Lisa Goich - 14 Days: A Mother, A Daughter, A Two Week Goodbye

A S A V I O R E P U B L I C B O O K

Day 1

D E C E M B E R 1 1

Dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh...

I thought burning my toast was going to be the worst thing that happened today. It wasnt just the fact that the toast was burnt, it was the last two pieces of bread in the package. I had no backup plan. While my dad sat at the kitchen table eating his oatmeal, and my dog Angie sat on the floor at his side waiting for table scraps, I tossed the bread in the garbage and cursed my brother under my breath for distracting me with his phone call. My first full day back in my hometown of Warren, Michigan wasnt starting on a high note. My parents toaster was half to blame. Because the toaster didnt turn off on its own, toasting required staring at the bread through the red-hot slots and, when it looked like it was browned, manually pushing the button to pop it out. My mom and dad never felt the need to get a new toaster. When youre eighty-five and eighty-nine respectively, I guess watching things cook isnt that big of a deal. What else have you got to do? They could see their TV from the kitchen, so while the bread was browning theyd have one finger on the button and one eye on Good Morning America in the other room.

Perhaps if my brother Richard didnt call with an urgent message to get to the hospital Now! I wouldnt have started this Sunday with a grumbling stomach and a bug up my butt. My mom had been admitted to the hospital two days prior after a fall at the kidney dialysis center left her unable to walk. I had gone straight from the airport to the hospital the evening before after arriving in Detroit from Los Angeles. My dad and I planned on a leisurely morning at home before joining my mom again at her bedside. Obviously leisurely wasnt in the plans today and there was some news my brother chose not to share with my dad and me over the phone, but insisted we hear in person. Thats never good. It seems to be status quo in my family. No one tells anyone anything for fear of upsetting them. People in our family have gone in and out of hospitals, have had strokes, heart attacks and cancer, have gone through chemo and remission, all before other family members were told about it. She doesnt need to worry, theyd say in hushed tones, putting their index finger to their lips. My mom had a tumor and eighteen inches of her colon removed five years earlier and was home healing before my niece even knew she was sick. Shes sensitive, they say. So they keep the bad stuff from her, hoping shell never find out.

But today, while my brothers urgent Now! lingered in the air, I would soon be in on the secret.

Are you ready? asked my dad, already standing at the back door with his keys in hand.

Am I ready? Do I look ready? I asked, motioning down the length of my body to my pajamas and bare feet. Give me five minutes, I added, and went back into my bedroom.

I heard my dad let out a big huff as he jingled his keys in his gloved hands, obviously frustrated that he couldnt leave right away.

My parents always had a way of guilting me into not being late. They were never late. Ever. My mom packed for vacations a week before she was leaving. The airport? Shed leave seven hours ahead of takeoff, just in case.

So today, as my dad stood in the doorway with his coat on muttering under his breath, I hurriedly threw on the same clothes I wore on the plane the day before, tossed my little dog, Angie, into her carrier bag, pulled a baseball cap over my frizzy curls and headed back into the family room.

Okayyyyy... lets go, I said, rolling my eyes, feeling more like a fifteen-year-old than a woman on the brink of fifty.

As my dad pressed the button to the left on the wall, next to his Parking For Serbians Only! sign, the electric door lifted and the morning sun poured into the garage, followed by a biting gust of wind and a swirl of snow. It had started snowing about an hour earlier and a blanket of white had accumulated on the driveway. The wind whipped the trees and tossed the snowflakes, reminding me why I left this northern climate sixteen years ago. Living in Los Angeles for more than a decade, I rarely ventured home to Michigan in the winter. I dont ski, Im not a fan of winter sports and I have spent far too many hours on airplanes warding off panic attacks waiting for planes to de-ice before taking off. Detroit was far more appealing to me in May than it was in December.

I buckled Angies carrier into the back seat then climbed into the passenger side of my dads Jeep Liberty SUV. This was my moms side of the car and it seemed odd that I was sitting there and not in the back seat with my dog. Dad in the drivers seat. Mom in the passenger seat. Kids in the back seat. Isnt that the way it always was and always should be? I stared at my moms used tissue wadded up in the cup holder and got a foreboding sadness as my dad turned the key to the Jeeps ignition. My dada loyal Chrysler employee even twenty-five years post-retirementonly drove Chrysler products. We rarely mention my Toyota Prius around him. It inevitably brings up lectures of The Japs and World War II and buying American and recessions and depressions. Id rather talk about the fuel efficiency, but hell have nothing of it.

As my dad backed down the driveway, the Liberty dovetailed a bit as he shifted from reverse to drive when he reached the street. We headed toward the freeway, the main streets slick from the new-fallen snow. I forgot how nerve-wracking it was to be in a car with my dad. At eightynine, he drove like a sixteen-year-old boy. Revving up to speeds about twenty miles over the speed limit, he has always had a habit of racing to the car in front of him, then slamming on his brakes just as he was about to make contact with the cars rear bumper. This day was no different. Each time hed speed and stop, my feet inevitably found their way to the dashboard, pushing down hard as the red lights in front of us grew closer. My hand clutched the handle above the passenger door and I could feel my fingernails burrowing into my palm, anticipating the moment of impact that we miraculously missed every time. I knew better than to say anything. My dad wasnt a fan of backseat drivers and never took to criticism of his automotive handling skills very well. Perhaps thats a cockiness one develops after building cars for thirty-plus years.

Trying to keep my mind off the drivingand the Now! that awaited us at the hospitalI attempted to strike up a conversation with my dad that would bring both of our minds to a different place. Talking to my dad one-on-one was always a very stilted venture. Most of our conversations during my life took place with my mom as a go-between. A sort of translator between the two of us. When I would call home, and my dad answered the phone, before I could even get out a hello, hed say, Heres your mother, and hand her the phone. We never had much to talk about, I guess. And that morning wasnt any different.

Soooooo... I said, drawing out the word so, hoping that it would trigger a topic, or at least six or eight more words to complete a full sentence. I see they remodeled the Taco Bell, pointing to the fast-food restaurant our family frequented often.

My dad, just as awkward in his response said, Yeah, its been a couple years now. Your mother likes Taco Bell. She likes those chalupas. Thats some good Mexican food, that Taco Bell.

Those chalupas are good, I added, wishing we could actually pull through the drive-thru and order a couple.

Before moving to California, Taco Bell was the only Mexican food I had ever eaten. Warren, Michigana suburb of Detroitisnt known for its ethnic diversity. Nor its culinary dining experiences. With restaurants with names like J. Edgars On Hoover, it was a buffalo wings and meat and potatoes kind of town. Blue-collar cuisine. Dinner rolls presented in plastic baggies. Three-dollar breakfast specials.