huston looks from me to Dennis. Abigail does not shoot me a
look. We all wait for an answer.

“This isn’t helping,” John whispers, looking mostly at me.

“You don’t even know the man,” Dennis argues, using the same reasoning I did just this morning.

“My name is on that document, Mr. Noonan. I intend to see that Dad’s estate is handled the way he wants. The way the power
of attorney legally allows,” Huston says, his voice clear and calm.

“You’re going to take our house away,” Connie sobs.

“I don’t intend to do any such thing,” Huston answers.

“All of our belongings are going to be put out on the street,” Connie sobs again.

“I don’t intend to do any such thing,” Huston says again.

“Then why do you even want the power of attorney?” Dennis questions again.

“Because my father wanted me to have it,” Huston answers.

“Why do
you
want Dad’s power of attorney?” I ask, stepping to Dennis. The room stops. Everyone turns to Dennis. Silence. Waiting.

“Isn’t one of you a criminal?” Dennis blurts, looking at the head nurse. All eyes shoot to Leo: the doe-eyed boy genius standing
in the background. He looks like he might start to cry.

“Don’t you dare—” I bark. Leo wipes at his eyes and looks away. Huston steps forward. Abigail walks over and stands close
to Leo.

“Why don’t we all just take some time to cool off?” John cuts in, eyeing both Huston and me. We both stop. Abigail wraps her
arm around Leo. He melts into her.

The head nurse takes this opportunity. “Why don’t we all give Mr. Hawkes some time to rest. He’s stable and it would do him
some good to have a little quiet. Do you all mind?” Nurse Miller asks. Dennis stands on the other side of Dad’s bed awaiting
the answer. I gather myself, unable to look at John, and step back. Despite how conflicted I am about Dad and this whole arrangement,
I know this isn’t right. We
do
have a right to be here. For whatever reason, Dad wants us here.

That power of attorney is an engraved invitation to Dad’s deathbed.

Huston shifts his weight. “I just want what’s best for Dad.” He tries to get Connie’s attention. She doesn’t look up or make
eye contact. He lets out a long sigh. Oh, Huston.

“We’ll need you to set up a meeting with the finance department, the legal department and Mr. Hawkes’ primary care doctor—so
we can all get up to speed,” John adds, looking at the nurse.

“I’ll arrange that for first thing tomorrow morning,” Nurse Miller says, throwing us a bone.

“He’s… he’s stable?” Abigail asks.

“He’s gotten through the worst. He had the clot blaster shot within an hour of the stroke and now we’re just waiting on the
neurologist. He’s a fighter,” Nurse Miller adds. Find a point on the horizon. Find a point on the horizon.

“We’ll be back at seven a.m.,” Huston says.

“Mr. Noonan?” Nurse Miller asks.

“We’ll wait for them to leave, so we can have a moment alone with Dad, then we’ll head home. Let Dad rest,” Dennis says.

“That’ll be fine. Thank you, Mr. Hawkes. Mrs. Hawkes-Rodriguez, Ms. Haw—well, just… there’s so many of you… thank you…
all
of you.” Nurse Miller breathes a little easier and ushers Huston out into the ICU. Leo grabs his laptop and the motorcycle
helmet that’s been underneath his chair and follows us out, his eyes welling up and red. Abigail takes her purse off the chair,
hitches it over her shoulder, and walks out as well. John waits. Watching. Wary.

“Please give us some privacy,” Dennis instructs us. Once again, my compulsion to do exactly the opposite of what people tell
me to do flares. Dennis eyes me, waiting for me to leave. I grab my purse, pull it up on my shoulder. I need to touch Dad,
to see if he’s real, I need to let him know I’m here. That I was raised right. That I’m strong.

I push off the glass wall and in a fugue state walk up to Dad’s bedside. I see John reach out his hand to stop me, but he
quickly pulls it back. He helplessly looks on. Connie looks up, but I keep my eyes on Dad. I reach out and touch his knee,
the left knee—so he can feel it. My hand closes around him, warming him. I look up at his face. From this angle all I can
see is the oxygen mask and the shock of gray-blond hair.

“It’s Grace. We’re all here,” I say, holding his knee and touching my father for the first time in twenty-two years.

M
y arms itch, Mami,” Emilygrae says, presenting her twin casts to Abigail as we walk out of the hospital. To say I’m shocked—to
say
we’re
shocked—would be the understatement of the century. I wait for Leo, holding out my hand. He shifts his helmet to the other
hand, his laptop now safely inside his messenger bag, and takes my hand. He brushes at his eyes with his fist and gives me
a little smile.

“Where’s Papi? Where’s Papi? Where’s Papi?” Mateo sings.

“Working,” Evie sighs.

“My arms itch!” Emilygrae says again.

“I know, mija. Let me just—” Abigail stops, reaches into her huge purse, and pulls a decorative chopstick from its depths.

“Where’s Papi? Where’s Papi? Where’s Papi?” Mateo sings again.

“Honey, he’s holding down the fort,” Abigail says, holding up the chopstick.

“You said fart,” Emilygrae trills, immediately plugging her nose.

“Fort, mija,” Abigail says, pulling Emilygrae’s hand away from her nose and plunging the chopstick deep into the casts, one
at a time. Emilygrae looks like a puppy getting her tummy rubbed. Huston pulls his cell phone out of his coat pocket, checks
the screen, and slides it back.

“You know, your mom once broke her leg so badly that she had to wear a cast, too,” Huston says, finally calming down. Mateo
presses the button for the elevator.

“You broke your leg?” Evie asks.

“I fell down some stairs,” Abigail says, shaking off the conversation.

“You fell off the
couch
,” I correct. Leo giggles. The entire group smiles and breathes a little easier. Our little Leo is giggling again.

“You broke your leg falling off a couch?!” John laughs. I try not to stare at him. I try to think about Tim. Thinking about
Tim brings back the nothingness. I wonder whether all that nothingness is such a good thing. I shake my head and refocus.

“Where did you get that couch?” Mateo asks.

“The couch has been gone a long time now,” Abigail explains. We all load into the elevator. All eight of us.

“Was it a giant’s couch?” Emilygrae asks, doing a little twirl—knocking into Huston. He lovingly steadies her.

“You’d think,” I answer. The elevator sags and descends.

“No, Em, just a regular couch,” Abigail explains. We stop on the third floor. No one gets on. It seems Mateo has gotten a
tad overeager with the elevator buttons.

“A couch is just a big chair,” Evie adds. The twins are awestruck by this new information. Evie is now Stephen Hawking in
their eyes.

“But that’s not even the funny part,” Huston begins, settling into prime storytelling mode. Mateo turns his attention away
from the now lit panel of elevator buttons.

“Huston, please.” Abigail laughs.

“Your mom thought that her cast was waterproof. And when I tried to tell her that the doctor only meant that if a little water
splashed on it, it’d be okay—” We stop at the second floor. The door opens.

“No water can go on my cast, Mami says! I have to take baths with samwich bags on them,” Emilygrae interrupts, urgently holding
up her little casted wrists. The elevator door closes.

“Well, you’re super smarter than your mom was, honey,” Huston explains.

“You were quote-unquote babysitting me and Leo while we went swimming at the Woods’. Remember?” I add.

“Of course I remember, I almost died that day,” Abigail says.

“She was convinced it was waterproof, so she went right over to the deep end and jumped in. Cast and all,” Huston says, his
eyes wide.

“Mami jumped in the pool?” Mateo yells.

“With a broken leg?” Evie adds. The elevator door opens on the ground floor.

“With no samwich bag on it?” Emilygrae’s face is contorted with worry. We pour out of the elevator.

“That’s bonkers,” Evie droopily sighs.

“I sank to the bottom of that pool so fast. I could see your two goofy faces at the ladder, just looking down at me. Laughing
hysterically, while I slowly drowned,” Abigail says, slowing her pace as we walk toward the doors.