Home Is Burning (28 page)

For Greg, being gay and all, the dream was acting. He partook in several plays and even joined a traveling acting troupe called Up with Kids. Up with Kids, the child version of Up with People, specialized in performing uplifting and downright awful songs at some of our nation's finest amusement parks and tourist destinations. The group essentially consisted of soon-to-be-drama-nerd fatties, young boys who hadn't yet been injected with that hormonal poison that makes getting pussy a top priority, and Greg. Greg was by far the smartest, best-looking, and gayest member of the troupe, so he stole the show. Whether we were in Disneyland, SeaWorld, Universal Studios, or at the Washington Monument, Greg was in the center of the stage, lighting it up, as my grandma Rosie laughed in the background.

“Goddamn it, this shit is hilarious. Greg is so gay,” I'd laugh with my grandma during one of his performances.

“Look, he's putting on a wig,” she'd say, bursting into an even greater fit of laughter.

Greg's interest in acting started to wane as he became more self-aware. I also think he started getting embarrassed by my grandma and me yakking it up at all his performances. So, he quit acting and picked up writing.

Jessica dabbled in lacrosse and appeared to be extremely interested in it, but it soon became apparent that she wasn't as interested in the sport as she was in her coach. She sort of gave up on lacrosse around the time she started high school.

For Chelsea, the impossible profession was dance, and her dream was very much still alive, so we were forced to play along and act as though she had a legitimate shot at doing it forever.

“So, what do you want to be when you grow up, besides a fart and shit machine?” I would ask her.

“A dancer. Maybe I'll be in the New York City Ballet,” she'd say.

“Yeah, that sounds like a very nice dream. Keep working hard, and keep your hands off your genitals. Masturbating wastes a lot of time and sucks up a lot of energy. I mean, look at me. I get nothing done,” I'd say.

Greg and I continued to look after her more than usual during this nightmare year. We were her sarcastic, fake parents. Greg was to handle her emotions and play the role of concerned mother, while I handled the fun stuff—like teaching her how to drive while teasing her about boys. I was the verbally abusive father figure who clearly resented having children because they made him feel guilty for drinking so much. Chelsea didn't take either of us seriously, so the three of us became some sort of a strange family mocking all other families who took being a family seriously.

“You got a boyfriend, you little shithead?” I'd say like a drunk dad.

“No boys like me because I fart,” she'd giggle back.

“Well, there's the farting, then there's also the fact that you're a total nerd. Plus, you don't dress like a slut,” I'd say.

Greg would walk over, looking like a concerned parent. “Chelsea, that is not true. Don't listen to your drunk father. You
aren't
a nerd and you
do
dress like a slut,” he'd joke.

Part of our fake parenting responsibilities also involved supporting her dance dreams. We couldn't let her become aware of the fact that all dreams die once pubes come bursting out of our bodies. We encouraged her and even called her “Dance Princess” occasionally, when we weren't calling her Fart Princess or Baby Moe.

“Fuck, I feel like Chelsea still believes in Santa Claus, and we're forced to play along,” said Greg one night in the basement when we were chatting about life.

“Yeah, it sucks. But at least she's not into some stupid acting bullshit.”

“That stupid acting bullshit got us into Disneyland,” Greg said.

“Splash Mountain is better than sex,” I said.

“I'm sure it's better than sex with you,” Greg said.

Chelsea was part of a dance troupe called the Children's Dance Theater. Ages ranged from four to seventeen, making Chelsea one of the oldest members. They'd have about four major performances a year, but they practiced nearly every night. Chelsea was still too afraid to drive—mainly because my lessons would mostly end in me yelling at her about how bad she was at driving—so we still had to drive her to her rehearsals. Driving her around was an extra chore, so eventually we started to pawn off the responsibility to the throngs of Mormon neighbors who felt bad about the whole dying-parents thing and wanted to prove to themselves and God that they were good people.

“Let us know if we can do anything to help,” a Mormon neighbor would say.

“Drive Chelsea to dance,” I'd say.

“Really? But…”

“Our parents are dying, remember? God's watching,” I'd interrupt.

The actual going to the performance part was one thing that we couldn't pawn off because of the guilt our mom smothered us with. She took a variety of different approaches, usually involving our dying father.

“Come on, her father is dying. She needs you guys. You're all she's got.”

“You have to go. It means the world to her, and Dad is dying.”

“GET THE FUCK IN THE CAR BEFORE I START GETTING SO MAD THAT I MURDER YOU WITH MY LITTLE CANCER HANDS.”

But the most effective line she used involved Chelsea's dreams. “Come on, you guys. Chelsea still thinks she's going to be a professional dancer. You have to support her and play along. She can't lose her father and her dreams in the same year,” she'd say.

All these tactics worked to weigh down our souls and cement our asses into seats at the theater where we'd watch the Dance Princess perform.

*   *   *

As we pushed through the snowy winter, my dad continued to get worse and worse. It was hard to get out of the house. I figured that this would serve as a big enough reason to keep us from Chelsea's upcoming performance.

“I can't go to Chelsea's show. I've got to watch this crippled fuck,” I would say as I gestured toward my poor dad. He was my alibi. He would get me out of going. Surely we won't be forced to go under these Lou Gehrig's conditions, right?

There are all sorts of medicines one can use to overcome physical difficulties, but there still isn't one to combat a Catholic woman's use of guilt. Even though my dad couldn't shit, breathe, or walk without another's assistance, my mom still was able to guilt him into going to Chelsea's dance performances. She used a variety of different approaches, usually involving his imminent death.

“Come on, this will be the last chance you have to go to one.”

“You have to go. I already bought flowers for you to give her after the performance. Don't let this disease make you into a bad father.”

“Chelsea needs her father there because you're going to die soon, and she won't have a father, and she'll be the only girl in the group that doesn't have a father because you'll be dead.”

“GET THE FUCK IN THE CAR BEFORE I START GETTING SO MAD THAT I MURDER YOU WITH MY LITTLE CANCER HANDS.”

In the end, my dad had to go, and Greg and I were the only ones able to get him there. We had gotten much better at getting my dad ready for a day out, but it was still a pain in the ass. People in hospital beds attached to respirators aren't meant to have active, on-the-go lifestyles.

“Can you believe we still have to go to these things, Dad?” I said.

“Yeah, it's time Chelsea gives up this dream, right?” Greg said.

“Let's just go so Mom doesn't kill us. I don't want to die just yet,” Dad said.

My dad was right. He might have been dying, but he still had the wherewithal to know not to mess with my mom's demands and Chelsea's dreams. So we went.

My dad, Greg, my mom, my parents' best friends, Sam and Sue Larkin, and I arrived at the Capital Theater in downtown Salt Lake. We found ourselves among swarms of the type of people who attend mediocre dance performances in mediocre towns: parents, friends, dancers, and perverts looking to catch some camel toe.

Instantly, I knew that this was a mistake. It's one thing to take my dad to a park or a support group meeting, and quite another to take him to a crowded event. Steering a man in a 450-pound wheelchair through a crowd of Mormon glad-handers is quite a task. You have to get used to watching the road and saying things like “Excuse us,” or “Pardon us,” or “We'd like you to move because you have legs and can easily do that, whereas he is in a wheelchair and can't, you selfish fuckers.”

My dad rocked an extremely concerned facial expression that suggested he sort of trusted us, but not really. My mom had piled bouquets of flowers on top of him, which he could deliver to Chelsea after the performance to help her feel special and loved. He looked like he was being rolled into his own funeral.

Once we got into the theater, a nice old man directed us to the absolute worst place in the theater for a wheelchair. Though there was room in the back—close to the exits and the van should something go wrong—he insisted that we sit at the far, front-left corner of the theater, a five-minute wheelchair drive.

“I know you're old and old people aren't as smart because of the wear and tear a human brain takes over the course of our unnaturally long lives, but are you completely stupid?” I wanted to say.

“Great. Thanks. Right in front,” I actually said.

We settled into our seats. I sat between my dad, so I could take credit for caring for him and look like a hero (of sorts), and Greg, so we could giggle and whisper smart-ass remarks to each other. He was my new grandma Rosie.

“Is this dance called ‘Tights: A Salute to Camel Toe?'” I joked.

“I think it's called ‘Look, Little Mormon Girls Can Dance, Too,'” he joked back.

I watched my dad more than I did the dance performance, and kept close tabs on how far along in the program they were. The second we sat down I started asking about leaving. “How long is this fucking thing?” and “When does Chelsea come on?” and “We don't have to stay for the whole thing, do we?”

My mom looked at us and said, “Come on, you're all she has, and this is the last time Dad will see her perform.”

Chelsea came on about ten minutes in. We all whispered to each other and pointed to the stage. “Do you see her up there? She's in the back.” They always placed her in the back for some reason. She was a graceful dancer—she really does have talent—but her arm swings and leg kicks were always a bit faster or slower than those of the rest of the group, which was fine with us because it made her easier to keep track of. We cheered harder and clapped louder for her. Greg yelled, “Yeah, Chelsea!” which was probably a waste of energy since she's slightly deaf.

I pointed her out to my dad. “You see her up there, Dad?” I asked.

He managed to smile and nod his head. He had made it. It had happened. He got to see his little girl dance one more time. Maybe this horrible journey was all worth it.

After her dance, the performance continued. The theme was something about space, or the future, or technology, or science. The music was sort of futuristic—Space Odyssey, Space Mountain–ish. It was intense. Right as the most intense number with the most intense space-exploration music possible started up, my dad's respirator started to BEEP, letting us know that we had to act or death would soon arrive. It was dark. We couldn't see anything. The respirator continued to BEEP as the music boomed through the theater, loud enough for even the old fuck who sat us to hear.

“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP,” it screamed. “STOP WHISPERING SMART-ASS CAMEL TOE JOKES TO EACH OTHER AND SAVE THIS MAN.”

Greg and I popped up out of our seats. We saw this as a great time to save our dad's life, but also a great time to use him as an excuse to sneak out of the theater so we could maybe grab a tea and just chill in the lobby. I checked the respirator as Greg tried to comfort him—rubbing his shoulders and checking his tubes. The worst thing that can happen to a person on a respirator besides death is a mucus plug. When he was portable and away from the humidifier, his mucus would start to dry up and could plug the airway, blocking oxygen. That's what was happening: a mucus plug in the middle of a dark theater with space music shooting out of the speakers. Unplugging a mucus plug involved manually bagging him and literally pumping air into him with enough force to push through the plug.

“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP,” said the respirator. “YOU IDIOTS BETTER HURRY OR HE'S GOING TO DIE.”

“I can't really see anything. We've got to get out of the dark,” I yell-whispered to Greg, as I continued to manually pump air into my dad's lungs. A look of absolute panic overtook my dad's face. He was fading fast. We had to act. Death was closing in on us.

So, we started the long journey up to the theater's exit. We eight-point-turned him around and started to panic and swear, much to the chagrin of the Mormon audience trying to enjoy the stupid, wholesome performance.

“Why the fuck did they put us this far from the fucking exit,” I yelled as we tried to steer my dad through the dark aisles, banging into seats as we went, while the intense space music blasted through the theater. “Man, if he dies at this bullshit…”

We finally got to the top of the theater. The old man smiled and opened the doors for us, as if he was doing us the biggest favor imaginable.

“If he dies, it's your fault, you old fuck,” I wanted to say.

“Thanks for grabbing the door,” I actually said.

Greg and I got our dad to the theater's lobby area and started bagging him. He was turning blue at this point and was probably starting to think that watching his daughter dance to space music would be his last memory. Greg pumped the bag as I suctioned the mucus out of him. After about five minutes, we had worked through the mucus plug, and everything was back to normal.

We sat in the lobby for the rest of the performance. I sipped on tea and Greg rubbed my dad's shoulders. The flowers still sat on my dad's lap. Soon, the legions of people flocked out of the theater. My mom found us.