PLEASE READ FIRST
This story is unusual not in its content, but in its context. I am not writing this for you.
It is my biased opinion that each writer is entitled to author a singular piece of personal prose. Often this takes the form of a "Mary-Sue," and rids the creator of his or her more immature tendencies to craft the perfect character; one who is abundantly qualified in every possible profession, as well as beautiful, rich, charming, poised, and whatever the author feels he or she lacks.
I'm taking my turn.
But not with a Mary-Sue.
This story is about JD's dad dying; it is a very personal story and not like my previous Scrubs fic. For me, it is an act of therapy and healing. If something strikes you as out of character, that's because it is. Much of this is me.
For these reasons, I have different expectations. You can choose to review or you can choose not to review. You can leave positive comments. You can flame. This will be the only author's note; no additional comments, explanations, or exhortations.
I appreciate your time and understanding. As always, I make no profit. A strong PG for language use. Thank you.
—your humble author
To my father: I wish it could have been more.
Carl Bennett
1957-2003
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
My uncle called me first. He didn't have Danny's phone number and wasn't sure if it would be right to call mom. Besides, he thought I could handle it best since it comes with my job. Except this doesn't come with my job. This is the kind of thing that would floor even Bob Kelso
"JD, your Uncle Dave called and said to call him back ASAP," Turk yelled to me from his place by the answering machine.
I dialed Dave and waited impatiently. Calls from him were rare (had he ever called me?), so I wondered what the special occasion was. The birthday he'd forgotten was months ago.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Uncle Dave, it's me."
"Oh…JD." Well that was enthusiastic. "JD, are you sitting down? I have something to tell you."
I stopped, suddenly nervous. Had my grandma died? She was quite old and sickly. I hoped that wasn't it. She was my favorite relative. Of course, it dawned on me, my father would probably call were that the case. So why was Dave calling instead? I sat down on my bed. "What's wrong?"
"JD, your father…he had a heart attack."
"What? What hospital is he—"
"He didn't make it, son. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
So, this is shock: Nothing.
I called my mom. She cried, but promised to tell her side of the family so I wouldn't have to. After we hung up, I rang Danny. Now, he had moved to London for a year to study bartending. English pubs are famous and he wanted the experience. I knew he'd be hard pressed to come home, but I never expected his response.
"Danny, dad…had a heart attack. He didn't make it."
"What? When—how?"
I repeated only what our uncle had told me. "Yesterday afternoon, at work, he collapsed. They tried to resuscitate him, but it was just too big. We'd have known sooner, except they didn't have any contact numbers. I don't know what to do."
There was a long silence and I almost thought we'd been disconnected when he finally replied, softly, "I can't come home."
"Huh?"
"I can't…I need to stay here."
"You can't stay there. Dad's dead! You need to come home and help with arrangements and be with mom and say goodbye. Danny, I can't do this on my own!"
"JD, if I come home, I could lose my job."
"How heartless are they in England? Dammit, don't bail on me this time!"
There was a frustrated sigh on the other end. "Look, I just can't come home. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, JD, and I'll talk to you later."
He hung up. I stared at my receiver in shocked confusion, then slammed it back onto the base. Our dad was dead and he wasn't coming home? That dick! That selfish bastard! I hated him. And that was when I finally started to cry.
I packed my bag, trying furiously to wipe away any signs of tears, then stopped in the living room to let Turk know I was leaving.
"It'll be about a week."
"Is everything okay?"
Suddenly, I hesitated. I wanted to tell Turk—my very best friend—what had happened, but I couldn't. Maybe I just needed some time to digest the information. Maybe I just didn't want any pity. Whatever the reason, my response was a lie. "My mom just needs some help. Y'know, with Danny in England, I'm the one she calls now."
"Aw, man, that sucks. Well, tell her I said hi and see if she'll bake any of those chocolate-butterscotch-marshmallow cookies. I love those!"
I gave him a halfhearted smile and went to the hospital to get leave from Dr. Kelso. He wasn't very thrilled.
"You want what? An entire week?"
"Yes, sir, I have a family emergency I need to take care of."
"A week is entirely too long. Do you think this is some private practice where you can just up and go when you want to? You have responsibilities here and I'm not gonna let you shirk them."
I felt myself grow angry. Very angry. "Look!" I yelled, slamming my fist on his desk. "I have some bigger responsibilities to take care of right now and they do, in fact, come before you and your precious dollar sign. So give me the week that I need or fire me. Either way, I'm going."
Kelso looked me in the eyes and must have seen my rage. He grimaced, hating to find that tiny, infinitesimal soft spot giving in. "Fine," he growled. "Take your week. But you'd better not ask for any more time off ever."
I just nodded and left, with none of the satisfaction I might otherwise have felt.
I drove in silence. Well, I had the radio on, but the usual monologue I kept going deserted me. I was too shocked to even talk to myself. Before I knew it, I was pulling into my mother's driveway and mindlessly opening the door to my childhood home. An eerily familiar act so out of place given the circumstances.
"Mom? You here?"
She was. She sat in the living room with a stack of photo albums and a box of Kleenex. "He could be a real clown, your dad."
"Yeah, I know." I sat beside her and looked at some photographs of Danny's eighth birthday. Dad was there, sucking helium out of a balloon so he could talk funny, then walking around like a zombie, threatening us in that foolish voice. "I remember that year; he sucked on too much helium and passed out in the cake."
"I think you boys laughed the most at that. Have you talked to Danny?"
How on earth was I supposed to tell her about him? "Danny…he's having some trouble. He won't be able to come."
She stopped, stared at me, then nodded, but didn't say a word.
"Mom, I gotta go to Uncle Dave's house. He's gonna help me figure this stuff out and get arrangements made."
"Do you want me to come?"
I paused, suddenly very needy for my mother's company. "Would you, please?"
She gave me a sad smile and took my hand. "We are gonna get through this. Come on; let's get going."
Dave lived just under two hours away but, fortunately, only five minutes from grandma, so we stopped to see her first. Dad was grandma's youngest and least attentive child, as well as her second to die. I've seen a lot, being in the hospital—the gory, the ridiculous, the miraculous—but there is a truth universally acknowledged that no parent should ever out live his or her child.
"D'you wanna wake her?"
I nodded and left mom in grandma's modest living room/dining room/kitchen. "Hey, grandma," I said softly, easing my weight onto her bed. "It's JD."
"JD? JD." The first one was a question, the second a sort of sad confirmation. She struggled to sit up. "Hi, honey."
"Hi, grandma. How you doin'?"
"Okay."
Yeah, she was okay and Dr. Cox was gonna receive sainthood. But we left it at that. She asked how I was and I gave her the expected "fine." Yes, the old adage is true: Families who lack communication skills during tragedies together, stay together.
She came out to greet mom and the two chatted while I rang my uncle. Grandma decided (and there was no arguing with grandma) that Dave could meet us at her apartment. I looked forward to seeing him, because he seemed to know a lot more than I about what had happened and what we could do. I didn't have the first clue.
"D'you want anything, grandma? Juice, coffee—whiskey?"
She chuckled. Thank God. "Actually, could you run over the pharmacy, Johnny? I have a prescription there to pick up."
I put on my coat and was out the door before anyone could say "escape."
By the time I returned, Dave and my Aunt Brenda were waiting in the living room. "Uncle Dave, Aunt Brenda."
"John."
I handed my grandmother the prescription and sat down across from Dave and Brenda, staring at them. Nothing like body language to convey a point.
"This is what I know: It was the end of the day and your dad, his boss, Tim, and a coworker were finishing up. Tim left for a few minutes and when he returned, your dad was on the floor." Well, that answered one of my questions; was dad alone when he died? Yes. "So, Tim started CPR and the coworker—Mike?—called 911. The EMTs thought they got his heart started, but it stopped again at the hospital. There wasn't much they could do. Your dad was a walking coronary."
"He never went to the doctor," my grandmother added in a voice which conveyed anger, grief, and ruefulness all at once.
Mom laughed softly. "Yeah, he was pretty damn stubborn. And don't even think about putting vegetables on his plate. He was mostly a meat and potatoes guy. And Pepsi and beer."
And cigarettes, I thought to myself. How could they be so nonchalant? My stupid father had brought this on himself. He'd taken himself away. Dammit! Damn him!…no. I didn't mean that.
"We should go."
Dave's voice brought me out of my reverie. "Huh?"
"We should go to your dad's work and the Robinson funeral home; a friend of mine buried his parents with them and said they do good work. By the way, your Aunt Amy and Uncle Bob are flying in tomorrow. Ma, you gonna be okay by yourself? D'you want me to call one of the kids over here?"
"I'll be okay."
They headed out and I followed, stopping to give grandma a squeeze on her arm and a smile. "We'll be back soon."
Soon, of course, is a matter of opinion, and we didn't return until dark. The time at dad's office was melancholy and confusing. I met Tim and filled out a few forms, then excused myself. Something outside had caught my attention. His car.
"You got his keys?" I asked my uncle who was loading dad's belongings into the SUV. Dave pulled them out and I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away. Did he blame me for leaving mom and Aunt Brenda in the office? Should I be there, too? Did it matter?
The heat blasted over me as I opened the car door, but it was welcome, even in 90° weather.
Dad had owned this car since I entered sixth grade. Honestly, it should have been junked long, long ago, but it held sentimental value; the first he ever bought new (how, I'll never know). And the last. I settled into the driver's seat and paused. So familiar. I'll give my dad credit for driving; he made a lousy parent, but I always trusted him behind the wheel. His driving stuck out to me growing up; now just a sad reminder that he'd never sit here again.
Dave knocked on the window a few minutes later. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah, I'll be out in a sec." I sat back and put my hands on the steering wheel, getting a feel for him. I looked at the tapes and cigarette boxes strewn about and mingled with candy wrappers. Why would he do this to me? On top of all the missed holidays, birthdays, band concerts, and life events, he would miss everything else. Abandoning me had left a hole I tried to fill with people like Dr. Cox and any other male role model. Now his death left…nothing.
"How're you doin', honey?" mom asked as we entered the funeral home.
"Okay, I guess. You?"
"I'm just here for you, baby; if you need anything."
Great. She was here for me. It's always easy to be there for someone. It's terrible to be the someone. Y'see, you're supposed to feel grateful to the helper for his or her moral support, but it's not like you're gonna fall down weeping and need to be carried to the hospital for valium…well…no, I had responsibilities. The truth is, unless their résumé includes, "able to raise people from the dead," no one can help.
A man in a suit approached and extended his hand. "I'm Paul Robinson; won't you have a seat?"
I was too numb to care that he looked like a used car salesman. Why wasn't this day over yet? I let Dave handle the things like what cards would be distributed and what had happened. I even let him decide to have a viewing. If they needed one for closure, so be it. I wanted a say only in two things: How much we would spend and the obituary.
"I don't want any flowery words; none of the "beloved son of" or "dearest friend to" stuff."
Paul looked at me as though I'd asked him to remove the first sentence of the constitution. "You don't want that? It's pretty standard, y'know."
Why did he question me? Was there something in my voice that said, "although I clearly stated it this way, I'm sure I can be persuaded to change my mind"? "Look, my dad just wasn't into that sort of thing. It wasn't him."
"Oh…kay. Well, then, I'll leave you along to look at the prices and make a decision. If you have any questions, just let me know."
"All right," Dave started, picking up the price sheet. "Do we want to bury him or cremate him? The cremation's cheaper."
Dad's life insurance policy left me all of $10,000. That was it; no 401K's or stocks. "Cheap is good."
"Cremations it is, then. When do we want to have the viewing? Friday? Saturday?"
"Friday." It was sooner and I just wanted it to all be over.
"What time? I mean, on a Friday, people will have work. If we start at noon, some can come on their lunch hour; if we finish at eight, everyone can be there after they get off. Sound good?"
Come on their lunch hour? Well, that was a sure way to lose their appetite. "Sure."
Mr. Robinson joined us and wrote everything down, then took us to look at caskets for the viewing. Would we ever get to leave? Ever?
"And this model…"
I tuned him out and started looking at coffins. Coffins, coffins everywhere. Some quite stylish. I could see why a vampire might choose to sleep in one. Did any come with CD players? Antilock brakes? Maybe a mini-fridge? There were other objects in the room; tombstones, urns, memorial plates, suits and dresses (apparently, not all corpses come equipped with the right clothes), and even little pendants to hold ashes on a necklace. Hm…creepy?
"Which one's cheapest?"
"Well, this—"
"Good, we'll take it."
"But you should know that this casket doesn't go to the crematorium. We place the deceased in a cardboard box and then the box in the casket—it's like a rental for viewings."
Lovely. "Look, he's dead. I really don't think he's gonna care." Fed up, I finally turned to my uncle. "Can we go now?"
Considering the distance from my mom's house to grandma's apartment, we opted to spend the night there. I just couldn't stand the thought of leaving her alone. And mom, bless her, slept on grandma's floor to be near me, while I took the couch.
I woke up at five in the morning to the twitching of my left eye. It ticked all day yesterday and I got the distinct impression it was in no mood to stop.
Was it really less than 24 hours since I learned he died? It's as if my whole world just stopped with that one phone call. How surreal.
Mom wasn't there. Probably out for coffee or breakfast. That left me alone, comfortably, with time to reflect. Except I couldn't.
Shock is amazing, and not entirely unwelcome, but I needed to feel. Something. Anything. That's when the phone caught my eye, right next to the arm of the couch. I could call his apartment. I could dial his number and hear his voice on the answering machine. Hesitantly, I picked up the receiver: One. Area code. First three digits. Last four digits. Wait. Ring. Ring. Ring. Click.
"Hey, this is Sam. I'm not here right now, but if you leave your name and number after the beep, I'll get right back with ya." Beep.
I hung up, relishing the moment. I knew that voice. That was my dad's voice. In the quiet solitude of five a.m., I let my head fall back on the pillow and cried. I would never dial that number again.
Mom came in around seven with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. I turned down TVLand.
"Hey, kiddo. How you doing this morning?"
I was really starting to hate that question, even if it was coming from such a loving source. I had to answer fine, because "numb, shocked, and twitchy" only invited more concern. "Okay. D'you get your morning fix?"
"Yep. You know—caffeine junkie. It's in the paper."
She handed me the news and I didn't know what to do at first. Her coffee addiction was in the paper? Then I figured out she meant his obituary. Wow, news really does travel fast.
DORIAN
Samuel James, Age 49. July 7, 2003. Father of Daniel and John. Son of Mary. Brother of David (Brenda) Dorian, Amy (Albert) Zillman, Robert (Katherine) Dorian. Friend and former husband of Barbara Dorian. Preceded in death by his father Donald and brother Donald Jr. Visitation Friday 12-8 p.m. at the Robinson Funeral Home.
I shrugged, handing the paper back to mom. At least they'd left out the flowery words. A thought popped into my mind, which I voiced aloud. "I wish Danny were here."
"I know, hon. It's hard. But probably for the best; Danny's never been good at handling situations like these."
You mean ones that involve responsibility? No kidding.
Sigh. The day was just getting started and I had a feeling it would be a long one.
I didn't say much on the way to my father's apartment. Nobody did. Somehow, though, I managed to say even less inside his home. We all took a few things from there. Mom took a couple of old pictures. Dave took the stack of Playboys hidden in the cupboard over the fridge. I took a look around (and an ashtray full of change). A strange apartment, maybe, but the same stuff. T-shirts, books I used to see in my parents' bathroom, same giant 80s TV he used as an entertainment center for his new, smaller one. And—what was that? Holy cow, he still had that disturbing, kid-sized plush rabbit from my fifth birthday. Why would he keep that?
We didn't stay long, however. Amy and Bob were flying in from Florida and Minnesota respectively. It was the same with them, like everyone else. We said "hi," we hugged, asked how the other person was doing, and gave the same answer. Fine. Fine, fine, fine. Repeating a word sometimes makes it sound meaningless. After 24 hours, "fine" meant nothing to me.
The problem with having six adults and one SUV is that it leaves an odd man out. Dave and Bob sat up front; mom, Amy, and Brenda in the back. I got the rear. Or, rather, dad's stuff and I got the rear.
I sorted through photos, clothes, keys, and miscellaneous objects we'd taken. A photograph of me and dad going to trick-or-treat on the single occasion he took me. I was four and dressed as a pirate. He taught me about pirates and it's because of him that I like them so much now. You never think about stuff like that when someone's alive. You can't. I'll say this, though—pirates will never make me happy the way they used to.
I grabbed one of his shirts; a familiar one. It smelled just like him. Old spice and Bounce fabric softener. I put it on. But as we pulled into grandma's parking lot, I removed the shirt. I look a lot like dad, and I don't want grandma thinking I'm him. How c
ruel would that be? Still, I carried it in and when I glanced over at mom, she gave me a knowing smile and I took comfort knowing she knows I'm not fine.
We spent that night at a hotel nearby instead of gram's apartment. Mom just couldn't take the floor and I needed a real bed. I was so tired. Exhausted. Drained. There are two kinds of weary: physical and emotional. I'd got five hours of sleep and spent the whole day dealing with my dad's death. By nine, I could barely think coherently.
"How you holdin' up?"
"Tired."
Mom sighed. "No doubt. It's been a long couple days."
"I'm angry," I replied, almost out of the blue. Somehow, though, she was expecting it. How do mothers do that? I think—secretly—they can read minds. It freaks me out.
"You have every right to be."
"Y'know, I told him—maybe six months ago—that he should take some vitamins and he said I sounded just like Dave. It's his own damn fault for dying. His dad had a heart attack, too. But did that stop him from smoking and drinking? He never even saw a doctor except me and he never took my advice. Whatever happened to following doctor's orders? You know he wouldn't even let me take his blood pressure? He was such an idiot!"
Mom sighed again, but I liked the sound of it. The word "fine" deflects reality and avoids any discussion, but a sigh is telltale. You know something's wrong with a sigh. "Your father epitomized stubborn. It had to be his way or no way. That's how he lived his life, JD, and it's okay to be angry at him for that. Just remember that your anger isn't going to bring him back or punish him for leaving." She put a hand on my shoulder and I felt the tears well up. "Honey, you are a loving person. You love your dad despite his leaving you as a kid. You love him despite his stupid choices later in life. And you will continue to love him even while you acknowledge his faults. When someone dies, real love isn't glossing over their flaws and remembering only the good; it's accepting the positive and negative in a person and loving them anyway."
How had my mom got so wise? It must have been from dealing with my father for so many years.
"Good night, mom."
"Good night, JD."
