“Spill it, kid. What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Perfectly fine.”
“So, if you’re fine, why aren’t you out enjoying the weather or doing something with your friends?”
I was about to rub my temples and bury my face in my hands for a few seconds as I usually did before broaching an unpleasant topic, but I refrained. No need to get Dad’s heart racing.
“I got a call from Dr. Kendrick, Dad. Your numbers aren’t looking good, despite the new meds.” His blood pressure, which hadn’t been a problem until his late eighties and which had been well regulated with medicine until now, wasn’t responding to the meds. His liver panel wasn’t looking good either, though they hadn’t gotten a good bead on that trend since his last checkup. Every single test they’d run was dramatically worse than those they’d run just six months before.
“What does he expect? I’m ninety years old. Does he really expect anything to get better at my age?”
“He doesn’t expect things to go downhill this fast,” I said. “For your age, you were in remarkable health at your last visit.”
“He shouldn’t waste his worry on an old man like me,” he said.
“He’s a geriatric GP, Dad. It’s his job to worry about old people. And it’s my job to worry about you.”
Dad sat in silence for a few moments. “What else did he say?”
I looked down at my hands, which gripped my can of seltzer like a life preserver. “Six months, maybe less if your numbers don’t improve.”
“I’d die at ninety years old,” Dad mused. “That seems like a good age to me. Your mother was eighty-three. It felt unfinished, somehow.”
“You just don’t like odd numbers,” I said, laughing despite myself.
“True enough. Eighty-four would have sat better with me. Though if I were a more selfish man, I’d have asked her to do me the courtesy of outliving me. I’d always expected that, but now that I know what it’s like, I wouldn’t wish it on her.”
I could make no response to this. Dr. Kendrick had asked what had changed for Dad in the last six months, and while I made some glib comments about diet and lifestyle, losing Mom had to be at the center of it, and the doctor agreed. “Blood pressure and jaundice I can treat, Dr. Cohen. A broken heart is out of my realm of expertise, I’m afraid.”
“The doctor did have some ideas for treatment,” I offered. “Some new meds and therapies for your stenosis.”
“Bethie . . .”
“I know, Dad, but I had to put it out there.”
“I know.”
“So, what now? Do we start putting all your affairs in order?”
“Most of that was taken care of years ago by your mother. My plot is next to hers. Plans are already in place with the mortuary. You know where all the paperwork is and what to do.”
“Not just that, Dad. I know what to do for you after. Is there anything you want to take care of before?”
“I’ve lived a long life, Bethie. Got to travel and see my daughter establish a career to make any parent jealous. And even though it didn’t take, I got to walk you down the aisle. I can’t ask for anything else.”
“Sure you can, Dad. You’ve got some time. Use it.”
Dad thought for a few moments. “I’ve been thinking of the war more often than I should. Would you mind bringing me my photos and tchotchkes from storage? It might be a good thing to put them in some semblance of order. When I came home, I threw it all in a box and never looked at it again. Nearly pitched it out more than once, but your mother never let me. A few pieces might be fit for a museum, you never know.”
I’d half expected him to ask for a last trip to Hawaii, the place he was always happiest. He’d probably not do well on the long plane ride, though, and I’d hate for his last trip to be a hardship.
“You got it, Dad. I’ll bring them by on Saturday.”
“I don’t want you spending the next six months of your life here, Bethie. You’re still young. You need to be out enjoying yourself.”
“I do, Dad. I promise. But I want to do this for you.”
I’d missed that opportunity with Mom. I’d been in the throes of my divorce from Greg. I handled the funeral and everything with all the poise I could muster, but in the period when she’d been sick, I’d not visited her with any reliability. There had been plenty of reasons for not trekking to the hospital. Some valid, others less so. The reality was that I just couldn’t cope with all that went along with losing Mom and my marriage. I had excuse after excuse until it was too late to say a proper goodbye. She was so sick, she might not have known who I was in those last few days, but it would have been some closure. I wouldn’t make the same mistake with Dad.
I kissed Dad goodbye after our visit and then pulled back on the highway. I didn’t head south just yet, but east to Mom and Dad’s storage unit that I’d clear out once Dad was gone. It felt like bad luck to do so beforehand, so I shelled out the hundred dollars every month to keep their things safe. I pulled up and found the padlock key on my ring. The jumble of furniture, china, and silverware would be a nightmare to go through when the time came. Mom had been a proper balabosta, able to throw together elegant dinner parties within hours. I’d missed out on that gene from her, and my new apartment was small. As much as I loved Mom’s elegant sideboard and crystal stemware, I had no space for them, nor would they get the use they deserved.
I’d claim Dad’s book collection and Mom’s vanity. She and I may have had our differences, but our happiest times had been spent on the bench of that vanity as she taught me the feminine arts. Makeup, hair, and proper attire for every occasion. Growing up I was somewhere between the girly girls and the tomboys when it came to such things, but the older I got, the more utility I saw in learning how to present myself. Mom was always understated and impeccable. She might not have worn Chanel suits or carried Fendi handbags, but you’d never have been able to tell from the way she carried herself. I hoped I’d inherited something of that from her.
I waded through the sofas and tables to the back of the unit where the boxes were stacked. The most battered among them was simply labeled Max, and it had been off limits to me my entire life. True to Dad’s word, it genuinely looked as though he hadn’t touched it since 1945. The movers had been wise to place it on top, as it wouldn’t have been able to bear the weight of any other boxes. I pulled it down, getting showered in a layer of dust in the process. Without bothering to open the lid, I placed the flimsy box in my trunk.
Forty minutes later, I pulled into my apartment complex, greeted by the cheerful sounds of children playing in the community pool. Their parents waded in the shallows, clearly eager to wear out the kids before bed. The restless days of spring had set in, making the energetic young families antsy for the freedom of summer.
I lugged the box of Dad’s memorabilia up the stairs, the cardboard practically crumbling in my arms. I didn’t dare rely on the handles cut into the sides. I set it on my bare kitchen table seconds before one side completely gave way. I knew Dad would have preferred to organize everything himself, but there was no getting the crate and its contents to him as they had been. I scrounged up a few sturdy plastic bins and separated the papers and photos into one and all the bulkier items into another.