A Life More Complete

---Chapter 32---

When you wake the morning of a life-altering event you hardly know it. Most of the time it’s sprung on you and it’s later that you look back on it and think of the event that impacted you in ways you hope to be able to describe one day. Those are the types of situations that can go one of two ways. Number one: In retelling, the story takes on an ethereal quality. The people are funnier or sadder or happier. It is the romanticized version of what really happened. It will be the version that is told to friends, family, and eventually your grandchildren with animation and extreme highs and lows, but it will be the one that has the outcome of wonder and beauty. Then there’s way number two: Everyone has one of these stories. This is the one where everyone is sadder, the problems bigger; the big scene at the end is literally a scene, better yet a debacle. It isn’t the story you tell to your friends or family and definitely not your grandchildren. It is the story that everyone tells about you, while you cower in the corner.

I pull into the parking lot an hour before the service. The church is nearly silent, an eerie stillness that is disrupted by the sound of the large wooden door closing behind me. The church was built in 1907 and has been beautifully restored. The woodwork a rich, deep brown with all its intricate detail and carvings present make the peaked ceilings appear taller. I’ve never been a religious person, but this church takes my breath away. A small elderly woman in a pillbox hat and a pale purple suit greets me warmly and ushers me into a small waiting area. Her voice is high when she speaks, almost mouse-like.

“Your father will be arriving shortly.” The way this woman says it makes it sound like he’ll be walking through the door. I guess it would sound a bit macabre for her to say that his dead body will be arriving in a wooden box toted by a group of men. She continues even though my thoughts are clearly not following. “You will have some time to say your last good-byes before the casket will be closed and sealed. Will there be other family with you?” she asks.

“My sisters and their husbands should be here soon. I’m not sure about my mother,” I say hearing my voice grow soft.

“I will let them know you are already here when they arrive.” Her voice is kind and she shuffles out of the room, the small hat on her head never shifting with her movement.

Left alone I scan the room for something to do. I suddenly feel the need to occupy my time with something other than taking in the extensive amount of religious statues staring at me. I’m starting to feel like I’m being judged by them and somehow they know I got knocked up before I was married. I whisper out loud, “At least I did the right thing. I’m married now.” After taking one more look at the leaded stained glass window depicting a pregnant Mary, I pull my phone from my purse. I scroll through a few emails and answer some easy questions before reading the statement Melinda issued regarding Trini’s absence from the movie set. The wording is dead on and it sounds as if I wrote it myself. It’s hard to stay mad at her when her work is this impeccable not to mention that she is helping me out. Just as I finish reading the last sentence Rachel and Maizey walk in. Purple suit follows closely behind and begins to prep my sisters as she did me.

“Your father has arrived and will join you shortly.”

Rachel looks back and forth between Maizey and me and says exactly what we’re all thinking. “Um, you mean his body?” Addressing Minnie Mouse in a purple suit with a little too much callousness in her voice. Rachel has always been harsh. It’s her way. She can come across as cold and unfeeling, but I know it is her way of dealing with things she can’t outwardly express. None of us deal with death well. We don’t like death, but in all honesty who does? We don’t do expressive, doleful condolences like some people can.

Purple Suit shakes her head and walks out of the room. When none of us can come up with the words to help us say good-bye to a man we hardly knew, we exit the room and take our requisite seats at the front of church. Sliding down the smooth wooden surface of the church pew, we begin to busy ourselves with any task that requires little attention. The next hour passes like honey in an hourglass, slow and thick.

The church starts to fill, but nowhere near capacity. When the priest begins to speak, it’s as if someone has stuffed my ears full of cotton. I can’t recall a word he says nor am I able to focus on listening. Rachel gives my hand a small squeeze indicating my time has come to deliver my father’s eulogy. As I rise she hands me a small pack of Kleenex, which slips through my fingers and lands with small, soft thud onto the church pew. I won’t need them. This is an homage to someone of very little substance in my life. I place myself in the mindset that this is just like any statement I have ever delivered in my career. Voice even and controlled, completely composed and unwaveringly calm. I place my BlackBerry on the lectern in front of me, looking out onto the six full rows of people in an otherwise massive church I begin.

“For those of you who don’t know me I’m James Mullins eldest daughter, Kristin. His two other daughters Rachel and Courtney survive him in death, too. James married my mother in this church on September 17, 1977. They were high school sweethearts, but unlike the fairy tale image that it conjures up their marriage was anything but. They divorced on May 24, 1987. A father is supposed to be someone a daughter can rely on for comfort, for support, for security, but most of all for love. Unconditional love. Are some people destined to fail as parents? I honestly don’t know. What I do know is my father failed. He failed my mother, my sisters and me. His drug use and his dependency on alcohol never allowed him the opportunity to be a father or a husband. In his defense, becoming a father isn’t like selecting a career. There is no interview for the job, no list of qualifications or an opt out clause at the end. How could he have possibly taken care of a child when he couldn’t take care of himself? For twenty eight years he failed me, but I in turn failed him.”

As I speak that sentence the sound of the heavy wooden church door closing brings my eyes to meet his. He stands at the back of the church holding my gaze for a long second before sliding into the last pew. I can feel the tears begin to fall before I recognize the feeling of weakness taking control of my body. Standing in front of the church openly speaking my feelings makes me far too vulnerable, but I know I can’t stop, not now.

“I failed in more ways than I can begin to describe. I gave up, left him alone as if he didn’t exist and although he was the parent, I could have tried harder. I will miss him for all the wrong reasons. My guilt will be laid to rest with him. There will be no more nightmares, no more sleepless nights or unsaid thoughts. In the end, when I lay my own baby down at night, there will be one thing I learned from my father, what not to do as a parent.” I suck in a quick breath as I attempt to pull myself together. My eyes have been trained on the wooden doors, but I scan the people staring back at me and swallow hard when I find my mother.

“I hope that in death my father can find peace. He led a tortured life and I can only believe that his life and his soul will carry on with peace and solace. But in the end I also say to him, I’m glad you’re gone. Thank you.”

I carefully make my way down the steps of the pulpit as my knees are shaking so intensely that I can’t imagine everyone hasn’t noticed. I collapse into the spot next to Rachel before the tears begin. Falling hard and fast, my chest heaves and a heavy sob escapes my mouth. I am crying not for my father, but for the fact that the whole process has been entirely overwhelming in nature. I lean in close to Rachel and put my head on her shoulder. Her husband Paul reaches around her and rests a comforting hand on my knee. Rachel places her head against mine. I finally whisper the words I didn’t think I could bring myself to emit, “Ben’s here.”

When the service ends and the mourners begin to leave, he’s waiting for me. I go to him willingly, feeling his embrace close around me and for the first time in weeks my body calms from its perpetual state of anxiety. My head resting against his chest nestled under his chin in the place that my body knows far too well.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice hoarse with tears.

“Bob told me.” His reply is muffled as his lips press into my hair with the gentlest of kisses.

“Tyler’s not here. Please don’t ask why.”

“You know I won’t. He obviously has no idea how hard this is for you. When Bob told me I couldn’t let you do it alone.”

“Thank you,” I sniff. “I need to get going. I have to meet my sisters at the cemetery. I don’t want to be late. I’ve already made a fool of myself.”

“Oh, doubt that. Could you give me a lift? I took a cab from O’Hare. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. Sorry about being late; my flight was delayed.”

“Are you sure you want to come?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. I didn’t come for the sights.”

“Maybe later. Come on,” I say as he links his hand with mine and slides the car keys from my palm. He climbs into the driver’s seat and I direct him where to go.

Ben and I meet up with Rachel and Maizey in the front row as my father is laid to rest. It isn’t like you see on television. There is no weeping widow or mournful family. The faces are somber. No one places flowers on the casket or tosses handfuls of dirt as it is lowered into the ground. The crowd disperses quickly after the final reading from the priest. Again we are alone, but this time someone is by my side. Desperate for the feeling of belonging to someone, I cling to what I have with Ben for dear life. He’s not mine and he will never be, but right now I will take what I can get.

As we get ready to leave, I’m inundated with my mother’s presence and before I can bail, she’s upon us.

“Kristin,” she says brusquely. Her lips pressed into a firm straight line as she assesses me with her eyes. “Am I to assume this is your husband?” It’s more of jab than a question. I lack the social prowess that she’s looking for in my absence of an immediate introduction.

“You assume wrong,” I reply jabbing back at her. I would really like to fill her with the line about assuming things, but I keep my mouth shut. “This is a friend of mine.”

“Well, interesting. Are you going to introduce me or should I just stand here and stare at you both?”

Turning to look at Ben I address him, “Ben this is my mother, Kim Borkowski.” My mother in keeping with her feminist views or whatever it was, chose to keep her maiden name. Yet she had no problem giving her children the name of a man she despised. Even during her second marriage to Tom she didn’t change her name. She wanted to keep her autonomy, that was the reasoning she gave Tom, but in my opinion, she never intended to stay, making it easier when it came time to divorce, not to mention the fact that it put some definite distance between her children and her. Strangely enough, I followed this same rule, autonomy, feminist views, scared to commit philosophy when I married Tyler. I didn’t change my name. I rationalized it in my mind at the time that it’s part of who I am, part of my job and changing it would just cause confusion. At least that’s what I said during a particularly heated argument with Tyler as we were filling out the paperwork at the courthouse. To appease him I agreed to hyphenate my last name, but in the end I scrapped that idea and stuck with my maiden name.

I turn to face her and complete my introduction, “Mom, this Ben Torres.”

Ben extends a hand and my mother loosely shakes it and returns her steely gaze to me. “So, why is your husband not present?”

“I think you lost the right to ask personal questions of me when you decided that you didn’t want your children.”

“Oh, I don’t ask because I’m concerned. You should know that. I ask, because the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She chuckles a little and waits for me to answer. This is her game. She baits me and waits until I lose it. She knows I’ll make a scene and in the end she will act appalled at my behavior and walk away looking like the sympathetic mother. Not this time.

“Mom, the act is old and played out. I’m an adult now. It won’t work, especially not here. I’d tell you it was nice to see you, but that would be a lie. Good-bye.”

Pulling Ben toward the car, I leave my mother standing there looking far more shocked than I ever imagined.