With You and Without You

  I fell asleep reading an Agatha Christie mystery and didn’t wake up until I heard a little voice.

  “Liza?” whispered the voice.

  “Mmphh,” I answered.

  “Liza, it’s Christmas!”

  I struggled to open my eyes. Hope was standing at the foot of my bed, shivering in the chilly room.

  “What time is it?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell time.”

  I rolled over and looked at my watch. Six o’clock. “You can wake everyone else up, I guess,” I said. Six o’clock wasn’t too early.

  A little while later, another fire lit, the tree lights on, Mom and Dad allowed us kids to race downstairs. And what a sight the living room was! It looked like a department store. There was Hope’s two-wheeler, a dollhouse, and a gigantic teddy bear. There was a ten-speed racing bike for Carrie, a tape deck for me, and even a new bed for Fifi, and a scratching post for Mouse.

  “And look outside,” Dad said to Brent. He parted the curtains and we all rushed to the window.

  “What?” asked Brent.

  “That,” said Dad. He pointed to the street.

  “That? That—that car?”

  Dad nodded, grinning. “It’s secondhand, but it’s in good condition.”

  By that time we were all practically hysterical with excitement.

  And there were more presents to go—all the wrapped ones under the tree. We spent hours opening them. Dad gave Mom a diamond bracelet. Mom gave Dad The Collected Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  Mom gave me a certificate that said I could get my ears pierced, and Carrie gave me a pair of wild earrings. Dad put on a funny flashing bow tie I had found for him. He turned it on whenever visitors arrived.

  The day was magic, from beginning to end.

  But nobody enjoyed it more than Dad.

  BOOK II

  Spring

  Chapter One

  IN NOVEMBER, THE DOCTORS had said Dad would live for six months to a year. He lived for exactly six and a half months, until the beginning of June.

  After Christmas, he was in and out of the hospital five times, for different reasons. But in the middle of May, he came home for good, his body spent and tired. He lived his last days in bed, his muscles wearing out, his legs often swollen, an oxygen tank always in the room. And then one Tuesday he simply slipped away.

  We had known it would happen then, and Mom had kept us kids home from school. The evening before, while Dad slept, she had called us together. “It won’t be much longer,” she had said. “All his vital signs are growing weaker.”

  By then, we had nurses who cared for Dad round the clock. He had long ago been moved into the den on the first floor so he wouldn’t have to climb the stairs, and now a nurse was always with him, checking his pulse, his blood pressure, his temperature. Even Hope knew what “vital signs” meant.

  Mom called her parents in California, her brother and his family in Oregon, and Dad’s aunt Laura in Vermont, and told them to fly in. (Dad didn’t have any family left aside from his aunt.) She didn’t have to call our neighbors or friends, though. They knew how things stood and had been dropping by regularly.

  But they left us alone the next morning. I woke up early, Hope sleeping soundly beside me. Lately she’d been afraid to sleep alone in her room. Often I’d find her next to me when my alarm went off.

  I left Hope in my bed and tiptoed downstairs. Mom was sitting in the kitchen, the lights off, sipping black coffee. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before.

  “Mom?” I said.

  “Morning, honey.” Mom’s voice was thick, her eyes red-rimmed.

  “Were you up all night?” I asked.

  Mom nodded. “So was Brent. He’s still with Dad. Why don’t you go sit with him?”

  “Okay.”

  The light in the den was dim. The shades were up halfway, but outside the sky was still gray. Brent was sitting in a chair next to Dad’s bed, tipped back so he was leaning against the wall. He was holding Dad’s hand and staring out the window. The nurse was in the hall outside. She’d been giving us more and more time alone with Dad.

  “Hi,” I whispered to Brent. I sat down on the other side of the bed and picked up Dad’s free hand. Dad was asleep sitting up, which was the only way he could breathe now.

  Brent didn’t answer me.

  “Why don’t you go sleep for a couple of hours?” I asked him.

  Brent shook his head.

  I knew why. He wanted to be with Dad at the very, very end, whenever that would be. So did I. At least, I thought I did.

  So Brent and I sat.

  Dad slept.

  Mom came in. Carrie came in. Hope woke up crying and came in.

  And still Dad slept.

  I kept looking at his chest to see if he was breathing. He was, but his breathing was shallow and irregular.

  The hours crept by.

  At ten o’clock, Carrie said she had to go to the bathroom. She got halfway out the door of the den, then turned and came back. “It’ll have to wait,” she said. “I want to be here.”

  Mom sat in the rocker with Hope in her lap. They were both dozing. I moved to the end of the bed, and Carrie took my place next to Dad. Brent didn’t budge.

  At ten-thirty, the nurse came in and took Dad’s blood pressure. She felt for his pulse. Then she turned to leave.

  “When?” Mom asked the nurse as she was closing the door.

  “Soon.”

  Hope suddenly said sleepily that she had to throw up. The nurse took her so Mom could stay with Dad. She didn’t bring Hope back for forty-five minutes. When she did, Hope had obviously been given a bath, was wearing fresh clothes, and had had her hair washed and brushed. She looked one hundred percent better. We’d been neglecting her a bit.

  At noon Dad woke up. Sort of. His gaze traveled slowly around the room. After several seconds he said, “Are you all here?” His voice was so faint I could barely understand him. He closed his eyes again.

  Mom stood up, set Hopie in the rocker, and sat on the bed. “We’re all here,” she said, leaning toward him.

  Dad opened his eyes partway. “Tell the kids I love them,” he said.

  “They know that,” Mom replied gently, her voice quavering. “They’re right here.”

  Mom bent over and kissed Dad on the forehead. “And I love you.”

  Dad smiled faintly. Carrie let go of his hand, and he reached up to touch Mom’s lips with his fingers. Then, abruptly, he fell asleep again.

  He never woke up.

  When the nurse came in a little while later, she felt for his pulse and couldn’t find it. Swiftly she pulled out her stethoscope and listened to his chest. Then she forced his eyelids open and checked his eyes.

  At last she turned to Mom and said, “He’s gone.”

  I gasped, but Mom just nodded. She looked at us and said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like some time alone with him.”

  “Okay,” said Brent. He took Hopie by the hand and led her outside. Carrie and I followed.

  The four of us huddled on the couch in the living room. Carrie began to cry softly and then to sob. Hope wriggled into my lap and began to cry, too. We tried to comfort each other, but none of us could say anything.

  Presently, Mom came out of the den. “Brent?” she said. “Would you like to go in?”

  Brent rose and went into the den, closing the door behind him. A few minutes later he came out and Carrie went in. I was still sitting on the couch hugging Hopie tightly. Mom began making phone calls in the kitchen.

  When Carrie came out, she looked at me. “Liza?”

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t you want to—”

  “No!” There was no way I was going back into that room. Not alone, and not with anybody else. It was all right being with him when I thought he was alive, but I could not sit and talk with my dead father.

  “It’s all right, Liza,” Mom said, coming back into the living room.
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  A few minutes later, people began arriving. Mrs. Washburn came first, then a man from the funeral parlor. Then Denise’s mother. Two doctors arrived. The nurse left, but soon returned. Beth Perkins, Mom’s best friend, came. Mom’s parents arrived. More relatives came.

  I quickly lost track of who was in the house and what time it was. I retreated to my room, feeling numb. I don’t know how long I stayed there. Three people knocked on my door, and I told each of them that I wanted to be alone. But when Denise walked in, I let her stay. I was glad to see her. I didn’t even know school was over.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I feel like I did when Charlie was killed.”

  “You’re not going to let yourself cry, are you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Denise, please don’t—”

  “I’m not kidding, Liza. Remember what I told you when Charlie died?”

  I nodded. “Not to put it off. … But I can’t cry.”

  “Maybe not right now. But when you do feel like crying, no matter what you think, it’s a lot easier to cry and let go of your father than to keep everything inside. Okay?”

  We sat for awhile, not saying anything, just being together.

  Denise stretched. “You know what my favorite memory of your father is?” She began to smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Actually, I have two. One is that time he tried out your skateboard. Remember?”

  I began to smile, too. “He could hardly stay on it,” I said. “He kept trying to go down the driveway and falling off. And then that one time he stayed on, he rode out into the street and almost hit that police car!”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the other memory?”

  “It was right after my own father died. I was over here one day feeling pretty bad. I was moping around, and you didn’t know what to do with me. I mean, we were little then. Anyway, your dad asked me what was wrong, and I said something like who was ever going to take me sledding again, and he said he’d be glad to. He said he knew he wouldn’t be as good as my dad, but that he really wanted to take me.”

  “And he did take you, didn’t he?” I said.

  “Yup. Lots of times. You and Brent and Carrie would come, so it wasn’t like when Dad and I used to go alone, but it was fun. That was when I started to see that maybe life would go on after all.”

  “Dad always knew the right thing to say. He always knew how people were feeling,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Denise grabbed a Kleenex from the box on my dresser and began dabbing at her eyes. “First my father, then yours,” she whispered.

  I nodded. “Let’s go downstairs,” I said. “I better see how Hope’s doing.”

  “Okay.”

  Denise and I put our arms around each other and went down to the living room, which was full of people. We found Hope sitting rather uncomfortably in Grandpa’s lap. Denise and I took her into the kitchen.

  “How’s your stomach?” I asked her.

  “Fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s hungry. It’s rumbling.”

  “All right.” I cut three slices from a pound cake I found on the counter. There was food everywhere. No one showed up empty-handed.

  Hope and Denise and I sat at the table, picking at the cake.

  “Some people took Daddy away,” Hope commented.

  “I know.”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Hope stuffed a huge piece of cake in her mouth. “And I know what that means. Just like Charlie. He isn’t coming back.”

  Chapter Two

  A WEEK LATER, THERE was a memorial service for Dad. It was held on the last day of school. Brent and Carrie and I had missed the entire last week and were going to make up the work and exams over the summer.

  Dad had planned the memorial service himself. He’d decided where he wanted the service to take place, and he’d chosen the music to be played. He’d said he didn’t want a eulogy, but he’d asked Mom, Brent, Carrie, Hope, and me each to read or recite something, if we wanted to. He’d asked Denise to play the piano. Dad had told us he wanted the service to be short and to remind people of his life, not of his death.

  On a warm, sticky Tuesday morning Brent drove Mom, Hope, Carrie, and me to the Kimball Funeral Home, arriving an hour before the service was supposed to start. Denise came with us, clutching her music nervously. We parked in front of the home and walked up a flagstone path, the scent of honeysuckle and lush early-summer grass filling our noses. When we opened the door, another heavy scent overcame us—flowers. I’ve never seen so many. Mr. Kimball, the director of the funeral home, said he’d never seen so many either. Bouquet after bouquet sat on tables, benches, chairs, and the floor in the receiving hall. They just kept arriving. Mom asked Mr. Kimball to give them to the Neuport Medical Center after the service.

  “But those are our flowers, Mommy,” Hope whined. “I want them.”

  Hope had a bad case of the “I wants.” She’d had it all week. She wanted everything—every note or telegram that was delivered, a taste of all the food that arrived. And she wouldn’t throw anything away, not even trash.

  “Mo-ther,” I’d complained more than once. I was thoroughly exasperated with Hope.

  “Honey,” Mom said patiently, “she’ll work through this. Her father was just taken away from her. She doesn’t want to let go of anything else.”

  Mr. Kimball led us to the room where the service would take place. It was big, with lots of pews in it, but two teenagers were busily lining up folding chairs wherever they could fit them.

  “Judging by the number of flower arrangements that are arriving,” Mr. Kimball explained, “the service is going to be heavily attended.”

  Mom went off with Mr. Kimball to discuss last-minute arrangements, and we kids sat in a little anteroom, waiting. The room was hot, even with the window open, and we didn’t say much.

  After a while, Brent noticed that people were starting to arrive. Soon cars lined both sides of the street in front of the funeral home. Others streamed up the drive to the parking lot in back.

  “Hey,” said Carrie at one point. “Look at that.”

  We crowded to the window to look out. Two black limousines with dark windows had paused in front of the home.

  “Who do we know who’s that rich?” I asked.

  “It looks like gangsters,” said Carrie, awed.

  Doors started to open, and we could see feet stepping onto the pavement.

  “If they’re so rich, how come the chauffeurs aren’t getting out and opening the doors for them?” asked Denise.

  None of us knew. We continued to watch, mystified, as the people emerged from the limos.

  “Oh, wow,” said Brent suddenly. “You know who they are? They’re from Dad’s office in New York. There’s his secretary, and there’s Tina Crandall, and there’s Mrs. Reit and Ben Sandford and Dad’s boss.”

  “All the way from New York,” I repeated.

  “In limos,” added Carrie.

  “The company must have liked Dad an awful lot,” I said.

  “A lot of people did,” said Brent.

  The service was supposed to start at eleven o’clock. At ten minutes to eleven, Mom came into the room to wait with us and to tell Denise she could take her place at the piano. At eleven, Mr. Kimball stuck his head in to say that they were having trouble seating people and that the service would be delayed ten minutes. At eleven-fifteen, he said he needed five more minutes.

  When the service finally started, every seat was taken, and more people were standing in the aisles and across the back of the room. The side door had been opened and about forty others stood patiently on the lawn trying to see in.

  As Mom, Brent, Carrie, Hope and I walked through the crowded, silent room, I saw neighbors and relatives. I saw Dad’s nurses from the hospital and several of his doctors. I saw friends of mine and friends of Brent’s an
d friends of Carrie’s. I saw our teachers and I saw Hopie’s beloved Mrs. Harper from her school.

  I had to swallow hard to keep from crying.

  I don’t remember much of what went on at the service, but I do remember that Denise played two pieces by Bach that were favorites of Dad’s. Then Mom stood up and said something, but I don’t remember what. Brent stood up next, turned to face the people, and recited “Mending Wall,” a poem by Robert Frost that Dad had liked very much and had read over and over again.

  Carrie stood next, but I don’t remember what she said, just that it was something she read from a crumpled piece of notebook paper, and that by the time she finished it, anybody who hadn’t already been crying, was crying.

  After that, it was my turn, and when I stood I found that I didn’t have much stage fright at all. In fact, I didn’t need the index card full of notes that I was holding.

  “What I want to say,” I began, “is that if Dad had to die so soon, this is just the way he would have wanted it to happen. He had time to prepare for it, and he chose the way to spend his last months. Once he told me that sometimes sudden deaths are harder than lingering deaths because so much is left unsaid. Dad was grateful for these months because we were able to say things to each other, and to finish things up.

  “Dad also said that this service is supposed to be a remembrance of his life, not of his death, so I want to tell you that Dad was a special father. He always listened, and had time for his kids.”

  There was at least another paragraph left to my speech, but I suddenly decided it was too personal, so I wound it up with, “I think we are all lucky to have known him.”

  Hope was next. We had told her several times that there were going to be a lot of people at the service and that she didn’t have to say anything, but she was determined not to be left out. Now Brent stood and picked her up so everyone could see her. I wasn’t sure what she was going to say. She’d been “rehearsing” at home, but she said something different every time.