The Last Cadillac (2 page)

As the days ticked on, I became more frustrated, trying to save Dad from my brother and sister, and the pills. Amitriptyline (according to the label), stated, “use in elderly is associated with increased risk, and safer alternatives may be available.” That one added to Dad's confusion—and mine. The next pill, Prozac, didn't work. Yet, the doctor put him back on it. Paxil was another loser. It made him more restless than ever. But Melaril was the star of them all. Dad seemed worse than ever on that one.

In desperation, I called my cousin, Chuck, the pharmacist, when I found out Julia had steered Dad to that pill.

“My God, Nancy, why are they giving him Melaril? Is it that bad? That's what they give them at the end when they want them to sit there and be vegetables.”

The drug made him fall down and wet himself, and he didn't know his children—except for me, whom he called “the old bitch.” He called me that under the influence of the pills I hated, because I kept after him to remember things and go to the bathroom, and to try. Try, Dad. Try, try, try. I was the cheerleader of my dad. I believed he could do better
if he tried harder. I did manage to get him off that pill, for starters, and I forced him to remember things, quizzed him, encouraged him daily.

One day I cornered Julia in the kitchen where she was arranging her mini-pharmacy in a cabinet next to the fridge. She shuffled a frightening array of pills in all colors. Then and there, I wondered, Does baby blue make you feel better than happy yellow?

“You know, Julia, the medication just doesn't do it for Dad.” I tried to speak evenly, but it was a stretch.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” she said. “There are wonderful things being done in research and development …”

“I don't care what they're doing in research and development, damn it!” So much for nonchalance. “Dad's not a mouse in a laboratory.”

She shut the cabinet with a click. Everything she did had that definite, soft click to it. Her remarks. Her kitten heels. Her clipped bureaucratic speech, which was incomprehensible half the time. She huffed away, which had become our way ending every conversation. At one time, we had almost been friends, but the death of our mother was hard on us in all ways, and there were losses at every turn.

I nosed around in the kitchen pharmacy for a clue about the pill experiment, but it all looked like Greek to me—except for the disturbing side effects that were written in English. For some reason, every person who had the remotest connection to the health care industry advised taking a pill, especially when a hint of depression entered the picture.

Dad wasn't depressed. He was grieving! The pills—those tiny little dots that represented control of Dad—moved around between my sister and me. In my own mind, I was
convinced I could get a saner, happier, still-funny Dad without pills. I wanted to find some of the old Dad left in there, but the pills were anesthetizing him out of his mind.

I started weaning him off pills with a flush of the toilet, along with the help of the doctor, whom I finagled to see alone about the pill problem. Fortunately, Julia had a fulltime job in Minneapolis, so I had days on end without her starting Dad on yet another pill.

Eventually, Dad seemed clearer, and better physically, in part, because of the new prescription: a regular diet, less medication, and more exercise, thanks to Stan, the therapist. But I had to face the fact that all of my efforts might fall apart while I went off on “The Adventure.” The thought squashed my excitement for a new start, flat.

Dad had come to rely on me. Sometimes we didn't even talk. I brought him a coffee, or, fixed the remote for the television, or steered him off to the bathroom, or to a nap. When we were together, we were like two wheels going forward on automatic, and it was becoming clear that it would be difficult to leave him alone up in Indiana.

Besides the worrisome pill-taking, I wondered who would cook for him? Drive him around? Hug him on a regular basis? If left alone, he wouldn't open a can of soup. The only thing I ever saw him make was oatmeal, and the last time that happened I was about twelve. I asked myself how he could go on living in the condo, near the golf course he could no longer use, while the rain and snow brought on one gloomy day after another? Here it was late June, and it was just as gloomy and grey as February.

To top all, Dad and I were smoking. I looked over at him. He had a large cigarette burn in his jacket near the zipper. His clothes were beginning to look as ventilated as a Swiss cheese,
and I wasn't helping any by bringing him the cigarettes. We had lapsed into this miserable habit together, especially when Mom got sicker and sicker. It was temporary relief, but it made no sense at all. The smoking had to stop. Change was certainly in order.

I crumpled the empty pack of Marlboro Lights into a wet ball. It was about time to go in and dry off. I resigned myself to the family meeting.
Que será.
But first I needed fortification, perhaps a vodka tonic, or something of that nature. I checked my watch to see if it was five o'clock. The time, however, was of minor consideration. While I had problems with certain aspects of medication, my self-medication with vodka didn't bother me at all.

I tried once more. “Dad, talk to me.”

Nothing seemed forthcoming.

I waited. We each grew damper and damper. We couldn't sit out there much longer. The dampness was actually becoming a health hazard.

“Dad, what do you want to do … you know … now that Mom's gone? We have to talk about it, Dad, and they will all be over here soon.”

“I don't know. My heart is broken.” His shoulders shook a little, and he slouched into his chair.

“Yes, I know.” Really, I had no idea what he was going through, as close as we were. In my own marriage, I hadn't even made it to the halfway mark of his fifty-two years with Mom.

“I'll just go away,” he said. “Yes. I think I'll just go away.”

“Go away?”

“What?” He looked as far away as the next planet.

“Where are you going? Dad! What are you talking about?”

The rain started up again, and this time it was relentless—a
cold, hard soaker. It made me shiver with a new shade of cold. I was afraid he wanted to lie down and die now that Mom was gone. But that wasn't it at all.

“I'm going with you.” His voice was strong. “I'm going to Florida with my Nancy.” He sat up straight in his chair and reached for my hand again.

Then, just as quick as lightening, I knew what he'd been ruminating about. His face lit up like the sun on the beach.

I was stunned.

Now what?

“What?” Jack said.

“You're going where?!” said Julia. “DAD?”

Lucy stood at the dining room table with her arms folded across her chest. One painted nail tapped an elbow, but she didn't say a word. Her mouth was screwed into a remark that seemed stuck and wouldn't come out.

“I said—I'm going to Florida with Nancy and the kids.”

“Well, that's just ridiculous,” said Jack. “No way in hell that's going to happen.” He threw his coat on the dining room chair. I rolled my eyes. A new Burberry.

Jack stomped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I could see him across the counter that divided off the dining room. His face broke into angry lines as he bent forward and pushed cans and bottles noisily around the shelves. He pulled out a Bud, popped it open, and took a swig, nearly draining the can.

“Great,” I called after him. “That's real helpful, Jack.”

He turned around and glowered at me, then slammed the fridge door. He finished the beer and kept looking at me like I'd kicked him. I stood up, hands planted on the table. Like
a feral cat, I felt like springing at him. But that wouldn't take the look off his face. At this point, nothing I could do would change that. So, I yelled. “What the hell did I do to you? This was not my idea, you know.”

He looked stunned. They all did. Even Dad, whose eyes got round, then crinkled at the corners. He reached for my hand. No one said a word, for once.

Dad's announcement had totally shocked me, too. Like my siblings, I needed time to sort this out. Clearly, we were all absorbing the news in different ways. My insides clenched. No one asked me how I felt about the prospect of taking Dad to Florida, which was a good thing, given that I probably couldn't have come up with a sane comment.

Jack turned away, and I sank back into my vodka tonic. Julia and Lucy leaned over Dad, hovering like parentheses. What did Dad's care mean to them? Of course they cared about Dad. They just weren't there with him as much I was. Julia was in Minneapolis, although she used her invisible umbrella as Nurse Poppins frequently. Lucy was busy chasing juicy, young men all over Chicago. Dad ignored my sisters while Julia plucked at his collar and Lucy kneaded his shoulder. He stole a peek at me. I smiled back at him.

The girls kept at it, ignoring me, all the while I felt Jack's cold stare. Dad removed himself from the situation by concentrating on the ceiling. My father usually had a good sense of timing, but this? You have to pick the moment, he'd say. He had certainly done that.

I decided to let my siblings flap awhile until they ran down, even though that probably wasn't going to happen.

Finally, I said, “You're poking him.”

“We're not poking,” said Lucy. “Right, Dad?” My sister had big teeth that gave her an uncharacteristic savagery when
she was excited. I had the feeling she was mad at me, too; that Dad's announcement was my wrongdoing. I pressed my hands to my face. I felt defensive—which was not good. I knew myself too well. It would only make me drink more. It would only make me angrier.

Jack walked across the dining room with another beer. “Crap. Florida.” He sat down at the table and slammed the Bud on the table, causing a plop of foam to shoot from the can and make a puddle.

“Are you going to clean that up?” I said, somewhat peevishly.

“You clean it up,” he said. “You're the one making a mess.”

I set my teeth on edge and tried to control my irritation. Our little family conference was clearly off to an unproductive start, but I suddenly felt this burst to make some headway, despite my anger smothering anything productive that might grow out of this.

“Jack, you know how much he likes Florida. You shouldn't be so surprised,” I said, feeling very surprised myself. “Maybe he should go.”

Jack looked right through me. How did it happen that he had such a short memory? Or, did he just remember what he wanted to remember? He loved Florida, too. They all loved Florida. I know they did, because I was there with them when they did.

Then, suddenly, Julia exploded. “You can't do this!” Her neck glowed with red splotches, a sure sign she was upset. That hadn't changed in the forty-odd years she'd been my little sister.

“Me?” I tried to be level, but outrage kept bubbling up. Modulate, I told myself. Breathe deeply and try not to leave the room, never to return. We all had certain buried feelings,
and now, unfortunately, they were unburied, like zombies shooting out of their graves. We hardly looked like the loving group we'd been when we grew up together, when our parents encouraged us to “love one another.” But with the death of our mother, half of that very influential glue was gone.

“He's not going to Florida with you,” Jack said.

Julia was nodding like a bobblehead.

“It's settled,” he added, as his eyes darted from face to face.

For the moment, quiet was the only thing that settled in the room. We all sipped our drinks, inebriation being part of solving our problems.

Jack was used to giving orders, and, he was used to getting his way. And, as always, he was consistent. If things didn't run smoothly for him, the result was instant crankiness. He didn't like to quibble over the annoying inconveniences of life. Instead, his focus was on the tennis game ahead.

“No, Jack, nothing is settled,” I said, finally, choking on the air that hung in the room. “I didn't say that Dad is not going with me. He just told me not ten minutes ago that he wants to go to Florida with me. I have to think about it. I guess we should all think about it, don't you? Or do you ever think, Jack?”

He didn't seem to hear me. He abruptly turned away, the chair skidding across the tile, and his head was in the refrigerator again.

I glanced at Lucy. She'd been fairly silent, but now she moved closer to Dad and shook his arm gently. He paid little attention. He tapped his cane up and down and occasionally reached for me. I wanted to hold onto him, and at the same time, I wanted to get out of there.

We often argued, but this was something new. I was unprepared for their “over” reactions, but I realized that it
didn't matter. This family did little preparation of any sort. We just fell into the next drama and let it take over. Lucy's face contorted into an expression I hadn't seen since high school when she played Myrtle opposite Harvey, the invisible rabbit.

“Dad, we just lost our mom,” she said. “Now we're going to lose our dad?”

He patted Lucy's hand and sipped his “special” martini. It was mostly ice, water, and lemon, upon which I floated a quarter ounce of vodka. Today I'd added an extra capful to make it just a bit stronger than usual.

“Lucy, you are not losing me. I'm not about to be put into the ground. Not yet anyway.”

“But if you go to Florida, when will we ever see you?”

Dad kept patting Lucy. He worked his way up her arm to her head while she still peered into his face. “You come and visit me sometime in Florida. That would be nice.”

I wondered about that. With all of our jobs and kids, the year had been a struggle to keep up with our parents. Florida might be a dream, not just for me and my kids, but for everyone. Jack loved tennis, particularly the courts in Mexico and Hawaii. There were plenty in Florida, dozens in Sarasota County where he had reciprocity with the country clubs. The idea of taking Dad with me started to make some sense. Maybe the attraction would nudge Jack into visiting his father; Poppins could employ her umbrella; and Lucy could bring along one of her beach-boy toys.