A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents

  “Hahahahahahaha!” A little boy maniacally laughs. I take a step back.

  “Um… I… uh…” I stutter.

  “Owen, dear. Owen? Honey, who is it?” a voice calls from the depths of the house. The little boy gives me the once-over—taking my measure. He’s unimpressed.

  “Some blonde lady selling coffee,” Owen yells. I look at the commuter mug in my hand. Jesus.

  “Blonde lady selling coffee? Well, Owen, dear, I’ve nev—” The gray-haired woman walks down the long hallway, trying to work out the ridiculous description. She stops once she sees me.

  “Hi,” I manage.

  “Oh, selling coffee! Oh—Owen, this is our neighbor. Grace Hawkes, right?” the gray-haired woman asks. I’m stunned she knows my name.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

  “Ma’am nothing. I’m Louise. Won’t you come in?” She opens the door as Owen skips down the long hallway.

  “Oh, no thank you… Louise. I wanted to ask you a favor. I know I don’t know you very well, I’m not a big… I’m not a big waver,” I say, holding my non-waving hand up as proof.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. What can I help you with?” Louise asks.

  “Grammy!!!!! They’re showing how they build the floats!!! They’re showing how they build the floats!!!” Owen screams from the back of the house.

  “We’re going to the Rose Parade—it’s his first time. He’s quite excited. What can I do for you, dear?” Louise asks.

  “I have to go out of town and I really don’t know for how long. My dad has had a stroke—I don’t really know him that well, so it’s not like… He left when I was thirteen. Well, he was asked to leave. He had a thing for other women… a lot of other women. He just never looked back, though. You can not be a good husband, but why does that mean you have to be a bad dad? I don’t know… so now I have to head up to Ojai and… well, see how he’s doing and see my family and I haven’t seen them for around five years, you know? Ever since my mom died… It’s been five years since she died and I kind of flipped out and just walked away… ran away, really. From everyone. Like he did. I didn’t put that together until this morning. Weird, huh? Yeah… I had this great guy, too. Pitch-black eyes and he was just this… Anyway, I have a new boyfriend now. He’s kind of a monkeyhander—”

  Louise cuts in, “Monkey what?”

  “A monkeyh—ugh, never mind. It’s too hard to explain. So… now… I’m uh… I’m driving right up there and I just wanted to know if you could pick up my mail… or something,” I finish, my hands wound around the backpack straps.

  Louise looks stunned.

  “Grammy, the floats!!!!” Owen’s voice wafts down the hallway.

  “So your mail?” Louise concludes.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “I can do that,” Louise warily says.

  “Thank you. I really appreciate it,” I say, taking her hand and shaking it.

  “Take care, now,” Louise says, taking her hand back.

  “I will. I will. Thank you,” I say, breathing easier. Louise walks back into her house. I turn to walk back down the pathway.

  I hear the door slam behind me.

  And then there’s no looking back.

  “Ray Hawkes. He’s in the ICU.” I put my hands on the elementary-school-style lectern in the minuscule lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital. Our family always goes to the Huntington Hospital in Pasadena, otherwise known as the Caesars Palace of hospitals. If the Huntington Hospital is Caesars Palace, then St. Joseph’s is the 7-Eleven with a couple of slot machines just across the Nevada state line.

  Tucked away in the rolling countryside northeast of Los Angeles, dotted with oak trees and babbling brooks, Ojai is downright idyllic. An ironic setting for such a reunion. I remember being shocked to find out it was spelled Ojai, thinking, it was spelled: Oh, hi. Like a casual greeting. Oh, hi. Certainly not its beautiful Chumash Indian meaning: “valley of the moon.”

  Two candy stripers stand behind the lectern.

  “Ray Hawkes?” I repeat again. One candy striper picks up a plastic clipboard and flips through the pages.

  “He’s in the ICU,” the other candy striper says. I breathe deeply and stare at the two girls, hoping they’ll figure out from my silence—and the fact that I just said that—that they’re not really helping. I’m just asking for directions to the ICU. I stare. And wait. They stare back. I finally have to give up and admit I can’t win this staring contest. They’re probably both thinking about the color yellow right now.

  “And where might that be?” I ask.

  “Fourth floor. Take the elevator, make a right, two quick lefts and then another right,” one of the candy stripers instructs. I do the math in my head. Have they just told me to go on a wild-goose chase by directing me to walk in a perfect circle? I catch myself doing some odd half-hokey-pokey-like movement as I try to work out the whole right, left, left, right thing. I hitch my purse tightly on my shoulder and head for the elevator, repeating right, left, left, right… right, left, left, right…

  As I walk toward the elevator, it finally dawns on me where I am. The chaos of the morning has slowed down and I find myself here—zombielike in the lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Ojai, California. What’s waiting for me at the other end of these rights and lefts?

  A harried blonde lady and a young boy stand next to the elevator. She’s rolling a child-sized piece of luggage behind her. They both look at the elevator button, then at me, then back at the elevator button. It’s that awkward moment where you ask yourself, has the other person actually pushed the call button—or are we all just standing here waiting for nothing? There’s no light on the button indicating that it’s been pushed. Is she running through the possibilities? If she walks up and presses it and the light is broken—then she’s insinuating that I’m the type of person who stands in front of elevators willing them to open with my mind. The little boy jabs the button with a whirlwind of energy. He can’t help himself.

  “Alec, I’m sure the lady—” The elevator door dings open. They seem startled and no longer make eye contact with me as they step into the elevator. The woman holds her arm in front of the elevator door, holding it open for me.

  “Oh, yeah—sorry. Sorry,” I say, stepping into the elevator.

  “Which floor? Alec likes to push the buttons,” the woman says, eyeing my outstretched arm.

  “Four, please. Thanks,” I say, bringing my arm back down to my side. The woman and boy step to the far side of the elevator. Away from me. I’m relieved when I feel the buzz of my BlackBerry saying that I’ve got a message. It’s from Tim.

  Good luck today. Call when you get a chance.

  The door dings open and they rush out. My stomach lurches as the elevator climbs.

  Thanks. I’ll call when I get to the B&B, I type. I booked a room at a little bed-and-breakfast I found on the Internet when I stopped by the office to pick up some files.

  The elevator dings open on the fourth floor. I hit send and pocket my BlackBerry.

  I’m immediately hit with that unmistakable hospital smell. My entire body convulses. I can’t do this. I need a bathroom. Not again, Jesus—not again. I’m unable to cry, but apparently I’ve now started vomiting like a kitten with a hairball every time an emotional situation arises. Good to know.

  I close and lock the door to the bathroom. Why are all hospital bathrooms so depressing? I’m forced to stop taking in my surroundings so I can retch into the toilet. I try to keep my hands behind my back while holding my breath. My purse slides down my arm and touches the floor—I’ll have to burn that later. I quickly grab some paper towels and put them just under my hands.

  The smell of the hospital permeates the bathroom. Flashing, shooting images of long hallways and a doctor walking toward me. Wringing her hands, approaching families—hopeful families. Families that are about to be broken.

  “Evelyn Hawkes, please… she would have been brought in about fifteen minutes ago?” I ask, breathless.
r />   “Hawkes?” the woman behind the bulletproof glass asks.

  “Yes, Hawkes, with an e. Evelyn Hawkes? Car accident,” I say, looking around the waiting room for the rest of my family.

  “Come on through,” the woman says, buzzing the large double doors open.

  I walk through and am hit with that smell: sickness they try to cover up with cleaning products. Bustling nurses and doctors zip from one room to another, gurneys line the halls, and everyone not in scrubs seems confused… lost somehow. We shouldn’t be here. No one should be here.

  “Grace!?” Leo calls from the far end of the long hallway. He slips and slides down in blue paper booties, no doubt provided by the hospital, because I’m sure Leo showed up barefoot. I catch his full weight and prop him back up.

  “Hey… hey… it’s going to be fine. It was just a car. She was in that giant flower truck, Leo. She’s going to be—” I soothe, rocking him back and forth.

  “She’s their floral designer, why was she even driving that thing?” Leo asks, before I can finish my speech. I’m sure she is going to be rolled out in a little wheelchair with a sling around her arm and a “How do you like that?” look on her face any minute.

  “Maybe someone didn’t come in to work. She’ll tell us when we’re allowed to see her,” I answer, looking down the long hallway.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Leo sighs.

  “Hey,” Abigail says, walking down the long hallway with Manny and Evie: the namesake. At just ten, she’s barely even allowed to be back here. The detached preteen is doing her best to not look scared. Manny is wearing a company polo tucked into dress slacks. Abigail’s loafers squeak on the hospital’s clean floor as she walks toward us. I can see Abigail caressing Evie’s hand as s