Home Is Burning (40 page)

“Friends,”
she said, sticking to her usual short answers.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked her.

“The TV show,” she said. “I'll watch
Friends
with him.”

“That's dumb. Your kid is going to be so dumb,” I said.

“Fuck you,” she said while pushing a
Friends
DVD into the player.

Jessica and I hadn't gotten along since her marriage to Creepy Todd. It was really hard for me to not go into full Dickhead Dan mode around her. I still hadn't accepted her poor decision, even if she was doing better. Seeing the baby bump on her just made me feel angry and sad. We had lost Jessica. The Mormons had won.

“Back off her, DJ,” my dad said.

“Whatever you want, Daddy-O,” I said as I left the room so they could spend time together without me there being an asshole. The sound of canned laughter from the
Friends
DVD started up. It was weird hearing laughter from my dad's room. It sort of sounded like we were all part of a shitty sitcom. “Next on ABC Family,
The Marshall Family Tragedy
. In this episode Bob announces he wants to kill himself while Debi gets addicted to pain pills.”
[Canned laughter.]

Tiffany would come over in the morning before work with a cup of coffee and read my dad the paper, then come back over for an evening walk around the neighborhood. My relationship with Tiffany had completely changed. I hadn't called her a bitch in months, and she hadn't called me an asshole. We had a silent truce going—an understanding that we'd no longer verbally assault each other. It was great. I suddenly found myself with a new sibling, a new friend. We'd grab a glass of wine and sit in the gazebo talking after my dad was asleep.

“What are you going to do after this all ends?” Tiffany asked, making it sound like we were being released from prison or war or hell.

“Not totally sure. I'll finally get another job and apply to graduate school, I guess,” I said.

“For business or for what?” she asked.

“I don't know. Maybe business. I might see if I can get into a screenwriting school,” I said. I had always had a desire to try something completely different. I loved movies and loved writing. Why not combine the two? While all this was going on, I had started writing down what was happening and posting our stories and unusual conversations on a blog. Surprisingly, people enjoyed reading about our tragedy, even though the writing was crude and sloppy. I never had the balls to risk everything and focus on writing as a real career. But since I now had nothing, I figured maybe I'd give it a shot. Why not?

“What about you?” I asked.

“Finish my M.B.A., then probably move to Maine to be with Brian.” I called him BCB so much, I had forgotten his real name was Brian. “Maine's about as far from here as I can get.”

“Yeah, it'll be nice to get away. Fuck, can you believe we were eating family dinners out here with Dad just over a year ago?” I said.

“I know. How the fuck did all this happen so fast?”

“I don't know. I really don't know.” I poured us both a fresh glass of wine to the brim.

For her activity with Dad, Chelsea decided that she would practice some of her dance moves around his bed.

“I figured you'd want to just come in here and fart,” I said.

“I can do that, too,” she said mid-plié, and then pushed out a perfectly timed fart.

“Get out of here. Dad has thirty-nine days left, and he's in enough pain without smelling your farts,” I said. Chelsea giggled her giggle and danced out of the room.

I had spent more time with my dad over the last year than any of the rest of my siblings, so I sort of felt like we had done everything already. But we'd go on a walk a day, and at night, I'd bring a bottle of wine up to his room and pour us both a glass. I set his on the stand next to his bed.

“You don't want any of yours?” I asked.

“I still can't drink,” he said.

“Well, more for me,” I said, swooping up his glass and gulping down the contents like a fat alcoholic. My dad and I didn't really need to talk. We just liked being around each other. It was as if we had crammed all the hanging out we were supposed to do over the next twenty-five years into this single year. I'm sure he got sick of me always being there, always being a smart-ass. But maybe not. Who knows?

As I was hanging with my dad one afternoon, my mom stumbled in and sat in the chair next to the bed. Her eyes were half closed, meaning she was in Fentanyl Land. She looked as if she was about to drop into a grave.

“Mom, so everyone's doing their special little activity with dad before he dies in thirty-four days. Why aren't you?” I asked.

“I am,” she said.

“Sitting next to him eating yogurt and almost dying isn't much of an activity.”

“For your information, I'm giving him a blow job a day until he's dead,” she proudly said, like she was donating to charity or feeding the homeless.

“A blow job a day? That's a lot of blow jobs,” I said. “Good thing you're such a blow job machine.”

“Oh, shut up, you little shit-eater. One day you're not going to have a mother to treat like shit,” she said. “And for the record, I'm really good at them. He loves them.”

I looked to my dad to see his reaction to all this. “This true, Dad?” I asked. “Are you getting a blow job a day?” He raised his eyebrows and attempted a smile, his version of
it's none of your business, but yes, I am!

It was a little weird—my mom blowing my dad until the end of his life—but also really compassionate. I never liked to picture my parents fucking, believe it or not, but I assumed they had a regular sex life. My dad, more than my mom, liked to joke about sex. With any joke comes a little bit of truth and desire. But once my dad got sick, I figured the sex-related activities had slowed down, then disappeared completely. But I guess they hadn't.

“That's cool. I just hope I never walk in on that,” I said. “Be horrific to see my mom's mouth full of my dad's cock and cum.”

“DANNY,” my dad managed to say in as angry a tone as he could muster. “Let's not be so disgusting all the time.”

“I'm not the one getting my dick sucked by a cancer patient,” I said.

My mom was beyond proud of the blow-job-a-day goal she had set for herself. I don't know if it was because she was all fucked up on Fentanyl or what, but she seemed to bring it up any chance she got, and to anyone who would listen.

“A blow job a day. Not a bad deal,” I heard her explain to a visitor. “You wouldn't think it, but his penis is still strong,” I heard her explain to another.

*   *   *

“God, that rich-bitch sister of his is finally coming,” my mom told me toward the end of August. My dad's family had been a little reluctant to visit because of the mutual hatred between them and my mom. They simply couldn't stand each other. Of everyone in my dad's family, my mom disliked Aunt Sarah the most. They used to be friends. In fact, Aunt Sarah actually introduced my mom and dad to each other. Sarah and my mom grew apart over the years, and eventually they started absolutely hating each other. Getting them together was like putting two betta fish in the same bowl.

“The best part of him dying is that I'll never have to see any of those assholes ever again.”

“They probably feel the same way about you. And, this is about Dad, not you,” I told her. I would defend my dad's family. I liked them, even if my mom didn't, and I knew my dad wanted to spend time with them. So I'd try to play peacemaker.

“When she's here, just sit quietly and let Dad have some time with her. She was his sister before you were his wife,” I said.

“I won't say a word for Dad's sake,” she said. “But still, fuck her.”

My mom was true to her promise. She mostly got out of the way, but one afternoon, the two betta fish found their way into my dad's room. Aunt Sarah sat bedside, holding her brother's bony hand as they talked about their childhood, while Mom sat off in the corner like a kid on time-out, silently spooning yogurt into her face.

“So, we've all decided a few things we're going to do with my dad before he dies in twenty-nine days,” I told my aunt. “Greg is interviewing him. Chelsea is dancing for him. Tiffany is reading him the morning paper. Jessica's watching old episodes of
Friends
with him
.
I'm having a glass, or bottle, of wine a night with him. I was thinking that you should come up with something as well.”

“Oh, that's a great idea,” said Aunt Sarah. She thought for a minute. “Oh, how about I call every day I'm not here with a memory or a story?”

“Great idea,” I said. “He'll love that. Won't you, Dad?”

“Yeah, that'll be nice,” he said. We all exchanged smiles. What a nice family moment.

Then my mom interjected from her corner. “I'm giving him a blow job a day for the rest of his life,” she proudly said.

Sarah looked at my mom and said, “Boy, I didn't need to hear that.”

“But your story thing is good, too,” she said with a smirk.

“It's not a competition,” Aunt Sarah said.

“No. It's not. But if it was, I'd win.” My mom finished off her yogurt and dropped the empty in the trash as she left.

*   *   *

I'm not entirely sure if the blow-job-a-day thing actually happened. Who knows. My mom says it did, and my dad seemed awfully happy during this stretch. Maybe because he was finally going to die. Or maybe because he was getting a blow job a day for the rest of his life. What was important was that he was getting to spend time with everyone he loved. Oh, and we did take him to Snowbird.

 

FUNERAL PLANNING WITH CHELSEA

Funerals are uncomfortable—and not just because you have to sit on a hard bench in a cold church with snot and tears pouring out of you. Planning a funeral for a person who's still alive is even more uncomfortable. A lot of times people put words in the dead person's dead mouth, saying things like “Well, Grandpa would have wanted us to have a cocktail party,” or a former friend might say, “He would have wanted me to fuck his widowed wife just after his funeral.”

If there was one silver lining in my dad's situation, it was that he had the ability to sit in on the planning, which gave him some control over something—though my mom basically monopolized all the decision making. We had one such planning session as the September 22 date approached, attended by everyone in my family: Tiffany, Greg, Jessica, Chelsea, my mom, my dad, me, and our two panting golden retrievers, who I wanted to slam over the head with a shovel for being so happy in the middle of this Greek tragedy. Even a couple of our horrible cats lounged around the room.

My mom was in charge of the meeting, the old red notebook she'd had from the beginning sitting on her lap. She had a list of everything she wanted to plan: who would speak, what songs would be played, where we'd do the reception.

My mom suggested that we each do a speech. I had delivered a speech at Grandma Rosie's funeral a few years back that got a few chuckles, so I figured I could do the same at my dad's funeral. I didn't want to turn it into a stand-up comedy routine—“What's the deal with my dad dying twenty-five years earlier than I thought he would?”—but I had already scribbled down a few jokes and anecdotes for it. I figured all the other speeches would be sad and sentimental, so I wanted to make one that focused on how great my dad's life was before he got Lou Gehrig's. I wanted to try to get people to remember him without the disease. I wanted them to think of him as the happy guy who made every situation better through his mere presence—not as a crippled mess lying around shitting into diapers while hooked to a breathing machine.

“Do I have to do a speech?” asked Jessica.

“Only if you love Dad. If not, don't worry about it,” I said. Jessica would hardly talk during a one-on-one conversation, so I was sort of excited to see her speak in front of a giant collection of people. I wondered what the fuck she would even say.

“I don't want to speak,” she said.

“Then I guess you don't love Dad,” I said.

“Todd will speak for me,” she said.

“Creepy Todd isn't speaking at Dad's fucking funeral,” Greg said.

“Yeah, Jess, that's insane. Family only,” I said.

“That fucker shouldn't even be allowed at the funeral,” Tiffany said. “I wish I'd cut his dick off before he got you pregnant.”

“Bob, what do you think?” my mom asked. He just shrugged. He didn't care. He wasn't even going to be there. Well, I guess he'd be there, but he'd be sitting in the blue, cloud-covered urn we had purchased for his ashes a couple of weeks earlier.

“Okay, so Todd will speak for Jessica,” my mom said, scribbling down a note. The rest of us shook our heads in disbelief. Not only had this weirdo infiltrated our family and impregnated our defenseless, emotionally fragile little sister, but now he was speaking at my dad's funeral? Fuck that. Fuck that hard.

For music, my mom was getting her friends Craig and Janet to sing. Janet had sung and played the guitar at Jessica's wedding. She was like our hired musician for all our tragic events. I bet when she got into music she was hoping for better gigs. My mom kept insisting that she perform “Over the Rainbow” instead of something my dad actually liked.

“Okay, so we're going to have Janet sing ‘Over the Rainbow,'” my mom said.

“Why? Dad doesn't even like that song,” Greg said.

“Yes, he does. There's a new version out,” my mom said.

“We're not fucking playing ‘Over the Rainbow.' Let's have her play something he likes by the Beatles or James Taylor or Paul Simon,” said Greg.

“I agree with Greg. We're not playing ‘Over the Rainbow,'” I said. “Dad doesn't even like rainbows, probably hates them since his life has become the opposite of one.”