All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(51)

My dad, as all you know, was a brilliant mind and compassionate human. He was a curious sort and wanted to know about everything. I honor him by attempting to do the same.

When we were little, my dad would have us say, “Make way for El Rey” when we opened up the door. Well, today, make way for El Rey now.



I’m not sure if I made El Rey, aka the king, proud with my words. But I had gotten through it, and that was a feat in and of itself. I moved toward my pew and sat down, removing my glasses and crying as silently as possible. Meagan grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

Near the end of the service, a Times photographer began clicking his camera. I didn’t understand why he was there. Why would this be an important moment to capture for the paper? Hadn’t there been enough of that? The final prayer was said out loud, and I was instructed to head to the back of the church for the receiving line of condolences.

I said little when people came up to me, but I did hug. Words were escaping me. David Remnick, editor of The New Yorker, made his way up to me. I was surprised; I’d only met him a couple of times during the outings he and my dad took to the U.S. Open every year. I’d sent him a couple of links of my work at the request of my dad, but I didn’t know him well at all. I braced myself.

David’s face was warm and expressive as his dark eyes looked down at me. “F. Scott Fitzgerald said that there are no second acts in life. Your father proved that smart man wrong. What a hell of a second act.” He moved along quickly, but made sure to mention that he’d stay in touch. I nodded and mentally made a note, as my dad would have had me do.

The bagpiper had warmed up enough to play as the mass of people exited the church to head down to the basement for cheese and tepid white wine. Another photo was snapped for the Times. Days later I carefully studied it. In the photo I am following Jill and Madeline down the stone steps. I’m either smiling or grimacing, my mouth open, perhaps saying something. I couldn’t tell. Once again, my memory was a blur. But the photo served as documentation that at least this part was over.





27


    Traces



“Writing is choosing.”



Sudden death creates a creeping sensation that you are living in an alternate reality. In the days after the funeral, when I returned to the house, I would look through his bedroom door. His room remained the same, despite the fact that he would never return to it. The soft light blue sweater was hung over the upholstered white chair. Thick nonfiction books and ballpoint pens lined the nightstand, books he set out to read but now wouldn’t. The black VAIO laptop remained plugged in, awaiting his return.

Charlie, our middle-aged white lab, sat patiently in the kitchen staring at the back door, lifting her head up ever so slightly to try to see through the fogged glass. Is that him? Is he coming? I whispered to her that I loved her just as much as he did. I hugged her the way he would, a giant embrace. We were sisters.

She died two weeks after him; I understand how she must have felt.

Objects tell us the stories of the people who held them. I see this at the cabin and our house. What they valued and cherished and what they couldn’t live without. It’s hundreds of things that are each a self-contained puzzle piece. In the weeks after his death, Jill told us to start thinking about what things of his we might want. But he didn’t care much for stuff. Give him a headset, a notebook, and a comfy cashmere sweater and he was set. I didn’t feel the same way. I wanted him. I was looking for something.

Madeline had made sure to grab a couple of the flowers from the funeral. Perfect long-stemmed white roses. It was decided that we wanted to save these perennial artifacts and encase them in a clear resin. I was not sure if I wanted a memento to remember one of the worst days of our lives.

We set out for the hobby store Michaels in our parkas. The winter was unrelenting. My eyes took in the scene of mostly women wandering the aisles, some with their kids, and I was hit with a wave of normalcy. People were out living their lives even though it felt like ours was ending. The fluorescent lights made my skull reverberate. I started to grow queasy. I wanted to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.

When I asked Meagan and Madeline how long they expected we’d be, they put me to work and tasked me with finding a glass receptacle for the dead dad flowers. I skulked off in search of the right aisle. Meagan called after me, but I didn’t turn around. My wet boots squeaked on the linoleum floor as I got to the glass department of the godforsaken craft store. I stood there and considered scooping up all the containers and sending them crashing to the ground. I was electrified by the thought of destruction. I craved the feeling. I got close and grabbed a cheap plastic vase, but it wouldn’t have had the satisfying smash I wanted it to. I placed it back on the shelf and recognized what I was doing. I grabbed three glass jars, thick ones, and put them in a basket. I walked away from my fantasy and back toward the nightmare.

When we got home Jill told us we had to do our arts and crafts project in the basement because the resin could get everywhere. As my sisters spread out their craft loot, I stood back, hoping to offer moral support rather than creative contributions. “I’ll just get in the way,” I said. Meagan rolled her eyes and Madeline followed suit.

The canister of resin was unlocked, and noxious fumes filled the air. Madeline wore gloves as she carefully poured the liquid gel into the container holding one white rose. The rose faltered and started to tip to the right side, the gel unevenly filling up the small round jar. It was the first pancake of the bunch and I claimed it as mine. I like things a little off-center.