It’s 3 am, and there is a full moon. My headlights shine on a sign that says Pinehill Park as I slowly turn into the retirement community. My parents live just three driveways down on the left. I’ve made this drive many times, but this time it feels different.
This park is full of older model single wide trailers that have been well maintained. The park is immaculate. The grass is always freshly cut, not a single leaf or branch left on the green spaces. The landscaping is simple and clean. Not one weed in the flower beds. The road is so narrow it looks like a cart path, but they have it paved every other year, so it always looks new.
My parents’ van is parked underneath a white metal carport that covers their spotless concrete driveway. There are multi-colored tulips perfectly spaced in a line up to the trailer entrance. The white accent shutters on either side of each exterior window of the trailer and the crisscross lattice underpinning stand out in the moonlight. It contrasts with the red of the trailer, which makes it look like a quaint little cottage in daylight.
I can see, by the number of cars parked haphazardly in the yard, that my brother is here and my sister too. There are a few other cars here that I don’t recognize and a police car. Parking on the grass in this community is a no-no, so I’m sure we will hear from the HOA manager tomorrow morning. There are so many rules in this place. It breaks my heart for my parents to live here. This place is a stark opposite of where I grew up and how my parents liked to live.
I grew up on five-acres of rolling land, in a white, five-bedroom ranch-style house that had a craftsman’s style foundation of round river rock. It sat about half a football field length away from the creek that was 50 feet wide and knee deep all the way across. Then there was our secret place, a deep swimming hole down behind the neighbor’s barn that we called Big Bend.
We would have picnics out by the creek in the summer evenings where Dad would play his guitar while my mom would make Flaming Cherries Jubilee on the campfire. It was always a big production. Right before they would serve the dessert, my dad would light the cherries while they were still in the pan, and we would always be in awe at the blue flame from the brandy.
We had a tube rental business and would give tourists a ride up to the entrance of the Great Smokies Mountains National Park so they could tube all the way back to our house and not have to go get their cars at the park. We would meet all kinds of people from all over the world. Occasionally, my parents would invite people to camp out by the creek. Many summer nights, we would watch the glow of the fire light while my sister and I roasted marsh mellows and the adults would drink pony Miller Lite beer or brandy as my dad played guitar and sang. We never had to worry about noise or if someone was watching us through their window blinds like my parents were subject to in this retirement community.
Nosey-ass neighbors. Why did my parents ever decide to move here?
All the lights are on inside. I park and walk in the front door. As soon as I walk in, I smell something oddly sweet that I can’t quite place. It is a smell I am unfamiliar with, but later realize, I will never forget. It creeps into my nose, and it gets stronger the further I go in.
As I walk down the narrow hallway, I can see at the other end of the trailer, in the living room, a man I don’t recognize, talking to my mother. She is sitting in my dad’s recliner, and the man is sitting in a chair beside her, leaning toward her, asking her questions. She looks dazed.
As I continue down the narrow hallway, I look to my left and the first thing I see is my father’s bare feet. They are crossed, left over right, and look relaxed. They are unusually pale.
I don’t know if I have ever seen my dad’s feet without shoes on.
As I move forward, the rest of my dad’s body is slowly revealed. He is on his back, his mouth gaping open, his eyes closed, he has a small amount of dried blood in his mustache, just below both nostrils.
So little blood.
It looks like his hands have been placed on his chest. There are two bath towels, the length of his body, neatly folded on the floor beside him.
Why are those there?
On the dryer, there is a hand-written note, a pen, a small bent nail, a hammer, and several unopened bottles of morphine. He is emaciated. He doesn’t look like himself. He has a small, clean bullet hole in the back of his right ear. No exit wound.
I am out on the covered back porch now, sitting with my sister. The door is open, and we can see into the living room. It is a warm July night. Time has stopped. A uniformed policeman, with a note pad, is interviewing my brother. They must investigate to ensure there wasn’t foul play. My brother is talking and gesturing with his arms, turning left, then right, pointing in the laundry room. His eyes are squinted, trying to remember his steps. The policeman is nodding, staring at him while he talks. The officer is my son’s swim coach.
This is so weird.
I can hear my brother tell the officer, “He put a nail in the wall behind the pocket door so you couldn’t slide the door open. When I was finally able to wedge the door open, I saw my dad was lying on the floor near the toilet with a belt around his neck. He slipped it through the door handle of the closet and put it around his neck just high enough that he was hanging. The first thing I did was take that belt off his neck. Then I saw the gun.
My brother is in disbelief, “I think he had the belt around his neck as a backup in case the shot didn’t kill him.”
It has been thirty minutes since I arrived and I feel like I am underwater, but somehow, I’m still breathing. Everyone’s speech is muffled.
My sister says, “I called the Anatomy Gifts Registry. The ambulance will take him to the funeral home, and they will send someone to pick him up in the morning.”
I nodded. She said, “I thought you would be crying.”
I asked, “Why did you think that?”
She said, “You were crying when Dad was in the emergency room last week.”
I said, “Yeah, because he was in pain, but he’s not suffering anymore.”
My poor mother looks so sad, but she is not crying. Shock looks weird on a person. It’s hard to recognize. I can see it now on her face. Her skin is a different color. Her face is drooping. It looks like she has aged 10 years in one night. Any move she makes is slow and methodical, like she is in slow motion. Later it will be hard to recognize that she is grieving because it will manifest itself in spending most of the money she and my dad had in savings.
The love of her life is gone. She keeps saying that she heard him get up and go to the bathroom. She said he wasn’t sleeping much because of the pain. She got up and made some coffee, in case he needed her. This had been their routine since he was diagnosed with lung cancer six months before. She said she heard what she thought was a broom falling and smacking on the floor. She went to check on him and the door wouldn’t open. She called my brother.
My brother is outside on the porch with us now. He says, “When I was here yesterday, I saw the gun. Dad was showing me something and he opened the drawer in the laundry room, and I saw the gun. I wonder if he was trying to tell me what he was planning.” He looks sad. Worn out. “I should have taken it.”
The ambulance and preacher are here now. The preacher is hovering around grasping his bible. My father was an atheist, so I want to tell the minister to “Fuck off,” but I know he means well. My mom sits beside my dad now, on the floor in the laundry room. She knows the EMTs are here to take him, but she takes her time with him. I stand there as a barrier for her.
My mother touches his face and leans forward to give him a kiss on the forehead. She holds up her hand for me to help her up. I take her to the living room as the EMTs go into the laundry room. I follow them outside as they wheel the gurney out with his body strapped in, his whole body wrapped in a white sheet. I can’t take my eyes off him.
This is the last time I will see you, Dad. I love you.
We got a letter from the Anatomy Gifts Registry, a few months later, telling us that the donation of Dad’s body contributed to the education of medical students by allowing them to practice join surgery.
When I walked in the trailer that night, I so desperately wanted to see my dad sitting at the dining room table, healthy again, with my toddler sons on his lap while he read a book to them in his animated and gregarious way. He was a consummate teacher. He would have been happy to know that the last good thing he contributed to in this world was to facilitate learning.