My annual tribute to Dad.
On year 17, I finally sat down and wrote about that night. It's a
Tuesday this year, so it seems somehow appropriate.
Twilight of the Gods
It was a typical family dinner. Dad got home half an hour late, hulking
his 6’4” frame through the door with his arms held up, red hair glowing from
the twilight outside, booming “Hi” in that big voice of his. Mom,
standing at the stove, couldn’t help by smile at his cheeriness, despite the
chronic tardiness. She spooned cous cous and salmon patties onto plates,
handing them off to me and my sister so we could finish setting the table.
We sat in a diamond configuration around the round dinner table, tucked away
into the nook in the corner of the kitchen. It was large, a pride and joy
thing after years of scrimping and saving in their apartments in Maryland and
Passaic. They were both ex-hippies, folks living the American dream of
Dad climbing the attorney ladder while mom stayed home and raised the
kids. Dad had opened his own firm a few years earlier, an attempt to be
closer to the family after all those nights and early mornings of commuting to
top law firms in New York and central Jersey. The soft light of the brass chandelier
reflected in the dark windows, and we munched on our food, dipping the fried
patties in apple sauce, and ignoring the phone when it rang on the wall.
“So that was a pretty great game you two played the other night,” Dad said,
lifting a fork to his mouth and waiting for a response.
I knew where this was going. For the first time since injuring my knee, I’d
stepped onto a competitive soccer field, helping out with my sister’s traveling
club team, The Wyckoff Torpedoes, which he managed. He was also the
president of the club, taking over that honor a few years prior when my team
was vying for its first state championship (we’d won three since). He was
hoping I would consider coming out of “retirement” at 19. I was, but his
50th birthday was two weeks away, and I was holding this present as
the surprise of the party.
I knew he’d be
overjoyed. Early in the year, he’d sent me a letter at college- taking
a page out of my father’s book, he’d written, referring to the many
letters Grandpa had sent Aunt Cath when she was at Oberlin. I truly
would give ten years of my life to see you stay and prosper and meet the
athletic challenges you face head on. But it is your life and I will love you
anyway and always, whatever you choose to do. It had an effect on me,
knowing that it meant so much to him, this sport that meant so much to me when
I was younger. I didn’t tell him I’d been dreaming about scoring a big
goal, about that hunger for a mythical National Championship that still sat in
the pit of my stomach.
Instead, I smiled, and said “Yep, still got it.”
Nicole responded, “Yes, and I can still push you around on the field.”
She grinned, a piece of lettuce stuck to her teeth.
“Only because I let you.” I stuck out my tongue at my younger sister, who
could, truthfully, kick my butt when she wanted.
“Girls-” Mom warned. “It’s dinner. Play nice.”
We did, and the conversation turned to Nicole’s history project, and my
reconnection with some of my childhood best friends the week before. Two
of them were set to come over in an hour, to revel in our newfound “adult”
relationship, and search the internet for places to go in New York City that
weekend. We talked about many things, the
four of us laughing, joking, questioning what the heck couscous was. There
was a bit of a rush, since Dad had to get to a basketball game for seniors (It’s
an over 50 league- I’m the youngest guy, but they figured what the heck),
and he raced upstairs to change while mom and I loaded the dishwasher and
Nicole closed herself into the family room to edit her project on the VCR.
“Nicole, I’m leaving,” Dad called, opening the sliding white door and taking a
step into the family room. He was wearing her black 99 soccer jersey, the
Torpedoes logo blazed across his chest in white.
“Dad, I’m working,” she said, angrily pushing him through the frame, and
closing the door behind her.
“Teenagers,” I said, smiling, clearly wise beyond my years at 19. “Love
you, Dad.”
“Love you too.” He gave mom a quick kiss, and opened the door to outside,
pulling on his leather jacket. The wind blew in the house, dry and
chilled from the outside, where the temperature had plummeted. I never
understood how men could wear next to nothing in the winter, and not feel
cold. He was out of the door in a second, his too-short shorts and knee
high socks exposing way too much of his day-glow pale legs.
The phone rang about twenty minutes later, and I knew it was my father, calling
from the car phone. He had been so excited- it was one of the earliest
models, and he used it every chance he could. I could picture the inside
of the purple Infinite, all black leather with the blue glow of the nighttime
clock. He was probably listening the Grateful Dead’s self titled first
album, tapping his left foot along with the bass, and singing, poorly, about
Bobby McGee.
“Hello?”
“Hi Kris. I forgot to talk to mom about Nic’s tutor for the SATs.”
I could hear Jerry Garcia in the background.
“One sec.” I took a breath and held my hand over the phone.
“MOM! Dad’s on the phone!”
I heard rustling above my head, and then a click on the receiver as she picked
it up. “Hello?”
“Mom, Katie and Becky will be here in about ten minutes. We’ll be in the
family room, and Nic went up to read in her
room.”
“Okay honey,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“Dad, have fun at the game.” I leaned against the sofa, the criss cross
pattern digging into my arm.
“Thanks, Kris.” His voice sounded a little hollow through the speaker,
and I knew he was speeding along, hopefully wearing his seatbelt.
“Bye Dad. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I hung up the phone, and meandered back into the family room. It was
silly, really, saying “I love you” at the end of every conversation. My
mind turned, as it always did, to whoever called
that late night cheesy radio show the year before, when I was up listening, and
requested “Wind Beneath My Wings”, saying it was for her dad, and how she
didn’t say she loved him enough. I felt sorry for her. I
didn’t have long to dwell, thought, because the girls arrived shortly after,
and we sat around my college laptop, looking up clubs and giggling over the men
in the photos.
The clock above the fireplace ticked by, the giant hands creeping past the
roman numerals as the night got quieter and stiller. At a little after
ten, the phone rang. I jumped on it, hoping it hadn’t woken my mother.
“Hello?” I said, looking at Becky, who was crossing her eyes to make me laugh.
“Hi- it’s Sharon Twiddy. Is your mom there?” I crossed my eyes back at
Becky, and wrinkled my nose. Sharon was the head of the rec program in
town, and usually called to talk exclusively to Dad about soccer.
“I think she’s in bed,” I answered honestly, wondering why the heck she needed
to talk to my mother.
“Could you get her, honey? It’s important.”
Her voice was a little shaky, and I remembered how she’d called once before to
tell my dad one of the coaches for a boys’ team had passed away. Poor
thing, I thought. “No problem- just give me a minute.”
I ran up the stairs, and shook my mom to wake her up. “Mom, Mrs. Twiddy
is on the phone.”
She looked confused, her eyes wide in their just-woken state, and her hair was
sticking out at odd angles from her ponytail. But she sat up, wiped her
mouth with her hand, and picked up the phone next to the bed. “Hello?”
she asked.
I thundered back down the stairs, and dropped onto the couch. I picked up
the receiver that I’d left lying on the table, and let it fall into the
cradle. I turned back to Katie and Becky, and was trying to find a new
place in the city.
“Kris?!” My mom’s voice wavered through the old Victorian house, echoing
off the hardwood.
I jumped off the couch, and raced to the front hall, where I could hear the
stairs creaking as my mom stumbled down them.
“They think Dad had a heart attack. Barbara’s coming to pick us
up.” Mom spoke simply, quietly. Together since they were teenagers,
my parents were both 49 now. The stained glass window behind her was
dark, the stairs lit by the moonlight outside, and the soft nightlight we
always left on at bedtime. Nicole stood behind her, taking this in, her
young eyes widening. We knew too much about heart attacks in our family.
The ride to the hospital was a swift one. Barbara had pulled up, her
minivan spilling cups and napkins out the side doors as we climbed in.
She careened out of the driveway, wheels spinning in the darkness, saying “He’s
tough, Laur. And the kids have the State Cup in a couple of months.
He wouldn’t miss that.” They both laughed lightly, while Will Smith sang
about going to Miami through the dulled speakers.
Arriving at St. Clare’s in Denville, the hospital looked more like a hotel from
the front, a white awning peeking out from the building, the shrubbery dark in
the night. Lights illuminate the front entryway, and a man was standing
there, pale and frantic, ushering us to the inside. “They haven’t told us
anything,” he spouted, his words falling to the floor in quick, staccato
sentences. “He just collapsed. I followed the ambulance in my car…”
His voice trailed off and we sat down in the waiting room to the left.
The room was stiflingly hot after the bitterness of the January night
outside. There were magazines strewn about, half read and half paid
attention to. An ad about perfume peeked up at us from a table, the model
winking and reclining against a dark velvet chaise. My mom sat to my
right, my sister to my left. I was praying, something I didn’t do
often and haven’t done much since. If you let him be okay, I’ll tell
him right away that I’m going to play soccer. If you let him live, I’ll
give up on my ex-boyfriend and move on. If you let him be okay…
The man in the white jacket held a clipboard, and we stood to attention, as
though he was a sergeant in the army. There was a nurse with him, staring
stoically ahead. I knew before they opened their mouths, before the
clumsy words tumbled out. “I’m so sorry, there was nothing we could do.”
I’d heard it a million times- we all have- on the television, in the
movies. It’s so cliché, I thought, as the air in the room thinned,
and my family collapsed on my arms. My sister was sobbing. I wanted
to hug these poor professionals, the ones who had no say in who really lives,
and thank them for trying to be so gentle with me, and please, please forgive
me for the whimper escaping my lips. But there was no time for thank-yous
and hugs and apologies, as we were already being separated, led away.
My mother was signing papers, and the nurse was standing awkwardly beside
me. My sister called her boyfriend on the phone in the corner. I
turned to the nurse, my hands clasped in front of my body, still in the act of
a prayer that wasn’t answered. “I want to see him.” I stated it matter of
factly, like it was a normal occurrence to be standing in a hospital waiting room,
my dead father lying somewhere down the hall. She looked at my mother,
unsure. “I’m nineteen. I want to see him.”
She obliged with a nod, and we walked, no words, just the squeak of her shoes
on the hard tile floor. There were miles of whiteness and you could taste
death in the antiseptic air. The door was open, and he was lying on a
gurney, naked from the waist up. The nurse told me I didn’t have to
look. His shirt was torn where they attached the paddles, ripped
haphazardly across the proud Torpedo logo, from when they tried to play god and
revive him. I wish they were gods. I flashed to the
Wagnerian opera he’d raised me on. How the Valkyries carried off heroes
to live with the gods in Valhalla. I always compared our family to the
characters, and here was Woton, wisest of them all, struck down before me on a
metal gurney.
Later, they would tell us there was no pain- he died instantly, midway through
a story about his daughters playing a great game that weekend. He pitched
forward and broke his nose on impact. There was blood dried on the roof
of his nose, but it’s not swollen, so I know they were right- he died
instantly. Easier on him. His hands hung limply at his sides,
fingers curled ever so slightly where rigor mortis was already setting
in. I asked the nurse for a pair of scissors, knowing this is likely the
last time I will see him, wanting a lock of red hair that glowed so brightly
earlier that evening, and now looked dull and white in the hospital
fluorescents. The lock would sit for years in a gauze wrapper the nurse
opened for me, carefully removing the white bandaging to insert my dad’s
hair. We sealed it in a clear biohazard bag, and I hugged his body.
It felt rubbery, cool, like he was some strange giant fish. From behind
me, I heard a little gasp, and my mom whisper “Oh, Dan.” My breath caught
in my throat, and I fought the urge to cry.
In the hallway, the nurse led me back to the waiting room, where I called our
relatives- my mother’s sister, my dad’s mother. The nurse hits the hang
up button and I heard an abrupt dial tone. “Before you call her, how old
is she?”
“Eighty nine.”
“You don’t want to give her a shock. Wait until you get home.”
Glancing behind her, I saw the shell of my mother leaning over paperwork in an
orange plastic chair. Her hands were shaking as she tried to grasp the
pen, and the nurse gently guided her hand, as if she were a child first
learning to draw.
I obliged, ignoring the nagging feeling that someone should really tell my
granny that her youngest child just dropped dead at a basketball game. I
crossed to my mom, and sat down beside her. They asked about organ
donation and my mother was mute, her brow furrowing as if they were speaking
German. I took more forms, and placed them on the table for her to
sign.
“Yes,” I stated, the firmness in my voice surprising me. “Please,
yes, give them everything of his. I don’t want someone else to have to go
through this. Whatever you can donate, take it.”
My mother nodded her head. “He would want to help someone else.” Her eyes
started to well, and the nurse handed her a tissue.
I went to the tiny bathroom and splashed water on my face. In the
mirror, my eyes looked lighter than normal, almost blue in the light, like his
were. I studied my face, trying to find some semblance of him in me, and
finally saw it in the gap teeth that showed if I smiled. I nodded, the
tears not coming.
My mother was led back to us, and she looked small, huddled in her coat, her
feet still in slippers she rushed to put on as we left the house. My
sister seemed so young, and her eyes were ringed in red. They were both
the babies of the family- Dad and her. He knows how much you love him.
I thought, willing her to hear me.
Over the next few weeks, I would take over as the adult in our house. My
mother would shrink from a size twelve to a size 6. I cooked and prodded
her to eat, channeling grief into baking pies from the dozens of fruit baskets
that arrived. When we went to the funeral home to pick out the urn, the
sayings for the prayer cards, I led the decisions.
When the minister came to our house to pick out verses for the memorial, I
suggested Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries be played for the processional
after our initial plan, selections from The Grateful Dead, was vetoed by the
church. I explained Dad’s passion for soccer and basketball, and when the
discussion turned to the eulogy, I volunteered.
In front of a packed church, standing room only with people spilling into the
vestibule and parking lot, I spoke with the same voice I’d had in the hospital-
confident, strong, firm. A lawyer’s daughter if ever there was one, I
orated the way I’d seen Jimmy Stewart do in so many movies. I told
the world how he taught my sister and me about opera, poker, and dinosaurs, and
later coached us in soccer, while light shined in from the stained glass window
opposite the pulpit.
For weeks, dealing with cards, letters, and the logistics of the will shielded
me from the reality that Dad was never coming back. I headed back to
college, called daily, and wrote thank-you’s from my desk for fruit baskets and
donations to the scholarship I set up in his name. When reality hit, I
was in the middle of a break from my four hour photography class. It was
like all the air in the room evaporated, and the panic attack grabbed hold in
all its shaking, hyperventilating glory. It took seven hours to stop
crying- messy, snot filled hours of my dorm mate rubbing my back, and saying
“you have to hydrate” while handing me bottles of water.
* *
*
I aged twenty years in that January evening. Leaving the hospital, I took
the car keys from the pile of personal belongings they handed us (size 13
sneakers, black shorts, torn shirt). My mother held his wedding ring and
watch, my sister in charge of the rest. The doors opened and we were hit
with air that smelled like new snow.
They climbed back into Barbara’s car, and I hit the button for the
Infiniti. Its lights cheerfully blinked, and it made a beep beep
sound. Sliding in, the leather felt smooth under my body, and the
automatic seat followed my command to slide forward. Turning on the car,
the blue interior lights glowed, and the clock showed it was past
midnight. The radio was silent, and I hit the button for the CD
player. Jerry Garcia filled the car, and I heard his voice, haunting from
the speakers. And I’d trade all of my tomorrows, for one single
yesterday… I opened my mouth to sing, and no words came out.
Just my breath, trembling and foggy in the night time air.
