I tell her thatI miss her and that my dad and I are planning on a mellow nightjust watching TV. As much as I want to see Katie, I’m a bitrelieved when she tells me that she’s going to give dad and I anight alone. Besides, I’m still not feeling myself yet.
Dad lies on oneend of the couch, and I sit on the other with his legs resting onmy lap. We watch Road to Rio then Road to Morocco, starring BingCrosby and Bob Hope, laughing our asses off through both. Duringthis time with Dad, I forget about everything bad that’s happeninglately. I have the best night ever. When the news comes on, Dadsits up and says he’s tired and is heading to bed.
“I’m doing thesame thing,” I say, getting up to hug him.
“Thanks for agreat day, he says while we hug. “Before we go to bed, I have afavor to ask,” he adds, letting me go. “Will you take me somewherein the morning?”
“Where?”
“You’ll see,”he says, smiling, then he walks out of the room.
I hear him shutthe bedroom door, as I walk to the guest room and change into along t-shirt. When I grab my dirty clothes and go to carry them tothe hamper in the hall closet, I see my dad in the bathroomstanding in front of the sink taking pills. In just the short timeit took to watch two movies, I briefly forgot. My father isterminally ill.
Lying in bed, Itry not to think about how sick he is. Instead, I try hard to thinkof happy things, my relationship with Katie, how lucky I am to beliving in this apartment and the fact that after Dad is settled,I’ll be going back to work doing a job I like.
* * *
I wake feelingtired because I was disturbed by my father getting out of bedmultiple times throughout the night. A couple of times I heard himin the bathroom getting a drink and taking more pills. Because ofhow he hates to be treated like a victim, I never got up and askedif he was ok? I know better. He would say, “Of course, I’m ok. I’mnot an invalid.”
Just as I putmy robe on and go to make coffee, Dad and I enter the hall at thesame time. He looks pale and tired. “Sleep well, Dad?” I say,already knowing the answer.
He forces agrin and nods. I tell him to have a seat while I make coffee.Turning on the news, he asks me if I remember that I agreed to takehim somewhere this morning?
“Yes, Iremember,” I say, totally forgetting that he had asked me.
* * *
As we drivethrough the city, Dad navigates and tells me when to turn left orright. We drive through Stanley Park and over the Lionsgate bridge.I focus on the road instead of remembering how Tank and the otherknuckle dragger brought Slinky and I here. I’m relieved when we areoff the bridge and away from the park. We decide to pick up abreakfast bagel when we see a Tim Horton’s drive-thru. Dad spots asmall convenience store and tells me to pull over. After I eat mybagel and wait for a few moments, he returns with a small bouquet.My heart lightens and I smile. My father has never bought meflowers before. He gets in the truck and puts the flowers in theback seat. I pretend not to see them.
Pointing at asign on the side of the road, Dad tells me to follow Marine Driveto Taylor Way then turn on Upper Levels Highway. We travel someways before he tells me to turn right on Mathers Avenue. I wonderhow he knows West Vancouver, one of the ritziest areas of the lowermainland. When I was young, my parents never brought me over here.Everything was too expensive and we were always bone broke. Theroad is lined with tall trees on either side. After driving on thequiet street for a while, the trees start to space out and revealmassive lawns on both sides, kind of reminding me of a flat golfcourse.
“Take thatlittle road,” Dad says, pointing to the right.
When I slowdown and turn in, I see a sign that says Capilano View Cemetery.Instantly, I feel a sharp pain in my diaphragm and my throattightens, “Dad, what the hell is this?” I say, looking at him. Buthe doesn’t hear me. He just stares out the front window like he’ssearching for something.
“Dad. Answerme, is this where Mom is?” I say elevating my now shaky voice.
“Yes,” his eyesstill staring forward, “Abby is here too.”
“Abby is heretoo? She’s buried with Mom?” I say, tears streaming from myeyes.
I’ve never seenwhere they are buried. When my mom died, my grandmother told methat she didn’t know where my mother was laid to rest. And afterAbby drowned, Grandma told me that her ashes were spread over thepond where she died. I was too young to question it. Since then,whenever Mom or Abby enter my mind, I try hard to stop thinkingabout them, it hurts too much. Now, here I am, sitting with myterminally ill dad in a graveyard where my mom and little sisterare buried. My heart feels overwhelmed with grief.
I step on thebrakes and stop in the middle of the lane. “Dad, have you been herebefore?”
“Yes, when Ihad to go for initial testing at the hospital for my tumor. I madefriends with one of the guards who drove me. He brought me up herea couple of times—unbeknownst to the other bulls in the pen. “
“Bulls in thepen?”
“Yeah, bullsare guards and the pen is the penitentiary,” he says, turning hisattention back to the grounds.
“Over there,”he says pointing. “Jean and Abby are over there.”
He motions toan area in the center of the yard. There are no roadways to getcloser than where we are now, so Dad reaches in the back and grabsthe flowers and opens the door, “You comin?” he asks, somberly.
“I can’t.”
He nods andgets out, closing the door behind him. A shiver runs up my spine,as he slowly makes his way toward the graves. I watch him, as hetries
