Read Online A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents by Liza Palmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Liza Palmer
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Twenty-two years. I bet I
do
look like I’ve seen a ghost… for real this time. Too real. Where is the Dad I knew?
“Okay, Gracie—you start on the… see? Right there—” Dad is standing by my piano. Thick blond hair tousles and flips, making
him look like he’s being followed around by a gentle breeze. Rough features, ice-blue eyes and a build that seems best suited
for pillaging. He moves with the music. Miles Davis. Again. Always. I’m supposed to come in on the downbeat.
“Yeah, on the… one, two, three… there—” I say, curling over the keys, playing my part. Dad sways, closing his eyes, listening
to me play, tapping the top of the piano in time.
Dad blows the spit out of his trumpet, his knees bend, and he lifts the horn to his lips. And… I close my eyes.
Our music wafts through our little apartment. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t have to. I know what everyone is doing right now.
Dad and I were the soundtrack to our family’s lives.
“Glad you could make it.” I jolt out of my reverie, look up from Dad and see—
Abigail.
I automatically check to make sure I’m not wearing a piece of her clothing.
“I found her out in the hall,” Leo says.
Abigail looks like she could be the PTA president of any school in any suburb—and probably is. I imagine her bringing tuppers
filled with cupcakes—possibly tuppers made expressly for bringing cupcakes—to the local bake sale, to raise money for a new
library. Her blonde hair is a waterfall of straw-colored wisps that fall just past her shoulders. A pink Barbie jeweled barrette
keeps the hair out of her face. Abigail’s ice-blue eyes are now encased in the parentheses of crow’s-feet. She wears the same
uniform she always has—khaki pants, a pastel sweater set, and loafers. At least someone’s had the decency to stay the same.
After the whole Leo debacle, I imagined walking in here only to find Abigail wearing a bustier and latex skirt while brandishing
a riding crop. Abigail’s sweater set means some things never change.
I marvel at how normal we look. I catch a reflection of myself in the far window, just over Leo’s shoulder. The same blonde
hair, except mine is longer than Abigail’s and is highlighted to be more white-blonde than sun-kissed. It falls past my shoulders
in a cut that’s supposed to look effortless, but costs a small fortune to keep up. I’m blessed with Mom’s upturned mouth.
I love that about my face… in the right light I can see Mom in it.
“Hiya,” I manage, thinking that maybe I broke the ice with the phone call. Maybe she’ll… maybe she’ll—what? Let me off the
hook? I stand there awkwardly, wondering what the proper greeting is after five years with threats of a tarring and feathering
hanging in the air. Hug her? Slap her on the mouth? Revert to prior performance and hawk a giant loogie on her?
“Has Leo brought you up to speed?” Abigail continues, walking straight past me without so much as a nod. Mystery solved.
“Dad’s sick,” I answer, the beeping and whirring of the machines helping me achieve the level of sarcasm I was aiming for.
Abigail’s entire body tightens. I don’t even know why I say it. I can’t seem to keep from turning into a foot-stomping brat
whenever I get around Abigail. No wonder she treats me like one.
“Yes, well, it was nice of you to rush up here,” Abigail begins.
“You
are
famous for your inappropriate invitations. At least I eventually show up,” I say, picking at the scab of Abigail’s inviting
Dad to Mom’s funeral—and the even bigger wound of his not bothering to show up.
“He had a right to be there and who knows wh—” Abigail whispers, still defending him/herself.
“Can we not do this? I mean, can you just… for like two seconds,” Leo cuts in, motioning to Dad.
“Fine,” I say, feeling guilty. I remember that at one of Abigail’s slumber parties we started fighting about some insignificant
slight that violated
do
look like I’ve seen a ghost… for real this time. Too real. Where is the Dad I knew?
“Okay, Gracie—you start on the… see? Right there—” Dad is standing by my piano. Thick blond hair tousles and flips, making
him look like he’s being followed around by a gentle breeze. Rough features, ice-blue eyes and a build that seems best suited
for pillaging. He moves with the music. Miles Davis. Again. Always. I’m supposed to come in on the downbeat.
“Yeah, on the… one, two, three… there—” I say, curling over the keys, playing my part. Dad sways, closing his eyes, listening
to me play, tapping the top of the piano in time.
Dad blows the spit out of his trumpet, his knees bend, and he lifts the horn to his lips. And… I close my eyes.
Our music wafts through our little apartment. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t have to. I know what everyone is doing right now.
Dad and I were the soundtrack to our family’s lives.
“Glad you could make it.” I jolt out of my reverie, look up from Dad and see—
Abigail.
I automatically check to make sure I’m not wearing a piece of her clothing.
“I found her out in the hall,” Leo says.
Abigail looks like she could be the PTA president of any school in any suburb—and probably is. I imagine her bringing tuppers
filled with cupcakes—possibly tuppers made expressly for bringing cupcakes—to the local bake sale, to raise money for a new
library. Her blonde hair is a waterfall of straw-colored wisps that fall just past her shoulders. A pink Barbie jeweled barrette
keeps the hair out of her face. Abigail’s ice-blue eyes are now encased in the parentheses of crow’s-feet. She wears the same
uniform she always has—khaki pants, a pastel sweater set, and loafers. At least someone’s had the decency to stay the same.
After the whole Leo debacle, I imagined walking in here only to find Abigail wearing a bustier and latex skirt while brandishing
a riding crop. Abigail’s sweater set means some things never change.
I marvel at how normal we look. I catch a reflection of myself in the far window, just over Leo’s shoulder. The same blonde
hair, except mine is longer than Abigail’s and is highlighted to be more white-blonde than sun-kissed. It falls past my shoulders
in a cut that’s supposed to look effortless, but costs a small fortune to keep up. I’m blessed with Mom’s upturned mouth.
I love that about my face… in the right light I can see Mom in it.
“Hiya,” I manage, thinking that maybe I broke the ice with the phone call. Maybe she’ll… maybe she’ll—what? Let me off the
hook? I stand there awkwardly, wondering what the proper greeting is after five years with threats of a tarring and feathering
hanging in the air. Hug her? Slap her on the mouth? Revert to prior performance and hawk a giant loogie on her?
“Has Leo brought you up to speed?” Abigail continues, walking straight past me without so much as a nod. Mystery solved.
“Dad’s sick,” I answer, the beeping and whirring of the machines helping me achieve the level of sarcasm I was aiming for.
Abigail’s entire body tightens. I don’t even know why I say it. I can’t seem to keep from turning into a foot-stomping brat
whenever I get around Abigail. No wonder she treats me like one.
“Yes, well, it was nice of you to rush up here,” Abigail begins.
“You
are
famous for your inappropriate invitations. At least I eventually show up,” I say, picking at the scab of Abigail’s inviting
Dad to Mom’s funeral—and the even bigger wound of his not bothering to show up.
“He had a right to be there and who knows wh—” Abigail whispers, still defending him/herself.
“Can we not do this? I mean, can you just… for like two seconds,” Leo cuts in, motioning to Dad.
“Fine,” I say, feeling guilty. I remember that at one of Abigail’s slumber parties we started fighting about some insignificant
slight that violated
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