But, as a grownup, I know that I must adjust to the idea of doing nothing. Let some twisted sicko get the last laugh. At least I am on this side of the grass.
But what is remarkable to me, in my morbidly curious observation of the Guest Book, is how little activity there is. Besides the two moronic, repetitive notes from Sheila, and the one from Moira, and the mysterious three little words, there is little else. Five other passages. With the exception of one, they are from neighborhood friends of the family. Not one note from a best friend, a co-worker, a neighbor from the neighborhood where he and Sandy had a home with their children, a kid J. coached, friends of the girls. Nothing.
The one exception was from a classmate and family friend, presumably from the grade school at the end of the block. And what he wrote surprised me. He mentioned what a lovely service it was and what a nice touch it was to have handed out Milky Way bars to the people who came to pay their respects. The writer noted J.'s life long love of Milky Ways and how Halloween always reminds him of holidays with the Cullens.
Say what?
J. loved Milky Ways? Who knew? Booze, yes. Cigarettes, certainly. Meatloaf, most definitely. But I don't think I ever observed him eat a Milky Way bar. Ever.
Was this clown making this crap up, assuming that the candy bar had some significance when really, Sheila had discovered that her diabetic mother had been hoarding them and she thought this was a good way to get rid of them? Or had I been completely asleep at the wheel and never noticed J.'s preference for the darn things? It's not like he ever bought them or rifled through Moira's Halloween loot bag or Easter basket to find them. I'll never know.
And I realize, I'll never care. What was, was. And it ceased to be. And so did its relevance.
Already, his passing has become old news. As I come across contact information of shared acquaintances, I only briefly think, "I wonder if they know?" and then dismiss the thought and any notion of being the one to tell them. If J. had run them out of his life too, then they would care even less than I do. And they would not get a call from his daughters.
So my life with J. has come full circle as only my iPod can explain. J. has passed from "Along Comes Mary" (The Association) to "The Boy Is Mine" (Brandy and Monica) to "Beautiful Liar" (Beyonce and Shakira) to "Bills, Bills, Bills" (Destiny's Child) to "All You Ever Do Is Bring Me Down" (The Mavericks) to "Common Disaster" (Cowboy Junkies) to "Cry" (Faith Hill) to "Misery" (Maroon 5) "What Have I Done to Deserve This?" (Petshop Boys) to "Wake Up Call" (Maroon 5) to "Strong Enough" (Cher) to "She's Going" (English Beat) to "She's Not There" (The Zombies) to "My Heart Belongs to Me" (The Barbara) to "Over You" (Daughtry) to "Someone That I Used to Love" (Natalie Cole) to "Somebody That I Used to Know" (Gotye) to "Life After You" (Daughtry) to "Bury My Lovely" (October Project). And finally, to "Just Another Day" (John Secada)
Quite a playlist. I may just delete them all. Start over. Just like I did two years ago.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Be Our Guest
And as word spreads about J. and people reach out, I feel like a heel. They are all so kind. Acting like I must be sad. I feel like a villain when all I can truthfully say is that I am sad for the girls. I am not devastated or mournful. I feel no sense of loss. I feel nothing really, except a little wigged out that someone I dated is dead. That's a new experience. Doesn't happen a lot in your twenties. I guess now that I am crowding in on 50 I should consider the potential for a repeat.
Charlotte texts me that she saw the obituary (in the Irish Comics). Not a recent picture. No kidding. That would have just been gruesome. Another friend texts me the link to the online obit and asks if I am going.
I reply, "No. No need to go."
The day of the service itself passes without so much as a mental note to myself except to heave a sigh of relief toward the end of the day that surely that hideous tattoo would be six feet under by now.
Later, I go to text my friend about getting our daughters together, and notice the link again. Out of truly morbid curiosity, I take a look at the online obituary.
The picture is indeed old. Back from his gainfully employed days when he'd written an article on annuities or some such snoozefest topic. Easily 15 years and 40 pounds ago.
The obit is all the usual survived-by crap. Nothing remarkable. Saying much more would have cost money.
I click on the Guestbook.
Sheila has written two nearly unintelligible sappy notes as though she were speaking directly to him. One is exactly the same as the other except it has an additional thought...one that mentions a great neice or nephew on the way. I suppose Chuck and Em are procreating. More family weirdness to come. Glad I won't have the front row seats I had for the wedding planning. I am sure the potential for drama has not been curtailed in any way. Betcha they name the baby J. Or Spiderman.
Moira writes something sweet. Nothing from Abby.
And then there is an anonymous one. No name mentioned. No city identified.
It simply says, "I love you..."
And I am fuming. I don't know who wrote it and don't care. But the fact that it is anonymous probably has everyone assuming that it was submitted by me.
As if!
Did someone put that out there so people would think that I wrote it? Did someone write it assuming I would see it and be jealous? (I can't even begin to comment on how ridiculous that idea is!)
Did Abby write it and not want anyone to know?
Normal people don't sign the guest book and conceal their identities! Someone is up to something! My conspiracy theorist self is in overdrive.
I love you? That is the last thing I want anyone to think I wrote. It takes all my willpower not to write a guest book entry of my own.
I could take the high road (almost) and send my condolensces to Moira and Abby only, and thumb my nose at the family without actually doing so.
Or I could take a wholly unique approach and write something that indicates in no uncertain or nebulous terms that I do not love him. Sight the numerous indiscretions, faults, and other heinous attributes that I will not be missing when he takes his pathetic little self to the Hereafter.
I am filled with gall, because really, I can do nothing.
And doing nothing is not my style.
Charlotte texts me that she saw the obituary (in the Irish Comics). Not a recent picture. No kidding. That would have just been gruesome. Another friend texts me the link to the online obit and asks if I am going.
I reply, "No. No need to go."
The day of the service itself passes without so much as a mental note to myself except to heave a sigh of relief toward the end of the day that surely that hideous tattoo would be six feet under by now.
Later, I go to text my friend about getting our daughters together, and notice the link again. Out of truly morbid curiosity, I take a look at the online obituary.
The picture is indeed old. Back from his gainfully employed days when he'd written an article on annuities or some such snoozefest topic. Easily 15 years and 40 pounds ago.
The obit is all the usual survived-by crap. Nothing remarkable. Saying much more would have cost money.
I click on the Guestbook.
Sheila has written two nearly unintelligible sappy notes as though she were speaking directly to him. One is exactly the same as the other except it has an additional thought...one that mentions a great neice or nephew on the way. I suppose Chuck and Em are procreating. More family weirdness to come. Glad I won't have the front row seats I had for the wedding planning. I am sure the potential for drama has not been curtailed in any way. Betcha they name the baby J. Or Spiderman.
Moira writes something sweet. Nothing from Abby.
And then there is an anonymous one. No name mentioned. No city identified.
It simply says, "I love you..."
And I am fuming. I don't know who wrote it and don't care. But the fact that it is anonymous probably has everyone assuming that it was submitted by me.
As if!
Did someone put that out there so people would think that I wrote it? Did someone write it assuming I would see it and be jealous? (I can't even begin to comment on how ridiculous that idea is!)
Did Abby write it and not want anyone to know?
Normal people don't sign the guest book and conceal their identities! Someone is up to something! My conspiracy theorist self is in overdrive.
I love you? That is the last thing I want anyone to think I wrote. It takes all my willpower not to write a guest book entry of my own.
I could take the high road (almost) and send my condolensces to Moira and Abby only, and thumb my nose at the family without actually doing so.
Or I could take a wholly unique approach and write something that indicates in no uncertain or nebulous terms that I do not love him. Sight the numerous indiscretions, faults, and other heinous attributes that I will not be missing when he takes his pathetic little self to the Hereafter.
I am filled with gall, because really, I can do nothing.
And doing nothing is not my style.
Friday, July 27, 2012
File That
I hang up and text Charlotte. Give her a few bulleted tidbits of information. She writes back that they are all insane. I guess we’ve known that for a while.
I think about J.’s girls and my heart goes out to them. So young to lose a parent. So young to have had to come to the realizations that they’ve reached. Much as I did in my marriage to Lars, they’ve had to realize that much of the demise of the person they loved was by his own hand. And on some level, he chose his vices over them, just as Lars had chosen his over me and our children. Very painful realizations, and piled higher and deeper by his death.
I am hopeful for their sake that eventually they remember his good qualities and salvage fond memories. I am praying that they make peace with all that has happened. There is much to try to forget.
And all of this hoping and praying has me thinking of my own Dad. This and a Neil Diamond song.
My swim club has a funny little ritual, presumably courtesy of the college-aged lifeguards. They think it is a total riot to turn off the classic rock station that pipes throughout the grounds when it is time for Adult Swim. At that time, they play such Old Timer classics as Barry Manilow, Elvis, Anne Murray, and Neil Diamond. And an occasional Englebert Humperdink. Like my parents are in the pool.
So as I sit with my fanny in a beach chair on Sunday, reading a novel and letting the warmth of the sun soothe me, here comes Neil Diamond singing sincerely as ever about the story of his life.
And I am transported once again to my childhood. This song always made me sad. It is a lovely song. A little sappy for my tastes, but a nice sentiment.
And I always thought that it must be the way my Dad felt when my parents’ marriage ended. It was as though his life did too.
Sure he was a trooper…jumped in and grabbed the reigns and made life in our house as close to what it should have been as he could.
But his personal life? There wasn’t one. He very rarely dated. His occasional golf outings included my brother (no fun there) He had no hobbies. He sold his football season tickets. He worked, ate, slept, read the paper, mowed the lawn.
Had his life in his estimation ended when my mother left? The touch of sadness he seemed to always carry with him suggested to my melodramatic teenaged self that maybe it had. His loneliness was hard to watch. It probably had very little to do with Estelle herself, but at the age of 15, that was the way I called it.
Years later, when we laid him to rest, it was perhaps my mother who grieved the most. Over time they’d become friends. Looked out for one another. Spoke to one another regularly. For no reason. Her loss was so genuine. Mom drove across the famous colonies that divide us to attend his funeral, connect with his old friends, talk fondly about him.
And by contrast, I am voluntarily skipping J.’s funeral. Nothing compels me to attend. It barely registers that it has been planned. I have no heartwarming stories to tell anymore. I have no kind words to say. I’d prefer not to forfeit a PTO day for something that seems so meaningless now. I have no need to pay my respects. Outside of Abby and Moira and Sandy, I have no respects to pay. I have to agree with my old friend who once told me that the opposite of love is not hatred. It is indifference.
I am a little shocked at my indifference. What a long way I've come since J. first went careening around the bend. But to be truthful to myself, I must file this under Mama Don’t Give A Damn.
I think about J.’s girls and my heart goes out to them. So young to lose a parent. So young to have had to come to the realizations that they’ve reached. Much as I did in my marriage to Lars, they’ve had to realize that much of the demise of the person they loved was by his own hand. And on some level, he chose his vices over them, just as Lars had chosen his over me and our children. Very painful realizations, and piled higher and deeper by his death.
I am hopeful for their sake that eventually they remember his good qualities and salvage fond memories. I am praying that they make peace with all that has happened. There is much to try to forget.
And all of this hoping and praying has me thinking of my own Dad. This and a Neil Diamond song.
My swim club has a funny little ritual, presumably courtesy of the college-aged lifeguards. They think it is a total riot to turn off the classic rock station that pipes throughout the grounds when it is time for Adult Swim. At that time, they play such Old Timer classics as Barry Manilow, Elvis, Anne Murray, and Neil Diamond. And an occasional Englebert Humperdink. Like my parents are in the pool.
So as I sit with my fanny in a beach chair on Sunday, reading a novel and letting the warmth of the sun soothe me, here comes Neil Diamond singing sincerely as ever about the story of his life.
And I am transported once again to my childhood. This song always made me sad. It is a lovely song. A little sappy for my tastes, but a nice sentiment.
And I always thought that it must be the way my Dad felt when my parents’ marriage ended. It was as though his life did too.
Sure he was a trooper…jumped in and grabbed the reigns and made life in our house as close to what it should have been as he could.
But his personal life? There wasn’t one. He very rarely dated. His occasional golf outings included my brother (no fun there) He had no hobbies. He sold his football season tickets. He worked, ate, slept, read the paper, mowed the lawn.
Had his life in his estimation ended when my mother left? The touch of sadness he seemed to always carry with him suggested to my melodramatic teenaged self that maybe it had. His loneliness was hard to watch. It probably had very little to do with Estelle herself, but at the age of 15, that was the way I called it.
Years later, when we laid him to rest, it was perhaps my mother who grieved the most. Over time they’d become friends. Looked out for one another. Spoke to one another regularly. For no reason. Her loss was so genuine. Mom drove across the famous colonies that divide us to attend his funeral, connect with his old friends, talk fondly about him.
And by contrast, I am voluntarily skipping J.’s funeral. Nothing compels me to attend. It barely registers that it has been planned. I have no heartwarming stories to tell anymore. I have no kind words to say. I’d prefer not to forfeit a PTO day for something that seems so meaningless now. I have no need to pay my respects. Outside of Abby and Moira and Sandy, I have no respects to pay. I have to agree with my old friend who once told me that the opposite of love is not hatred. It is indifference.
I am a little shocked at my indifference. What a long way I've come since J. first went careening around the bend. But to be truthful to myself, I must file this under Mama Don’t Give A Damn.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Grow the Roses of Success
Sandy is howling at my Sheila stories, epecially when I mimic her. And my retelling of words I've exchanged with Endorra. It is as though I said them for us both.
I tell her about having nearly literally run into Endorra at the store while buying my waffle iron and her bizarre behavior. She asks if I'd seen anyone else. I tell her it crossed my mind that I might bump into J. buying Boys 8-12 pants, or Sheila buying Big Girl pants to accommodate her ever-expanding epic behind, but never ran into anyone other than Endorra, who acted like she was on an outing from the group home.
It is nice to be able to talk to someone about these experiences. Sandy is still amazed at the toxicity and the self-righteousness.
And then she cries out unexpectedly. "Ooohhh! I almost forgot to tell you!"
I am enthralled. Barely breathing.
"They actually had the nerve to call me about paying for J.'s funeral!"
An idiot says what?
"Shut the front door!" I say brightly. "You did tell them to go fly a kite, didn't you?"
"Well not right away," she admits. "They caught me so off guard. I told them I would think about it."
"I hope you haven't given it too much thought, " I say. "What basis could they possibly have for even thinking about approaching you?"
"Well, probably mostly becasue they know I have the means...but they said it is because I am Abby and Moira's mother. Technically, I'd be paying their share."
Their share? Who did the math on that?
"My next call is to them. I intend to tell them that I respectfully decline. I was their mother all along when they were laying down the rules. Maybe they should have given that a little thought before now."
Seriously. They should thought about a lot of things well before we reached the point of no return. All I can say is, "You go, girl. I'll let you know if I get a call." Desperate people do desperate things.
Before we get off the phone we talk about having the drink we talked about having a year ago. We discuss logistics. We commit to finding time. She laughs that she is dying to meet the woman who was smart enough not to marry J. Such a long distance we've come.
I tell her about having nearly literally run into Endorra at the store while buying my waffle iron and her bizarre behavior. She asks if I'd seen anyone else. I tell her it crossed my mind that I might bump into J. buying Boys 8-12 pants, or Sheila buying Big Girl pants to accommodate her ever-expanding epic behind, but never ran into anyone other than Endorra, who acted like she was on an outing from the group home.
It is nice to be able to talk to someone about these experiences. Sandy is still amazed at the toxicity and the self-righteousness.
And then she cries out unexpectedly. "Ooohhh! I almost forgot to tell you!"
I am enthralled. Barely breathing.
"They actually had the nerve to call me about paying for J.'s funeral!"
An idiot says what?
"Shut the front door!" I say brightly. "You did tell them to go fly a kite, didn't you?"
"Well not right away," she admits. "They caught me so off guard. I told them I would think about it."
"I hope you haven't given it too much thought, " I say. "What basis could they possibly have for even thinking about approaching you?"
"Well, probably mostly becasue they know I have the means...but they said it is because I am Abby and Moira's mother. Technically, I'd be paying their share."
Their share? Who did the math on that?
"My next call is to them. I intend to tell them that I respectfully decline. I was their mother all along when they were laying down the rules. Maybe they should have given that a little thought before now."
Seriously. They should thought about a lot of things well before we reached the point of no return. All I can say is, "You go, girl. I'll let you know if I get a call." Desperate people do desperate things.
Before we get off the phone we talk about having the drink we talked about having a year ago. We discuss logistics. We commit to finding time. She laughs that she is dying to meet the woman who was smart enough not to marry J. Such a long distance we've come.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
From the Ashes of Disaster
Sandy takes a deep breath. Dives into the horrors of the last few weeks, while J. was dying. Weeks of hospitalization. A hospital in the city nearly an hour away. Endorra and Sheila prohibiting her from going to the hospital with the girls, even to comfort them as their father lay dying. And now, she can not be with them when they view his body one last time.
Who makes rules like this? Were they so interested in showing Sandy who is boss that they would deprive the girls of their mother's comfort and support in their worry and then their loss?
I can't believe they could still hate her when I had gone and made a yeoman's effort at trumping any offense she may have committed.
"Oh they still hate me. But they may hate you more."
I tell her of the words I exchanged with Sheila when months after I'd sent J. packing, he came into my house. Hacked into my computer and phone records. Called unfamiliar numbers. (Like my assistant!) Denied the whole thing. All after showing up at Girls Weekend, which alone is punishable by castration, frankly.
She retorted, as only the woefully inexperienced arguers will, with some lame statement that his life was in ruins because I welshed on the deal and didn't marry him.
Oh right. That would have solved everything.
But to continue, I mentioned that I'd called her after summoning the police, who were on the way at that very moment. I let her know that despite what he'd told them, I was not a part of his pathetic little life anymore. He was their cross to bear. And make no mistake: If he trespasses on my property I will have him arrested and press charges. He's crazy and has no boundaries. And has a bizarre life-sized tattoo of my face on his leg to prove it.
"Oh. I'd forgotten about the tattoo."
Some of us find it easier to forget than others, evidently.
I check the bathroom door for eavesdroppers and tell her about my panic attack. That the very people who will bury him and have been told to hurl me out of the service on my ass will get a nice view of the ridiculous tattoo on his scrawny leg before he and it are forever laid to rest.
And suddenly we are laughing like old friends.
Who makes rules like this? Were they so interested in showing Sandy who is boss that they would deprive the girls of their mother's comfort and support in their worry and then their loss?
I can't believe they could still hate her when I had gone and made a yeoman's effort at trumping any offense she may have committed.
"Oh they still hate me. But they may hate you more."
I tell her of the words I exchanged with Sheila when months after I'd sent J. packing, he came into my house. Hacked into my computer and phone records. Called unfamiliar numbers. (Like my assistant!) Denied the whole thing. All after showing up at Girls Weekend, which alone is punishable by castration, frankly.
She retorted, as only the woefully inexperienced arguers will, with some lame statement that his life was in ruins because I welshed on the deal and didn't marry him.
Oh right. That would have solved everything.
But to continue, I mentioned that I'd called her after summoning the police, who were on the way at that very moment. I let her know that despite what he'd told them, I was not a part of his pathetic little life anymore. He was their cross to bear. And make no mistake: If he trespasses on my property I will have him arrested and press charges. He's crazy and has no boundaries. And has a bizarre life-sized tattoo of my face on his leg to prove it.
"Oh. I'd forgotten about the tattoo."
Some of us find it easier to forget than others, evidently.
I check the bathroom door for eavesdroppers and tell her about my panic attack. That the very people who will bury him and have been told to hurl me out of the service on my ass will get a nice view of the ridiculous tattoo on his scrawny leg before he and it are forever laid to rest.
And suddenly we are laughing like old friends.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
The Shot Heard Round the Globe
I fill Scott in on more details, inclusive of the horror about the tattoo. Thankfully, he finds that to be a riot. The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. And besides, if there is a buzz about it at the funeral luncheon, that will just send Endorra sailing over the edge. So be it.
The kids and I wake early on Saturday and get on the road to Scott's. First, we sign, seal and post a card to Sandy and the girls. I've told the kids. They are sorry for the girls, pity J., but are otherwise nonplussed. Well, maybe a little self righteous about being right about J. slowly killing himself with his many secret vices.
After a day on the beach and boardwalk, we come home. Pat and Scott try out Pat's new Airsoft rifle Scott got him for his birthday and then test out some of Scott's old BB guns. Tin cans are flying all over the yard when my phone rings. I see that it is Sandy and while I wonder if I should answer it, it goes to voicemail. I immediately retrieve the message in private.
She sounds all business. Like she's mad at something. She'd like me to call her back. I have no idea why. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead as I tell Scott. He tells me to go into the bedroom and shut the door so I can give the call my full attention. Sounds like it needs it.
I call Sandy back and make a friendly excuse when she immediately answers with "Hello, Liza." I tell her I was just walking in the door and missed her call and ask what is happening.
She starts with "Oh my. Where to start. I can't begin to tell you the craziness..."
I interrupt. "Oh, Sandy. I know exactly what you are talking about. That family is like a circus without a tent under the best of circumstances. It must be full on chaos with Endorra and Sheila at the wheel."
"Oh so you know!" She is obviously gushing with relief to not have to explain J.'s family dysfunction to me. As if she wondered if I'd only realized he was insane and not the whole lot of them as well.
Her voice sounds almost joyful. I am wondering why that comes as such a relief to her right now. And then she tells me.
"Liza, my girls adore you, and you have been so wonderful to them. And if you were planning on paying your respects to them in any way, please, please don't make it Tuesday at the service."
It is fairly simple to read between the lines. "Sandy, I have no illusions about whether or not I am welcome at J."s funeral. I have never had any intention of attending. I don't need to be there to show your girls how I feel. I can do that any time you see fit. I am sure they understand that."
"They do," she says. "And they were worried that you'd extend yourself for them and walk right into Hell itself. I am so glad you had more sense than that."
I tell her that I am well aware of the toxic tumultuous nature of the family. I'd seen it from the vantage point of the eye of the storm.Endorra and Sheila will act like a pair of petulant, lunatic children. They will make a scene and carry on, and no one who is there to truly greive needs that. And the last thing your girls need is a lot of drama as they are trying to close this chapter in their lives and heal."
She sighs and laughs at the same time. "Oh thank God you get it! Liza, my girls have spent the last two days with those people and it has been nothing but hell for them. They have laid down rules and expectations and made this such an ordeal. There isn't a sane one in the bunch. Tuesday is going to be Hell on Earth."
"Endorra has made it very clear to the girls that you are not welcome and she will have you escorted from the service." Isn't that rich? She'd make a member of my family, in his official capacity, approach me and escort me from the church.
In my heart I know that she would say those words. In my heart I also wonder if she'd do it. A rational person would not make a scene unless provoked. But Endorra, since she would not have to do the deed herself, would relish in watching some dark suited family member of mine walk sheepishly over to me and very firmly tell me that I need to leave at once.
As if I'd give that fruit loop the satisfaction of getting to do that. Please. I can thumb my nose at her from the beach. Kiss my shapely derriere you bitter old hag!
"Sandy," I say. "I would prefer that she come to the realization that I am blissfully indifferent to J. and to her and her drama. I can't be bothered to take the day off. Wouldn't give her the chance to lash out. And yet I know in my heart that when I don't make an appearance, she will think I'm evil for not having paid my respects."
"Oh, Liza, you have no idea. There is so much more to tell you."
I go into Scott's bathroom and close the door. I hop up on the counter, fold my legs up Indian style and speak directly into the phone.
"Talk to me."
The kids and I wake early on Saturday and get on the road to Scott's. First, we sign, seal and post a card to Sandy and the girls. I've told the kids. They are sorry for the girls, pity J., but are otherwise nonplussed. Well, maybe a little self righteous about being right about J. slowly killing himself with his many secret vices.
After a day on the beach and boardwalk, we come home. Pat and Scott try out Pat's new Airsoft rifle Scott got him for his birthday and then test out some of Scott's old BB guns. Tin cans are flying all over the yard when my phone rings. I see that it is Sandy and while I wonder if I should answer it, it goes to voicemail. I immediately retrieve the message in private.
She sounds all business. Like she's mad at something. She'd like me to call her back. I have no idea why. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead as I tell Scott. He tells me to go into the bedroom and shut the door so I can give the call my full attention. Sounds like it needs it.
I call Sandy back and make a friendly excuse when she immediately answers with "Hello, Liza." I tell her I was just walking in the door and missed her call and ask what is happening.
She starts with "Oh my. Where to start. I can't begin to tell you the craziness..."
I interrupt. "Oh, Sandy. I know exactly what you are talking about. That family is like a circus without a tent under the best of circumstances. It must be full on chaos with Endorra and Sheila at the wheel."
"Oh so you know!" She is obviously gushing with relief to not have to explain J.'s family dysfunction to me. As if she wondered if I'd only realized he was insane and not the whole lot of them as well.
Her voice sounds almost joyful. I am wondering why that comes as such a relief to her right now. And then she tells me.
"Liza, my girls adore you, and you have been so wonderful to them. And if you were planning on paying your respects to them in any way, please, please don't make it Tuesday at the service."
It is fairly simple to read between the lines. "Sandy, I have no illusions about whether or not I am welcome at J."s funeral. I have never had any intention of attending. I don't need to be there to show your girls how I feel. I can do that any time you see fit. I am sure they understand that."
"They do," she says. "And they were worried that you'd extend yourself for them and walk right into Hell itself. I am so glad you had more sense than that."
I tell her that I am well aware of the toxic tumultuous nature of the family. I'd seen it from the vantage point of the eye of the storm.Endorra and Sheila will act like a pair of petulant, lunatic children. They will make a scene and carry on, and no one who is there to truly greive needs that. And the last thing your girls need is a lot of drama as they are trying to close this chapter in their lives and heal."
She sighs and laughs at the same time. "Oh thank God you get it! Liza, my girls have spent the last two days with those people and it has been nothing but hell for them. They have laid down rules and expectations and made this such an ordeal. There isn't a sane one in the bunch. Tuesday is going to be Hell on Earth."
"Endorra has made it very clear to the girls that you are not welcome and she will have you escorted from the service." Isn't that rich? She'd make a member of my family, in his official capacity, approach me and escort me from the church.
In my heart I know that she would say those words. In my heart I also wonder if she'd do it. A rational person would not make a scene unless provoked. But Endorra, since she would not have to do the deed herself, would relish in watching some dark suited family member of mine walk sheepishly over to me and very firmly tell me that I need to leave at once.
As if I'd give that fruit loop the satisfaction of getting to do that. Please. I can thumb my nose at her from the beach. Kiss my shapely derriere you bitter old hag!
"Sandy," I say. "I would prefer that she come to the realization that I am blissfully indifferent to J. and to her and her drama. I can't be bothered to take the day off. Wouldn't give her the chance to lash out. And yet I know in my heart that when I don't make an appearance, she will think I'm evil for not having paid my respects."
"Oh, Liza, you have no idea. There is so much more to tell you."
I go into Scott's bathroom and close the door. I hop up on the counter, fold my legs up Indian style and speak directly into the phone.
"Talk to me."
Monday, July 23, 2012
Hello, Chaos, My Old Friend
In a flop sweat, I text Charlotte.
"OMG. My new everlasting horror. When our family funeral home people go to embalm him they will see that #@%&(*^ tattoo!"
"Oh my." she replies. "I'd forgotten all about that."
Yes, that. The freaking tattoo of my face, distorted as only a tattoo artist can do, on his scrawny pathetic, now rigor mortis inflicted leg.
I want to call my cousin and explain. I did no know he was getting the tattoo. I had dumped him prior to the tattoo. I specifically disavow the tattoo. If there had been legal recourse to have the tattoo forcibly removed, I would have spent every penny. Please do not think I was a party to it. It makes me as sick as it makes them. (But not nearly as amused I am sure.)
In the meantime, Kate has called. Ever the optimist. "Hey, I ran into Joy. She told me about J. Bummer. What are you doing this weekend?"
I call her back. I tell her that honestly I feel nothing even close to sorrow, just something that resembles pity. And empathy for his girls. But other than that, it was just one more event of the day.
And then I tell her about the tattoo. Each time I say the words in my head it gets funnier, because it is far stranger than fiction and no one would believe it if they had not lived through my initial horror.
Always on the bright side of the moon, Kate assures me that J.'s leg was probably all skinny and hangy and misshapen by now and no one would recognize my face anyway. They'd think it was his next girlfriend (had there been one) and that she must have had a wicked case of Bells Palsy.
I am relieved to hear that and laughing out loud about it now. This is what friends are for.
I think about sending J.'s older daughter a text when I arrive at home. I want to reach out to her. She is probably the one with the most mixed emotions, considering all the turmoil she'd had in her relationship with her father the last few years, as she asserted herself as the young woman she was becoming.
Later that night, she and I do exchange texts. And then I take to my e-mail account and send a message to Sandy.
"Hello, Sandy - I am sure this has been quite a time for you and the girls. I can't imagine your mixed emotions after all that has happened these last few years. And I am sure the girls are dealing with so many thoughts and feelings. Please know my thoughts and prayers are with you all. I have been in touch with both of the girls. They are so brave and so mature. Such gems. I am sure you will all be fine because of each other.
I would like to send a card to the girls from Hil and Pat and me. I don't believe I have your current address. If you are comfortable providing it, I will send it off this weekend.
Best of luck coping with the events of the next few days and weeks ahead. You will remain in my prayers.
Fondly, Liza
At 4 am, I receive a reply.
"Thank you, Liza. And I would like to have that drink we talked about. I will call and hopefully you will still be OK to chat.
The girls are good. What a ride it has been.
You are a lovely person and I would like to get to know you.
She includes her address. And I feel lucky to be excluded from what she is surely about to deal with. J.'s mother has long been the mayor of Crazy Town and his sister is her deputy. The insanity of a family funeral is hard to deal with under the best of circumstances. But this will be full on pandemonium. It is coming like the dawn, and the sun is setting on all the peace and tranquility Sandy and her girls had achieved.
"OMG. My new everlasting horror. When our family funeral home people go to embalm him they will see that #@%&(*^ tattoo!"
"Oh my." she replies. "I'd forgotten all about that."
Yes, that. The freaking tattoo of my face, distorted as only a tattoo artist can do, on his scrawny pathetic, now rigor mortis inflicted leg.
I want to call my cousin and explain. I did no know he was getting the tattoo. I had dumped him prior to the tattoo. I specifically disavow the tattoo. If there had been legal recourse to have the tattoo forcibly removed, I would have spent every penny. Please do not think I was a party to it. It makes me as sick as it makes them. (But not nearly as amused I am sure.)
In the meantime, Kate has called. Ever the optimist. "Hey, I ran into Joy. She told me about J. Bummer. What are you doing this weekend?"
I call her back. I tell her that honestly I feel nothing even close to sorrow, just something that resembles pity. And empathy for his girls. But other than that, it was just one more event of the day.
And then I tell her about the tattoo. Each time I say the words in my head it gets funnier, because it is far stranger than fiction and no one would believe it if they had not lived through my initial horror.
Always on the bright side of the moon, Kate assures me that J.'s leg was probably all skinny and hangy and misshapen by now and no one would recognize my face anyway. They'd think it was his next girlfriend (had there been one) and that she must have had a wicked case of Bells Palsy.
I am relieved to hear that and laughing out loud about it now. This is what friends are for.
I think about sending J.'s older daughter a text when I arrive at home. I want to reach out to her. She is probably the one with the most mixed emotions, considering all the turmoil she'd had in her relationship with her father the last few years, as she asserted herself as the young woman she was becoming.
Later that night, she and I do exchange texts. And then I take to my e-mail account and send a message to Sandy.
"Hello, Sandy - I am sure this has been quite a time for you and the girls. I can't imagine your mixed emotions after all that has happened these last few years. And I am sure the girls are dealing with so many thoughts and feelings. Please know my thoughts and prayers are with you all. I have been in touch with both of the girls. They are so brave and so mature. Such gems. I am sure you will all be fine because of each other.
I would like to send a card to the girls from Hil and Pat and me. I don't believe I have your current address. If you are comfortable providing it, I will send it off this weekend.
Best of luck coping with the events of the next few days and weeks ahead. You will remain in my prayers.
Fondly, Liza
At 4 am, I receive a reply.
"Thank you, Liza. And I would like to have that drink we talked about. I will call and hopefully you will still be OK to chat.
The girls are good. What a ride it has been.
You are a lovely person and I would like to get to know you.
She includes her address. And I feel lucky to be excluded from what she is surely about to deal with. J.'s mother has long been the mayor of Crazy Town and his sister is her deputy. The insanity of a family funeral is hard to deal with under the best of circumstances. But this will be full on pandemonium. It is coming like the dawn, and the sun is setting on all the peace and tranquility Sandy and her girls had achieved.
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