Happily Ever After? (11 page)

’Til next time,

V

I’m glad my family’s little reunion is over. What an emotionally draining day, and not only because my father is dying, but
because I could see how my mother has neglected her home (I found mouse droppings in the kitchen drawers) and, because Teresa
managed to eat every perfect dish I served without a single word of praise, and because Julia yet again made separate meals
for her spoiled twins yet never once asked how Pete and I are holding up since the divorce, and because Roger called in the
middle of dinner to say hi to Pete and Surfer Girl was on the line and told Pete that she can’t wait to give him a little
present, and because we’re leaving for Bosnia-Herzegovina in a week and I’m beginning to fear that our plane is going to nosedive
into the sea. Of all the ways to die, that’s got to be the worst. Now my stomach hurts. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.

I’m back.

The best thing about dinner was that everything I made was delicious, even if Teresa wasn’t big enough to admit it. The derby
pie (Pete’s favorite) was obscenely wonderful. I’ve decided to put the recipe down in this journal so I can’t possibly lose
it.

Derby Pie, also known as heart attack in a pie shell

1 stick melted butter

1 cup sugar

2 eggs, lightly beaten

½ cup flour

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup chocolate chips

1 cup pecans (I skipped the pecans since Pete hates nuts.)

Combine all ingredients and pour into frozen pie shell. Bake at 325 degrees for 1 hour. (I baked it for an extra fifteen minutes,
then chilled it outside on the deck. It’s supposed to be sort of runny.)

The other hit was my personal favorite:

Glazed maple sweet potatoes, also known as adult onset diabetes in a Corning casserole dish.

10 sweet potatoes, cooked, peeled, and sliced

1 cup maple syrup

3 tablespoons butter

½ cup apple cider

1 teaspoon salt

4 tablespoons maple sugar (I used brown sugar.)

Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Place sweet potatoes in greased casserole dish. In separate pot mix up syrup,
butter, cider, brown or maple sugar, and salt and bring to boil. Pour mixture over potatoes. Bake 45 minutes, basting every
15 minutes.

’Til next time,

V

I called Omar to let him know about the trip to Medjugorje so he could schedule the custody hearing accordingly. He was out
of the office, so I left a message. I hate waiting so long to finalize my custody arrangement, but I don’t see that I have
a choice now. I only hope that Roger doesn’t try to abduct Pete.

I did something uncharacteristically spontaneous today. I called my new friend Donna Gold and invited her and her family for
take-out dinner. Donna was as buoyant as ever, but her husband wasn’t at all what I’d expected from my elegant Southern friend.
Christopher was quiet, bespectacled, and balding. They made such an unlikely pair that I decided it he must be hung like a
donkey and fabulous in bed. After dinner, Christopher took all the kids to play putt-putt, “To give you ladies a chance to
talk,” he said, winking.

“Don’t believe it for a minute,” Donna said, tossing a crumpled paper napkin at her husband. “Christopher’s
just a big ole kid. He just wants to play putt-putt and he’s using our kids as a cover.”

“Okay, okay, you got me,” he said, throwing up his arms in surrender.

After they left, Donna and I cleaned up the kitchen and talked. I gave her an only slightly sanitized version of my marriage,
and she confessed that she’d had her share of problems with Christopher, but survived with the help of an “amazing” therapist
(Bonita Loeb, as it turned out. I decided not to tell her that Roger and I were Bonita Loeb rejects). She didn’t detail her
marital problems, and I didn’t probe, but I expect I’ll find out eventually.

I told Donna about Roger’s latest antics. “At least I’ll have permanent custody before too long,” I said.

She shook her head. “How can you be so sure?” she asked.

“Come on. What judge is going to give that bastard custody of Pete? After everything Roger has done?”

“Well, maybe not full custody, but the judge might give him joint custody.” Donna saw the incredulity on my face. “Hey, it
happens. Especially these days. Fathers’ rights, you know.” She told me about Tamara Parker, a mother in her play group. “Her
ex-husband was the worst.” She paused. “Okay, maybe not the worst, but he ran a close second to your beaut. He knocked up
their baby-sitter. And he left her practically destitute. Now he’s got joint custody of the kids. Him and his new wife. The
baby-sitter.”

I told her I didn’t want to talk about it. “Let’s talk about something nice instead.”

I told her about Michael Avila. “When I’m with him I just feel so cared for, so safe, so listened to,” I said. “But …”

“What is it?”

I told Donna something I hadn’t yet admitted to myself. “No big fireworks, I guess. You know. There’s something missing. The
chemistry. At least for me.”

“Not nasty enough for ya, huh?”

“What?”

“Let’s see. He’s not a cheater, he’s not a liar, he doesn’t have another wife hidden in a condo somewhere, he doesn’t have
a yen for teenagers … no wonder you’re not attracted to him!” Donna put her hands on her hips and stared at me. “Listen to
me, girl, and listen good. If this detective of yours is as sweet and kind and good-looking as you say he is, you’d be a fool
to let him go just because he doesn’t get you all hot and bothered. In my humble opinion”—she shoved the gravy boat into the
dishwasher—”I think you need to rejig your definition of sexy.”

Maybe I do. But how?

’Til next time,

V

My mother told me that over the last few months Dad has been seeking the Divine, “like a wilting flower thirsting for rainwater,”
is how she put it. He reads the Bible and watches the TV preachers, and even called once and asked their “prayer buddies”
to pray with him, to pray for him. I interpreted this more as an act of desperation than true religious conversion, but I
wasn’t about to tell my mother that.

She has been researching Medjugorje. Apparently, there are special prayers for healing the sick, and these must each be recited
seven times: The Creed, The Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary, and Glory Be. (I know the Lord’s Prayer, but as for the rest, I’m
clueless. My mother has printed them out for each of us but my father already has them memorized.) He will need to fast on
bread and water, and when we meet up with our priest, my father will be anointed with some kind of holy oil. Supposedly it’s
critical to get the right priest for the job because not all have the “gift of healing.” They say that only priests who pray
with forbearance and firm belief will have God’s ear. I only hope that’s the kind I’ve hired.

I’m still incredulous, but I’m beginning to feel inspired. Maybe there really is hope for my father.

’Til next time,

V

At 5
A.M.
I roused Pete and we took a cab to my mother’s house. I asked the driver to wait outside. “We’ll be just a minute,” I told
him.

“No problem. Take your time. I’ve got my breakfast here,” he said, pulling an Egg McMuffin out of a McDonald’s bag. I had
no appetite.

My mother met me on the porch. She was wearing her coat and gloves. “Your father isn’t doing very well.”

I stepped over the two small suitcases at the door. Pete scrambled down to the basement to explore my father’s old armoire.
It was filled with pads and markers and assorted office supplies, playing cards and books about the Korean War. He could spend
all day down there and never come up for a snack.

My father was sitting on the couch, laboring to breathe. His stocking feet looked so small and frail. He managed a smile.
“Valerie,” he whispered.

“It all happened so suddenly,” my mother said, her hands fluttering like moths. “He was up and about yesterday.

“It’s time to go, Dad,” I told him. “The driver’s waiting outside.” My father sat passively as I gently pulled on his hat
and wrapped the scarf around his neck. I could feel his sharp shoulder blades through his baggy beige fisherman’s sweater.
His skin was translucent and his eyes were an entirely new color, not the green I’d remembered
but the softest blue-gray, the color of the summer sky at dawn. Even as I buttoned up his jacket, I knew we weren’t going
anywhere.

“Tell me about the Blessed Virgin,” he said. “Tell me about miracles. His voice was wispy as smoke. His mouth sagged open
and he gasped for air like a fish in a bucket.

I put his cold, bony hand in mine. His eyes were closed. I glanced at the driver through the picture window. He pointed to
his wristwatch and raised his eyebrows.

“Mom, tell the cabdriver he can leave.” I reached into my bag and grabbed a twenty. “Just give him this.”

“What are you talking about?” my mother demanded. “You can’t send the driver away! We need him! We’ve got to get to the airport!”

“Let him leave, Mom. We won’t be going to the airport. We’re not going anywhere.”

“But Teresa. We have to meet Teresa at the airport. Get his shoes on and let’s get out of here.”

My father gripped my hand. “You were a beautiful baby,” he said, gasping, and I felt a great sadness roll up into my throat.
I didn’t want to cry. My mother stood immobilized in the corner of the room, her knuckle between her teeth.

“I don’t know why you made me send the driver away, Val, I really don’t. We’re going to miss the plane.”

“My sweet Valerie, the best baby, the sweetest one.” My father opened his eyes. “How is Peter?”

“I’m calling the doctor,” my mother said.

“Peter’s good, Dad. He’s in the basement. You know how he loves to scrounge around in your old junk.

“He’s a fine young man.” I pulled a tissue from my sleeve and wiped the drool from my father’s chin.

“Valerie,” my father gasped. “Give him. My camera.” My father was an amateur photographer. All my favorite photographs were
the ones he captured with his Leica.

He looked directly into my eyes. He smiled.

Something had shifted.

“Where’s Jack? I need Jack.”

“Who’s Jack, Daddy?”

“Oh!” My mother let out an anguished cry. “Jack was his dog. When he was a just a child.”

“Here, Jack. Here, boy.”

I wrapped my arms around my father’s narrow shoulders and put my head on his chest. “Jack’s right here, Daddy. He’s here.”

“Good Jack,” my father whispered.

My mother looked horrified. I motioned for her to come over. “I love you, Daddy. We all love you so much, Daddy.”

My mother knelt by my father’s side. “Don’t go. You can’t leave me now.”

“Tell him you love him,” I whispered to my mother.

She sobbed loudly, gagging now. “No. I don’t want to. I can’t let him go.”

“Tell him you love him.”

My mother became very still. “I love you,” she
sobbed into my father’s chest. “I will always love you.”

You know how they say that when you’re just about to die, your whole life passes before your eyes? There must be some corollary
for the person who sits with someone passing into death, for in the flicker that was my father’s last breath, my life with
him streamed through me. Camping at Sleeping Bear Dunes. Being hoisted high on his shoulders so I can get a better view of
Cinderella in the Disney parade. Fishing with string and paper clips on the dock at Webster Lake.

And I see him buying me a purple balloon at the fourth of July parade. My father is on his knees, struggling to tie the string
to my wrist. He loses the end of the string and the balloon instantly flies up. We both watch it float higher and higher into
the fresh, blue, cloudless sky.

By 5:25
A.M.
my father was dead.

I don’t have the energy to write any more. I’ve got to go.

I’m back.

My father, it turns out, insisted on a traditional Irish wake. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I told my mother. We never celebrated
St. Patrick’s Day. I never even had one of those “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” buttons.

“I’m serious,” my mother said. She was already in Action Mode. “Your father was very clear about it. He said that when he
died, I should call his great-aunt Finola
and great-uncle Tim and they would handle everything.”

I’d never even heard of a great-aunt Finola and uncle Tim. As I would soon discover, there is quite a bit about my father’s
family I never knew.

“The number for great-aunt Finola is on the board by the phone,” my mother continued. “Then call Richmond Funeral Home and
tell them your father has died and we’re having a wake. Do you have your cell phone?”

“Yes,” I told her.

“Good. Call the airport. Have Teresa paged before she gets on that plane. I’ll call Julia.” She glanced around the room and
shook her head. “This place is a mess,” she said, as if she was seeing the house for the first time. “We’ve got to straighten
up.” I was amazed to see my mother so animated, so in control. I realize now that a great black gloom had finally lifted.
My father’s death had flipped a switch. She was infused with life now.

She asked me to help carry my father’s body into the guest room. “I can’t do this,” I told her. “This doesn’t seem right,
dragging Dad around like a sack of laundry.”

“We have to do this, Valerie.”

I could have wilted and surrendered to my sorrow. This moment was so profoundly awful. I wanted to lay my father’s body to
rest, not haul him around from
room to room. For a moment I wished I were still married. This was the sort of situation I could depend on Roger to handle.
At fidelity, Roger was incompetent. But when it came to killing big bugs, investigating thumps in the night, and handling
other assorted domestic atrocities, Roger was supremely capable.

I stared at my father’s body and somehow found the necessary detachment to grip his lifeless arms while my mother lifted his
legs. I had expected him to be as light as a bag of feathers but there was a stiffness and density now that made his body
feel wooden and heavy. I left my mother to arrange him while I retreated to the kitchen to call this Finola person, who didn’t
seem terribly shocked or saddened to learn that her nephew had died. She said she was on her way and that we should expect
someone to help with the wake. I wasn’t sure what she meant, and didn’t ask her to elaborate. I just wanted to get off the
phone.