The Dissolution

We sat down with the death certificates, our phones, the stack of mail, and their last notebooks. Late afternoon in the living room- if our parents had been there we would’ve had a round of various gin drinks, Dad briefly raising his eyes from his screen volunteering to shake. What he meant was that we’d fuck up his drink, otherwise. Gratefully however one whiskey neat and a beer were at hand; we were cheaply rewarded for shepherding to the door the few straggling visitors and abandoning the plattered remains of puckering hand sandwiches and curling celery sticks.

The former- the visitors, more curious than grieving- pounced on the romance of it. At least they went together! Can’t imagine one without the other. In a fleeting blip of self-consciousness, one pitied, “but left you orphans, poor things!” The caterer’s crumbs were nearly as insentient, just as nauseating. Middle-aged adults with long-standing therapy appointments and fortified by a few sips, we cracked the black bindings. Steady on sis, to settle accounts.

The last pages of Dad’s last entries were about that trip: a confirmation number with his condo; which of his checking accounts and amount of cash in withdrawal; estimated caddy tip calculation; date and time of restaurant reservation; noted cash allowance for “mother’s expenses”. We cringed Mother!? Another adopted familial tick, along with ignoring the growing social faux pas of proudly mentioning that it was his direct relatives who arrived on the Mayflower. Daaaaddd, a little sensitivity here; look around- you’re surrounded by casinos. Yet, he had managed to collect two names and numbers to contact when back at the office, and recorded his par score, along with notes of “slight headwind, indifferent help, tip 7%”.

Mom’s corresponding pages were the usual stream of consciousness, dotted with an adopted discipline of recording the miles she’d walked that morning. In a list for Friday she included the number and address for the salon she’d try for her annual hair cut, noting that Rachel recommended Tiffany- and knowing her she’d find a subtle but classy way to name-drop; also listed, another phone number of “Duncan, Michelle’s guy”; and a MetLife account number. Hmm, that was a new one. Have we seen that before? So far, not much was in her name.

The vacation was short- always following Arizona State’s spring break and usually about 7 weeks belated but billed as their wedding anniversary- this one as placidly noted as the previous 44. Dad was in town at least one night a week for business, so a whole week there was absolutely tedious and lacking in tax deductions. Mom, long ago had stopped asking to go there or any other place, but had formed an efficient routine for squeezing in her own business into 4 weekdays.

Annually, Dad golfed, phoning ahead to reserve a caddy. He was frustrated that those pale boys were as fickle as butterflies, not noting the graduation rate. Mom’s hair would get shorter, lighter, but not dramatically so. She made it clear she wouldn’t do more than pull it up once she got home. But always willing to try a new salon. Dad rolled his eyes at all that wasted effort. What’s the point of a haircut if you’re just going to put it up? May as well cut it off- but I’m not saying you should.

She texted us a photo of this year’s do. I replied with a heart-eyed, yellow-skinned face emoji. You know that does NOT look like you, right sweetie? You’re beauty itself! Mom insisted. And never used abbreviations.

She had a stroke in the passenger’s seat and when he scrambled in some slightly inebriated state (.04% coroner’s report), Dad ran the car into the guardrail. They were on the way to the restaurant. Dad’s little black notebook of the year tucked into the console, and Mom’s into her purse. She called it her brains, or her “self-care”, if she didn’t want to be interrupted. Remember how she’d try to write at the breakfast table? I’d get her to tie up my ponytail or sneak a cookie for breakfast. She’d wave and say, give me 5. Didn’t Dad get her started on that? She’d snap out of it if she had a real job, or something.

So there’s the latest statement from Dad’s bank. I have an appointment to go in on Monday to the CPA. You’re going to call Social Security? Here’s the bill from the city? Didn't they go paperless? This is from Duncan something, Phoenix. Gray Duncan, Certified Family Law Specialist, North 15th Avenue. "To the Estate of Jean Brightly, Please find the enclosed check for $20,000 as reimbursement of my retainer and deposit on expected legal fees. I saw the notice in the paper and understand my services will no longer be needed. With deep condolences for your loss, Gray Duncan"

My sister had turned on the lamp so I could read. It wasn’t the warm glow of the lite beer I was feeling when I handed her the check. It’s yours. There’s time at least for you to get out.