Read Online A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents by Liza Palmer - Free Book Online
Authors: Liza Palmer
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grown-up?”
“A
clean
grown-up,” I correct.
“It’s a trip, huh? Thought I’d get a fresh start for the new job.” Leo giggles.
“You ain’t just whistling ‘Dixie,’ ” I say for the first time in my entire life.
“And apparently you’re now an old Southern lady. It’s hot here, huh? I mean, it’s late December and it’s not even sweater
weather. I didn’t have any New Year’s plans… did you? I said it wasn’t sweater weather and I’m wearing a sweater! Hilarious,”
Leo quickly says.
“No, I didn’t have any New Year’s plans,” I answer one part of Leo’s impassioned Q&A.
“Ha, sweater weather,” Leo says.
“Oh… brought you this,” I say, pulling a can of Coke I got at a gas station on the 101 out of my purse.
“Aww, thanks,” Leo says, taking the soda, lunging in for another hug. God, I’ve missed him.
“I promised,” I say, mid-hug.
“We’re down here,” Leo says, pulling out of the hug and taking my hand. He guides me down a hallway toward… I’m not ready.
I’m…
no
, Huston’s speech about me locking it up and being part of this family speeds back. I squeeze Leo’s hand and give him a quick
smile.
We make a left and come to a far more official-looking nurse’s station and a pair of double doors. Leo sets his laptop and
the can of Coke down and begins signing in.
“We have to sign in for the ICU,” Leo says over his shoulder as he hunches over the clipboard on the counter. The nurse hands
him a name tag with HAWKES scrawled across it. Leo hands me the pen and I fill out the necessary information:
12/29
Grace Baker Hawkes
Daughter
Yes, I’m over the age of twelve
Ray Hawkes
The nurse hands me my own name tag, once again with HAWKES scrawled on it. I peel off the tag and press the paper against
my sweater. I hitch my purse tighter on my shoulder.
We enter through the double doors to the right.
The buzzing of the door ushers in a symphony of beeps, blips and urgent voices. This little community hospital has quite an
impressive ICU. At its center is yet another nurse’s station. Around the station are four rooms, all with glass doors and
windows. A sort of warped theater of sickness.
“Over here,” Leo says. The room is empty. I can’t see Dad yet, but I do see the outline of his body in the hospital bed. I
steady myself on the nurse’s station and swallow. Hard. I focus my eyes and follow Leo.
I walk past the nurse sitting sentry in a rolling office chair just outside Dad’s room. She nods and smiles. How thankful
she must be that this isn’t her family. I look up and into the room and my eyes come to rest on the hospital bed once again.
Dad.
I hold on to my purse for dear life. Leo folds into a hospital chair with a black motorcycle helmet beneath it. He boots up
his laptop. I walk forward. I can’t hear anything but the sound of my own breathing. Where is the giant I remember?
This is an old man.
Dad’s face is turned away from me. His eyes are closed, his body seems calm. His breathing is labored. My eyes trace his body—past
his once wide chest. His arms are covered in a now graying wheat field of hair. Just underneath his once tanned skin are purplish
bruises and browning liver spots. When did he get so old? My stomach turns and my face gets hot and clammy again. I try to
find a point on the horizon to steady my stomach, like Mom used to tell me to do when I got carsick. All I see are machines,
more tubes, more, more, more. I can’t focus. I look back over at Leo.
“How old is he now?” I ask.
“Sixty-eight,” Leo says, not looking up from his laptop. I place my hand on the metal bar on the side of his bed. Sixty-eight.
With my bubble already popped and the trapdoor splintered, the sight of Dad’s feeble body hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ve
been so focused on reuniting with my family and starting to deal with Mom’s death, or trying
not
to deal with it, that I haven’t readied myself for this. Dad.
“A
clean
grown-up,” I correct.
“It’s a trip, huh? Thought I’d get a fresh start for the new job.” Leo giggles.
“You ain’t just whistling ‘Dixie,’ ” I say for the first time in my entire life.
“And apparently you’re now an old Southern lady. It’s hot here, huh? I mean, it’s late December and it’s not even sweater
weather. I didn’t have any New Year’s plans… did you? I said it wasn’t sweater weather and I’m wearing a sweater! Hilarious,”
Leo quickly says.
“No, I didn’t have any New Year’s plans,” I answer one part of Leo’s impassioned Q&A.
“Ha, sweater weather,” Leo says.
“Oh… brought you this,” I say, pulling a can of Coke I got at a gas station on the 101 out of my purse.
“Aww, thanks,” Leo says, taking the soda, lunging in for another hug. God, I’ve missed him.
“I promised,” I say, mid-hug.
“We’re down here,” Leo says, pulling out of the hug and taking my hand. He guides me down a hallway toward… I’m not ready.
I’m…
no
, Huston’s speech about me locking it up and being part of this family speeds back. I squeeze Leo’s hand and give him a quick
smile.
We make a left and come to a far more official-looking nurse’s station and a pair of double doors. Leo sets his laptop and
the can of Coke down and begins signing in.
“We have to sign in for the ICU,” Leo says over his shoulder as he hunches over the clipboard on the counter. The nurse hands
him a name tag with HAWKES scrawled across it. Leo hands me the pen and I fill out the necessary information:
12/29
Grace Baker Hawkes
Daughter
Yes, I’m over the age of twelve
Ray Hawkes
The nurse hands me my own name tag, once again with HAWKES scrawled on it. I peel off the tag and press the paper against
my sweater. I hitch my purse tighter on my shoulder.
We enter through the double doors to the right.
The buzzing of the door ushers in a symphony of beeps, blips and urgent voices. This little community hospital has quite an
impressive ICU. At its center is yet another nurse’s station. Around the station are four rooms, all with glass doors and
windows. A sort of warped theater of sickness.
“Over here,” Leo says. The room is empty. I can’t see Dad yet, but I do see the outline of his body in the hospital bed. I
steady myself on the nurse’s station and swallow. Hard. I focus my eyes and follow Leo.
I walk past the nurse sitting sentry in a rolling office chair just outside Dad’s room. She nods and smiles. How thankful
she must be that this isn’t her family. I look up and into the room and my eyes come to rest on the hospital bed once again.
Dad.
I hold on to my purse for dear life. Leo folds into a hospital chair with a black motorcycle helmet beneath it. He boots up
his laptop. I walk forward. I can’t hear anything but the sound of my own breathing. Where is the giant I remember?
This is an old man.
Dad’s face is turned away from me. His eyes are closed, his body seems calm. His breathing is labored. My eyes trace his body—past
his once wide chest. His arms are covered in a now graying wheat field of hair. Just underneath his once tanned skin are purplish
bruises and browning liver spots. When did he get so old? My stomach turns and my face gets hot and clammy again. I try to
find a point on the horizon to steady my stomach, like Mom used to tell me to do when I got carsick. All I see are machines,
more tubes, more, more, more. I can’t focus. I look back over at Leo.
“How old is he now?” I ask.
“Sixty-eight,” Leo says, not looking up from his laptop. I place my hand on the metal bar on the side of his bed. Sixty-eight.
With my bubble already popped and the trapdoor splintered, the sight of Dad’s feeble body hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ve
been so focused on reuniting with my family and starting to deal with Mom’s death, or trying
not
to deal with it, that I haven’t readied myself for this. Dad.
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