“Kidding. ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door’ will do fine. But not Bob Dylan’s version, it’s too soft. I want Guns N’ Roses, and make sure it’s the one with Slash’s awesome guitar riff.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious.”
“You’re not funny.”
“’Course I am. Anyway, we’ll make the whole thing cheap and cheerful—”
“Cheerful? You expect your funeral to be cheerful?”
“Yes, Eleanor,” he said, his smile disappearing. “It’s to be a celebration. I don’t want you to be sad. Promise me you won’t be sad.”
Keeping my word was about as probable as healing his cancer with my bare hands, but I’d given it to him anyway, understood it was something he needed to feel better, to at least try to rid himself of the guilt of leaving the people who loved him behind.
I shook my head and looked up at the swirling skies, so lost in thought I’d already arrived at Monroe Hospice, a stone-clad, two-story building tucked away on a dead-end road. Despite my stalling tactics, the walk from my apartment on Sherman Street hadn’t taken much more than an hour, and not for the first time I wondered why they’d built Monroe in an area called Pleasantdale. When I’d shared this with Dad during my last visit, he’d laughed.
“At least it’s close to the cemetery. Transport will be cheap,” he’d said and I’d burst into tears, which had led to him apologizing for his crass attempt at gallows humor, blaming the dark, English sense of wit he’d inherited from his mother.
Taking a deep breath to prepare myself, I pushed open the doors. Although they’d tried hard to make the place homey and comfortable—cheery, abstract, multicolored artwork adorning the walls, a sitting area filled with high-backed sofas so soft you could lose yourself within—the distinct odor of a hospital environment had mixed with the invisible but constant death and sorrow, all of which now clung to the place, tearing my heart in two.
I gave Brenda, the petite receptionist, a small wave, pretending I didn’t hear when she asked how I was doing because I wouldn’t have known how to respond. The elevator took me to my dad’s floor, where I gave Nurse Jelani a nod as she greeted me with a well-honed, compassionate expression. How she, or anyone else, worked in this place day in, day out—surrounded by illness and grief, knowing patients would rather go home so they could die in the relative comfort of their own surroundings—was an awesome mystery to me, filled with superheroes in scrubs. In comparison, my website job was a walk in a beautifully serene park. The annoyance I felt when I gave even my most demanding customer the sun and the moon, only to have them ask for the entire solar system, seemed petty and meaningless in contrast.
When I got closer to Dad’s room and heard voices, specifically my mother’s, I paused. Her unmistakable tone—considerably more nasal and irritating than usual—still had the power to send jolts down my spine, never mind my moving out as soon as I’d finished high school, determined never to depend on her again.
I hadn’t expected her to be at the hospice. The fact she’d visited Dad a few days earlier had already been a surprise, considering she’d ordered him to pack his stuff and leave almost twenty years ago, and had hardly spoken to him since. He’d only mentioned she’d visited because I’d told him I’d spotted her coming out of Monroe, and had ducked behind a fir tree to avoid her. It had been at least six months since I’d had any contact with her, almost a year since we’d been in the same room for my sister Amy’s lavish twenty-seventh birthday party. Even that amount of time and distance hadn’t been enough to treat the festering wounds, or get rid of her voice, which constantly berated me in my head.
I’d always questioned, but never understood, why she despised me. I’d asked Dad, too, but he hadn’t given me a proper answer, only said she was a complicated woman. As much as I pretended I didn’t care, part of me still wanted to know. She was caring and loving toward Amy, but had only constant resentment for Dad and me—yet here she was, at his bedside. Maybe there was still hope she’d give treating him like an actual human being another go. After all, she must’ve loved him once.
I leaned against the door, tried to hear their conversation and hoped she was on the verge of leaving, in which case I’d slip into the bathroom or find a supply cupboard to sneak into.
“I still don’t understand, Bruce,” she said to Dad without a hint of warmth. Her glacial tone would freeze hell over when she left this world. No way would she go anywhere but south when she did.
“I’ve already told you, it’s done,” my father said. “I’m not changing my mind.” Although determined, his voice sounded throaty, no doubt in equal parts from his illness and the effort of standing up to my mother. I wondered how long she’d been there, if she’d helped him drink some water, bent the straw at the proper angle so he could make the least amount of effort.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice veering into banshee territory. “Why?”
If she wasn’t careful, Nurse Jelani would ask her to leave. I crossed my fingers, but my mother regained some of her composure and brought the volume down a notch. “What, exactly, are you trying to accomplish?”
“I’m not trying to accomplish anything, Sylvia,” Dad replied. “I’m doing what’s fair. Everything’s split fifty-fifty between the girls. Why are you so upset? It won’t be much, so—”
“Exactly my point,” my mother said. “You never were much of a provider, were you? You barely have anything now, and Nellie—”
“Eleanor,” Dad said. “She hates being called Nellie.”
“Well, there’s Nellie for you.” My mother sniffed, and I imagined her steely eyes drilling into Dad as he dared defy her. “She always was overly sensitive.”
“Because Amy sang ‘Nellie the Elephant’ on a loop for three years, remember?” Dad said, and I wanted to rush in and hug him. “The pair of you have poked fun at her for years. You know it’s why she’s convinced she’s ugly. She thinks her legs look like highway bridge supports.”
“If she’s that bothered about her looks, why doesn’t she do something about them? I did, and well before her age. I’ve kept my weight in check ever since, and—”
“There’s nothing wrong with her, Sylvia,” Dad said, sounding exhausted.
My mother sighed deeply. I wondered how much self-control she’d burned through trying not to argue with a dying man. Not all of it, apparently, because she clicked her tongue before quietly saying, “Eleanor doesn’t need money—”
“How would you know? You never speak to her.”