All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(55)

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Once we all arrived, it was smiles throughout. The Carr girls put on their battle faces, but in that Minnesota way that necessitates good cheer.

We started in the garage, a place of little sentimentality. Eight rakes, myriad sets of gloves, and the occasional “hoe” joke, and we were off to the races. The trash bags started piling up and sweat dripped from my forehead.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad,” I said to my twin.

She grimaced and softly said, “Well, good, but we haven’t gotten to the rough stuff.”

I peered into my former bedroom. All of my stuff from childhood was gone. My dad had politely requested that I remove my detritus when I hit twenty-five, saying he wanted the room back. I felt betrayed, but I complied. Afterward Jill lined my room with garment racks, and my twin’s room was filled with workout gear. Maddie was allowed to keep hers as is. Salt in the wound.

I soon realized that it was not my house. I was fortunate enough to have an office and a cramped apartment in Queens in which to store my memorabilia. It dawned on me that this was their home and they got to do whatever they saw fit in those rooms.

Meagan’s bedroom eventually became less of a repository for weights and more of a personal shrine. He’d placed a small desk, a chest of wooden drawers with a mirror attached, and a crappy Ikea couch that I knew he hated in there. But the walls were what made the room the room. Throughout his career, my dad had garnered hundreds of press badges: CNN, HBO, SXSW, Sundance, the Oscars, all with his smileless mug and the ever-important Times credential on a piece of laminated plastic. Maddie—whom my dad liked to call Matthew, as she was the most technically skilled among us and because we think he wanted, just a little bit, a son—had taken it upon herself to tape all the badges together. My dad hung her creation up over his desk, in a tribute to all the places he had gone and seen. The badges dislodged and the collage fell apart after he died.

There was a giant French poster of Page One: Inside the New York Times on the north wall, with the best picture of my dad in a Santa hat in front of it. Framed photos lined the wall with, oh yeah, his face. The Times had published a full-page ad of my dad with the headline FIND OUT WHAT OUR REPORTERS ARE READING. He is almost smiling in this picture, almost. Lena Dunham had sent him an illustration of him sitting at a Girls party, neck bent low, very thoughtful. He’d hung it on the wall with a sense of pride. When I first saw what was formerly my sister’s room, I have to be honest: I was pretty creeped out. Who makes a shrine to themselves? This felt borderline narcissistic.

But after he died, it was one of the few things that made complete sense. This was dad’s room, his memorial. This was exactly the right place where we could keep all of his stuff. Each of us could walk into the room and feel close to him. But now, it was time to dismantle it.

I spent most of the day mired in self-pity. I was packing up my remaining childhood effects, which had been left in the basement, marveling at how many collages of Dawson’s Creek one young girl could make. “Whatcha doing in here?” Meagan asked me.

I had not been good about spending time with the family as of late. I felt edgy and wanted to be left alone. I looked up and for the first time in a long time was able to see outside of myself. It occurred to me how hard this part must have been for her, my twin. The family home was not something I cared much about, but for Meagan it was a very intense source of comfort. My dad would always be the first to volunteer to pick her up from the airport while at the same time making sure something was bubbling in the Crock-Pot to welcome her home. To him, cooking meant love. It was a form of service.

Now, no one offered to pick her up. She had to ask. Meagan was empathetic to a fault. Blond, fit, and friendly, she could have been mistaken for someone who had it all figured out. I didn’t think she did, and I mean that in a good way. She was continually searching and probing the world for answers. Her PhD program was grueling, and she was underpaid. She complained only when shit really sucked, which it did often. Underneath the smile I knew she was struggling. Her depression was fully active and she was still not sleeping all these months later. She told me that she couldn’t manage to eat much, that she’d made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner many nights in a row, unable to put in the effort to make anything else.

We sat together in the shrine room, taking it in. I thought about asking her to hold me, but I realized it wasn’t one of those moments. She wanted to be left alone in her grief. Even together, we were alone.

Jill started to lay my dad’s clothes on the bed. Well-worn sweaters, stained white dress shirts. Then came the real magic: his T-shirts. Rock ’n’ roll, BBQ, and writing were common themes in his collection. My favorites included a WILL WRITE FOR FOOD shirt I made him, and a tee with an upside-down NEW YORK. I grabbed a bike shirt he wore constantly during his time on the trails, and the three of us lobbied for the remaining belongings. This was where things might get heated in other families but not in ours. Belongings did not make up our dad; it was just stuff.

I walked away with a New York Times hat, one of his favorite cashmere sweaters, and an armful of T-shirts. I knew I wouldn’t wear most of the stuff. But I would keep it safe.





31


    If It’s Not Getting Better,

Consider the Alternative