Monica Holloway - Driving with Dead People: A Memoir

Its 2006. Im out of the worst of it, but it was in no way a happily ever after ending. It couldnt be. Its been the steepest climb to where I am now.

I live in Los Angeles with my beloved husband, Matthew, and my precious son, Aidan. JoAnn lives three blocks from us in California. She carries the scars, not just on her arms and hands but in her bones, in her life. We both do.

I think of JoAnn and how comfortable her life is nowhow having her close by comforts me. Last week I was dropping Aidan off at her office. When we pulled up, she was already standing beside her little red sports car, impeccably dressed, talking to three colleagues. Aidan jumped out, anxious to show Aunt Jo a rock hed found. She squeezed him tight, both of them smiling. They are the best of friends.

Becky has never come forward or tried to analyze her place in all of it. Thats absolutely her right. It flipped my life completely upside down, but I would tell anyone that it was worth coming out the other side. I might not be completely free of my past, but Im no longer paralyzed by it.

Its impossible for me to see Becky, who is still living in denial. I dont want things to be the way they were, and she can only (unconsciously) repeat what was.

Jamie is gone. I have no idea where. But he cant be part of my life as long as hes drinking and violent. Ive had enough of violence and deceit. Still, the thought of Jamie can bring me instantly to tears. Whenever I hear Neil Young, I immediately think of him sitting on the floor of the condo in San Diego, his brown head bent over his acoustic guitar, strumming The Needle and the Damage Done, as he sings quietly, I caught you knockin at my cellar door. And thats it, really; its the damage done.

Ill always be damaged in a way. I had hoped that I could completely heal those cracks, but Im starting to think the real trick is learning to live a full life in spite of them. Cracked people are everywhere, and so I can forgive myself for being overly anxious or easily frightened. But I will no longer allow myself to be swallowed by my past. I insist on having the happiest life I can muster, and I am in control of that now.

I dont see Dad. Ive had no contact with him since the not a dime birthday call fourteen years ago.

Actually, there was one communication, but it was indirect.

Six years ago Julie Kilner was visiting me in Los Angeles and, having no idea what had happened to our family, turned to me and said, I ran into your dad last week. I held my breath. I asked him how you girls were, and he said, As far as I know, they arent dead yet.

I was caught off guard by how much this disturbed me. I must have unconsciously fantasized that Dad was sorry for all hed done. Instead, he wished us dead.

I clicked open my cell phone and dialed 1-800-flowers. I ordered a fifty-dollar bouquet to be sent to my dads address at Lake Hiawatha on Fathers Day, which was one week away. When the operator asked me what to put on the card, I didnt hesitate:

Dear Dad,

I miss you every day.

Love,

Monica

I would jog his memory of who we used to beremind him of all hed screwed upso if someone asked about me, maybe he wouldnt say, Shes not dead yet. Maybe hed remember and say nothing at all. Maybe hed remember that I loved him a long time ago, loved him despite everything else, and wanted him to love me too. And that was where it all beganand ended.

Im driving through Elk Grove, surprised to be back in Ohio after so many years. I came back to find the newspaper records of Sarah Keelers accident, to visit the Kilners, and to officially say good-bye to homenot the people, the place.

Driving past the empty lot where Dads store should have been, and a huge CVS drugstore in place of Conroys Pharmacy, I wonder whats left of me here.

Im staying at the Holiday Inn Express out near the hospital where I spent the night with my kidney infection in high school. The hotel is new and Im the only guest. Its strange to be in my hometown in a hotel, and stranger still to be the only occupant.

I drive to Galesburg to see my old house. As I head into town, past Wandas farm, Im stunned to see the gigantic maple trees that lined our street are gone. Galesburg is now three blocks of small houses in the middle of a flat, leafless field.

The biggest shock is our house. Its empty with a FOR SALE sign stuck in waist-high grass. The windows are broken and theres a deep sag in the worn roof. A dead plant hangs from a dirty white plastic hanger on the front porch, where the blue paint is peeling and the porch swing dangles by one rusty chain. The shrubs surrounding the house have been pulled.

I turn into the driveway that is now a crumble of cement, gravel, and dirt, and Im suddenly the kid who wet the bed and rode my bicycle up to the cemetery to see the sunken grave. My knees might as well have scrapes and bruises on them for how young I feel.

I walk to the backyard where our climbing trees once grew. There are no trees at all, except for the small maple we planted in the west corner when I was nine, the year my hip was dislocated. That tree is now grotesquely huge, reminding me how long Ive been gone, and Sarah Keeler longer still. It doesnt seem possible that that much time has passed, but the wrinkles across the tops of my hands tell me otherwise.

The white rail fence in the back is gone now, allowing Whitmores field to spill into the backyard. Nothing separates one from the other. Standing back there, I can see Alton Cottermans old house. His rusty metal glider, from where he fired all those shots, is still sitting on his back patio. He died more than eleven years ago.

I walk toward our house and check the doorstheyre locked. No one locked houses when I lived here. We didnt even own a key. The danger was inside, not out.

I push my head through an opening in one of the broken windows. Theres maroon paint randomly splashed across the dining room walls and an old box spring lying on the floor. In Jamies room green wallpaper has been ripped off the walls and hangs in jagged strips. Theres shattered glass on the faded red carpet where he worked on his model cars.

I walk around to the front porch and peek in through another broken window, where I see the living room. Ive never seen my house without our furniture. Mom moved out long after I was gone.

What happened here? I wonder, scanning the overgrown trash-riddled front yard. But I know what happened. Theres just no pretty facade to hide it now.

I move to the front sidewalk and look across the street at the Galesburg Methodist Church. It looks exactly the same. The stained glass window with Jesuss face is visible from where Im standing. I still miss the Sunday mornings when, for forty minutes, we sat as a family and sang We Gather Together in unison. We didnt know, sitting in our Sunday best, that for reasons too tragic to imagine we would not end up together.

I climb into my Hertz rental and drive around the block. Someone is living in Mammaw and Papaws old house. I wonder if the root cellar under the pantry is still there.

On down the street, I notice that Grandas trailer, like Granda, is gone. Granda died with my arms wrapped around her tiny failing body. I held her gently but firmly just as shed held me throughout my childhood. I helped Dave Kilner lift her carefully onto the stretcher in her white short-sleeved nightgown and cover her with the black velvet drape embroidered in red. I stood in the snow without my coat, watching them drive away together.

The garage where she killed her cat still stands. It looks run-down and unsteady. I feel like kicking it over.

Down the street I see the blinker light still flashing, and the Galesburg Tavern, which is not only still in business but has a sign nailed to the front door that reads KARAOKE EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT. Uncle Ernie quit drinking years ago and died suddenly last year of a heart attack. So I know hes not in there.