“Because he thinks I should take care of all things domestic,” Bryony said. “I am the only woman in the family now, according to him.”
“What about Carol?” Lillian asked.
“Carol hasn’t been in Mom and Dad’s house five times in the four decades she and Mitch have been married.” Her brother’s wife possessed the personality of a sugar-free cookie—disappointing from the first bite, but still hard to put down. She did, however, make a fine mate for Mitch.
“Right.” Lillian nodded her head. “I remember. Something about her allergies. She sneezes every time she goes there.”
“She’s probably allergic to my father,” Bryony said. “He has an ill effect on everyone.”
With her mother gone, Bryony wondered what kind of relationship she would have with her father. In the past, her mother had buffered their interactions. When her mother became ill and her mind slipped, Bryony’s caregiving tasks created a barrier to the insults her father hurled in every way possible. If he was not saying something demeaning, he was scowling at her, or rolling his eyes, or walking away clucking disapproval. Funny how he never treated Mitch like that.
“Where’s Nathan?” Lillian asked.
“I don’t know. He should have flown home by now, but he hasn’t called.”
“You’re kidding!” Lillian said.
“I think he’s become enamored with snorkeling.” Nathan’s absence stung, but seemed a minor inconvenience when compared to the misery of watching her mother die. And his lack of communication was not all that unexpected. From boys to men, Bryony had a long history of being left behind without a word. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine on my own. Say hi to Rick and the kids. Please thank them for all they did to help.” She stood and slid her arms into her coat. “I’ve missed seeing them.”
“They miss you, too. Come over for Sunday dinner again. You used to come every week.” Lillian stood to wrap her arms around Bryony. “You are the sister I never had. You’re always welcome in my family, Bry. You know that, right?”
“I do.” Tears pooled in Bryony’s eyes. Though like an aunt to Lillian’s boys as they grew up, she had assumed they no longer needed her after they married. She lived with regret for not remaining a constant part of their lives.
She ended the hug first and told Lillian she would be in touch.
As soon as the coffee shop door shut behind her, a brisk wind hit Bryony’s cheeks, and the memory of her mother’s wooden face flooded her mind again. She had stared at it for two hours during the visitation, and before the casket closed for the service. Never again being able to look into her mother’s kind eyes—Bryony’s calm, safe place—seemed unbearable.
As she settled into the driver’s seat of her ten-year-old Chevy, deep sobs surfaced.
Per her father’s prediction, she’d become an old maid, and she would be one until she died. Unlike her mother, who Bry mourned deeply, no one—other than perhaps Lillian—would grieve her. She was a fixture in the lives of her family, co-workers, and clients, showing up and leaving when expected, minimally known, and easily replaced.
When the tears subsided, Bryony pushed the brake and started the car. On the way home, she would stop by to check on her father.
The last ten days had been hard on all of them, every possible moment spent first in the hospital, then the hospice unit, and finally the funeral home. She imagined empty cabinets in her parents’ kitchen, some dirty dishes, a few loads of laundry. She would do what she could, but she had no intention of trying to fill the shoes her mother had gradually vacated. Her father seemed to have done all right on his own up to now.
After she parked in front of the house where she grew up, Bryony sat for a moment taking stock. The whole place grumbled with neglect. Gutters needed work, and bushes trimming. She chastised herself for not noticing sooner.
Trudging up the steps, she looked across the wide cement porch to a swing hanging from two fat chains secured to the bead-board ceiling. As far back as she could remember, her mother had rocked forward and backward in that swing every spring, summer, and fall evening, until one day she stopped, her mind no longer able to lead her to pleasure. Now the swing sat idle, skeletal slats, no breath of movement, a ghostly reminder.
Bryony tapped on the wooden door, inserted her key to unlock the knob, and stepped into low light and a blaring television. Her father, sporting one-day whiskers, lay on the couch in his robe.
Stale air assailed her nose. Bryony opened the front door wider.
“What are you doing?” her father growled, pulling his robe tighter. “It’s freezing out there.”
She fanned a few times before shutting the door. “When’s the last time you had any fresh air?”
Her father turned back to the game show, where the announcer cracked jokes at people dressed in costumes.
Bryony stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the coffee table.
Her father threw a dirty look her way. “Can’t see through you, Bry. Will you kindly move?” His voice dripped acid.
What was happening to her father? Never nice to her in the past, his behavior had been gruff and unfriendly, but now he spewed hate. Fear gripped her stomach.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” She felt lost.
“What do you mean, ‘What’s wrong?’” He threw off the afghan covering his legs, again pulled the robe tight around his middle, and stood.
Pale white skin covered the bones of his spindly legs. How much weight had he lost? Wrapped up in her mother’s final days, Bryony had missed her father’s sharp decline. She froze inside as guilt settled over grief like a frosty shroud.
“Are you eating, Daddy?”
He pinched his face until his eyes were slits. “What’s it to you?” he mumbled, and turned to lumber toward the downstairs bathroom.
Dust covered the coffee table. An empty glass, the bottom dry, sat beside a box of fresh tissues. A paper bag with used tissues sat on the floor. At least he arranged for a proper way to handle his trash. She picked up the bag and carried it to the kitchen, where the visual shock forced a verbal burst of, “Oh my gosh!”
Soiled dishes covered every surface. A foot-high stack of newspapers climbed up from the stove’s burners. Dazed, she opened the refrigerator. Deep green mold covered the end of an orange cheese bar. A bowl of something gray and bubbly grew white fuzz.
Her father appeared at her side.
“Oh, Daddy,” she said. “How do you live like this?”
“What do you care?” he asked. “If you’d move back in and do what you’re supposed to do, I wouldn’t have to live like this.”
Her brain worked to reassemble coherent thought.
He pulled out a chair and sat down hard. “What else do you have to do? You don’t have a family.”
