A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (64 page)

“
Right.
”

“
And they never called you about them or anything?
”

“
Yeah they did.
”

“
What do you mean?
”

“
About a year ago they called.
”

“
They did? Who did?
”

“
I told you this.
”

“
You did not tell me this.
”

“
I did. They called, and they had the ashes. Mom
’
s at least. They
’
d been trying to track us down.
”

“
Where?
”
,

“
Chicago, Berkeley, San Francisco, everywhere.
”

“
What did you say? Did they send them?
”

“
No.
”

“
No? Then where are they?
”

“
I said we didn
’
t want them.
”

“
You didn
’
t.
”

“
I did. What do we want with some stupid ashes?
”

“
But without consulting me or Bill? You just—
“

I have to stop asking questions. Every time I ask a question, of Beth, of anyone, expecting something benign, or even mildly upsetting, the answer is much weirder and more terrible than I could have imagined—

“
I just what?
”

She
’
s angry now.

I
’
m too weak to do this.

“
Nothing.
”

She hangs up.

This is just too— I had loved how vague it was before.
Where are they?
Well, that
’
s a good question.
Where were they buried?
Another interesting question. That was the beauty of my father
’
s way. We knew that he had been diagnosed, but not how sick he was. We knew that he was in the hospital, but then not how close he was. It had always felt strangely appropriate, and his departure was made complete, as was hers, by the fact that the ashes never found us in California, that we had moved, and moved again, and again, dodging, weaving. I assumed the remains had been bungled, that the medical school, or whoever, had neglected their obligation, that someone had erred, forgotten. But now, knowing that Beth knew, and that they
’
re really gone, discarded, that we had a chance—

I had actually entertained, however vaguely, the idea that I might actually find them, that at the medical school they might have them stored somewhere, in an.. .ash storage area, in some vast warehouse of unclaimed remains—

But now to know—

Oh we are monsters.

I stop at a pay phone at the 7-Eleven, on the border of our town and the next, now closed. I call Stuart. His wife answers.

“
Oh hi!
”

“
Hi.
”

“
Where are you? In San Francisco?
”

“
No, actually, I
’
m in Chicago. Highwood, actually.
”

“
Oh my gosh. Well then, you
’
re right near him. He
’
s actually in the hospital.
”

“
Oh God.
”

“
No, no, it
’
s just an infection. He
’
s fine. His leg. It
’
s a freak thing. It
’
s all swollen. He
’
s just in for a few days.
”

“
Well, I was actually hoping to talk to him, or both of you for a few minutes, but I
’
ll call again when—
“

“
No, go visit him. He
’
s at Highland Park Hospital. He
’
d love it.
”

I tell her no, I couldn
’
t, it
’
d be weird—

“
Don
’
t be silly. Go.
”

Ten minutes later I
’
m there, in the parking lot, in the car. From here I can see my mom
’
s old room, the New Year
’
s birthday room. I get out and walk around the building, to the emergency room. The doors woosh open. I want to be in the emergency room and have something happen. I want to be back the night of the nosebleed. They took her here first, boosted her white count, stopped the flow.

The waiting room looks tiny, all peach and pink and mauve, like a Florida condo. I sit on one of the soft, loungy chairs.

Nothing happens. Nothing returns.

On the TV, the 49ers are playing.

The receptionist is watching me.

Fuck it.

I leave, walk around the building. In the lobby I
get
Stuart
’
s room number and call him.

He asks me if I am in town and I say that yes, I am. He says that I should come over sometime, that he
’
s just in the hospital for a few days but after he gets out, should be out tomorrow—

I tell him that I
’
m already here.

“
In Highland Park?
”

“
Actually, I
’
m in the building. In the lobby.
”

“
Oh. Why?
”

I lie.
“
Well, I
’
m supposed to see this doctor here at five-thirty, the oncologist, and I...
”

“
Well, it
’
s almost five-thirty now.
”

“
Oh, well, that
’
s not totally firm. I can see him afterward.
”

“
So you want to come up?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
It
’
s D-34.
”

“
I know.
”

He is on the fourth floor. This is the same building that played host to my mother
’
s various stints, the same building where my father died. The same floor. Probably the same floor.

The last time I saw my dad I was with my mom, Beth, Toph. We walked down this hall, pushed open his door and were assaulted with the smell. Smoke. They were letting him smoke in the hospital. The room was gray, hazy, and he was sitting there, on the bed, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands clasped behind his head. Big smile. He was having the greatest time.

I push open the silent, heavy door and there is Stuart, the only friend I knew my father had.

The moment I step in I want to leave. The room is dark, and his torso is bare. The only light is above his head, a fuzzy round halo of amber light above his head.

Oh this is weird. He seems much more sick than he was purported to be. Why is his torso bare? Oh this is weird. Maybe he
’
s dying too. Gray hair, all over his body.

We shake hands. He has grown a beard, gray and neat.

I sit down, in the dark, at the end of the bed, by his feet.

I mumble for a while.

I ask him about his infection. His leg is discolored, inflamed.

It
’
s gargantuan.

I no longer feel like asking Stuart the questions I planned to ask him, the ones I was writing down half an hour ago, in the car, in the parking lot, while listening to
‘
80s rock on the radio. I force myself to start, stuttering about why I wanted to look Stuart up, ask a few things...

The first words Stuart says are:

“
Well, I
’
m not sure how much I can enlighten you about your dad
’
s soul.
”

His voice is measured, even. His arms rest on his torso, bathed in the room
’
s ocher light, the room otherwise brown.

This would be the way to die. This is drama, this is appropriate, at night, with the lighting just so. My father
’
s way was all wrong, alone, the middle of the day.

He had fallen again, this time in the shower.

He called out, to Beth. Beth ran to him, dragged him to the bed. Then the ambulance. He was supposed to be in for a week or so, getting his strength up, not unusual. He had been diagnosed only a few months before. A week after he was admitted, the doctor had called, said things were not looking good, that it could be any time.

My mother scoffed. She and Beth went in.

They sat for a time in the room, in the smoke.

“
Come back later,
”
he said.
“
I
’
m taking a nap.
”

They drove home.

“
He
’
s not going to go today,
”
said my mother, amused by the worrying.
“
He
’
s not going to go today, or tomorrow, or next week. He just went in.
”

In an hour he was gone.

“
He was the best driver I
’
ve ever seen,
”
Stuart is saying.
“
The way he would insinuate himself—that was his word,
insinuate
—
‘
Watch me insinuate myself into this lane...
’
he would say. It was incredible. He
’
d change lanes, drive on the shoulder...
”

I tell Stuart the story about how, when he got that car, the Nissan 280, the only new car he ever owned, the first thing he did was customize it. He put an ashtray on the side door, and cut the shoulder straps on the seat belts. We all knew he was not a fan of the seat belt law, thought it was a violation of civil rights, patently unconstitutional. But the odd thing was that, in addition to cutting off the shoulder strap on the driver
’
s side, he cut the one on the passenger side...

The door opens. It
’
s Mrs. Stuart.

“
Oh, you did come.
”

I look up and shrug.

“
I
’
ll leave you alone for a few minutes.
”

She leaves.

The phone rings. Stuart picks it up.

“
Oh hi. Can I call you back?
”

His meal comes. He offers me his cheesecake.

“
No thanks.
”

“
Soup?
”

“
No thanks.
”

I ask Stuart if he thinks my father felt alone when he died.

The phone rings. He stays on longer this time. When he gets off, he does not come back to my question, and I don
’
t ask again.

Mrs. Stuart returns and we all talk for a few minutes. Then I leave. In the parking lot I talk to the tape recorder for a while, already having forgotten most of what Stuart said.

In the morning, Grant and Eric and I eat breakfast at a diner, watching people pass, the jeans and leather jackets of Chicago winters.
“
So what did you do yesterday?
”
Grant asks.
“
Not much,
”
I say.
“
Went back home, drove around.
”
I remember that I saw his mom. Grant
’
s mom walks miles every day, on Western Avenue. I had driven past her.

“
Did you say hi?
”
he asks.

“
No, I didn
’
t realize it was her until too late.
”