Chapter 2
Two
Ali
Ali grew up only a few blocks away from the house she’d just fled. That was the great thing about Old Orchard. Everyone from working class to college professors to young families could find a place there. Manor homes and starter cottages sat side-by-side along the tree-lined sidewalks.
Her childhood home was a three-bed, two-bath bungalow. It was small, especially with three girls jockeying for space in the bathroom. Her dad spent most of his time in the detached garage workshop or at the Union Hall. He always thought the house she and Ted bought in the very same neighborhood was too big and too fancy. But he did admire its bones. And back then the bones were the selling point, it needed work, which was reflected in the price and that was how they afforded their stately home. Her home. The home Ted enjoyed with Star. Ugh. Ali thought back to when her dad visited the first time.
“They don’t make them like this anymore, I’ll give you that,” he’d said as he ran his work-calloused palm over the hard plaster walls when he walked through during the inspection.
Over the years, he’d complimented Ali on her restoration skills with the house. It made her happy that he noticed the care she’d taken to restore, not demolish, the place.
She’d updated it and taken care to make things modern without jettisoning the historic character of the home.
Her childhood home was also stuck in time. But her dad didn’t worry about modernizing at all. It was a time capsule, really. It was fifteen years since her dad had purchased anything new. Instead, he touched up paint when needed and focused on meticulous maintenance. Style? Well, style wasn’t Bruce Kelly’s concern.
Bruce Kelly’s house was in good repair. It was neatly organized, albeit out of date. The kitchen cabinets were from the 70s. Five years ago, Ali would have just said they were ugly. Now, they sort of seemed groovy when compared to the epidemic of white kitchen cabinets. The plain brown flat front paneled cabinets and harvest gold appliances seemed ironic in today’s world. But this place was nothing of the sort. It was their childhood home, décor frozen from the moment their mother died. Bruce kept things in repair and in order, he did not “freshen up the interior design.” She remembered being so embarrassed by the kitchen when she compared it to the homes of her more la dee dah friends. They had mauve and teal and everything new. And of course, it all came back around—even 70s kitsch.
Ali put down her bag in the corner of the breakfast nook.
“Darlene? I’m here. Hope I’m not too late.”
“Ali, you look tired. You sure you don’t want me to call and get a night person to cover?”
“No, just one of those days.” Ali didn’t feel like describing the two scenes that had surely contributed to her frown lines today.
“Hmm, well, we’ve talked about you taking the oxygen mask first, you know?”
“I’m fine, really, how’s he doing?”
Darlene Effler, the hospice nurse, was an angel on Earth, Ali believed. She was shorter than Ali, so maybe just over five feet tall? But she was all muscle, heart, and practical advice.
They’d called her last month when Dad said no more treatment. Ali wished they’d called her two months sooner for all the compassionate care she’d provided to their whole family.
And as her father lay dying, it was Darlene who made it possible to keep him in his home. It was Darlene who knew how to manage his pain. It was Darlene who could see that Ali had had a doozy of a day.
But even Darlene had limits, and it was time for her to head out and for Ali to clock in for her overnight vigil. They’d been managing things in shifts like this for just under two weeks.
“I think we’re down to hours, honey.” Darlene’s warm hand patted Ali’s shoulder.
Ali wanted to cry, accept a hug, and take a shower. But she did none of those things. It felt like letting go of control with a good cry would be akin to a bursting damn. She had her dad to think of, her event at work, her kids, and her little sisters. They all relied on Ali. Ali wasn’t going to fall apart. She didn’t have time.
“You really think tonight?”
“Maybe.”
Darlene was matter-of-fact, and she had answers without histrionics. She understood that Ali didn’t want sentiment. She wanted data. She wanted to know so she could prepare. Darlene had been through this dozens of times, but Ali had not. She appreciated the steady guidance and the angel on Earth that was Darlene Effler of Toledo Loving Hospice.
“I’ll check in with him and then call my sisters to keep them up to speed.”
“Look, you know what to do, right, if he stops breathing, wants medication, anything?”
“You taught me well. Go home.”
“Call me if he passes. I’ll help you through the next bit.”
“Thank you for everything.” This time, Ali squeezed Darlene’s shoulder. So many families owed her so much, Ali realized. She made the worst situation less so.
Ali put her things in her old room, but likely she’d not sleep there tonight. If Darlene’s assessment was accurate, Ali would be sitting bedside, until…well, until whatever.
Bruce Kelly was once a giant of a man, tall, broad, strong, and frightening really. But he was disintegrating now, thanks to cancer. He’d barely said a word for over two weeks.
Ali used to be so afraid of him. He ruled the house as a single dad—a widower who’d had to figure out how to raise three daughters.
He didn’t share emotions other than anger, and he didn’t walk down memory lane. He told them very little about their mother. What Ali remembered was perfume, pretty hair, and, sometimes, chaos.
Her mother, Joetta Kelly, died in a car wreck when Ali was in second grade. She tried hard to hold onto memories of her mother. But second grade was so very long ago.
Now, it was her father’s time. She was about to be a forty-nine-year-old orphan. What would stay with her of Bruce as Ali’s life moved forward? Pretty hair and perfume for mommy, gruff strength and motor oil for daddy?
Bruce was not going easy or quickly. But he had been quiet. The stoic nature of Bruce Kelly was intact. His only complaints were having to rely on others these last few months. He was as independent as a man got. But now, even that was washed away.
Ali hoped she was making the decisions he wanted. She committed to caring for him with as much dignity as she could when he couldn’t even manage the basics anymore.
“Hi, Dad, I’m here.” She brushed her hand gently on his cheek. He stirred. Even that must have hurt.
Ali checked the room. Darlene had it arranged the exact way she would have done it herself. There was a cold pitcher of water and a clean glass with a straw if Bruce needed it. But he hadn’t asked for water lately. For days, actually.
That was a sign, she knew.
The room was tidy. The covers on the hospital bed were neatly folded over Ali’s father. At one point, he’d been visibly uncomfortable, but now, he lay still in the bed. He breathed in and out but slowly. Darlene had told her to listen for a rattle.
She leaned down to listen to her dad. No rattle.
Ali looked around. There was no laundry in the hamper. Darlene had taken that to the laundry room in the basement. There wasn’t even anything to dust.
Ali could sit by the bedside, go to the bedroom down the hall and sleep, or sit in her dad’s TV room and watch something.
But she was restless. Reeling. A jumble of images and scenarios played in her mind. What was her priority right now? The implosion of her marriage? The final details of the home and garden show at work? Protecting her nearly adult kids from the knowledge of the implosion of her marriage? Or was it none of the above?
Her father’s needs were met, for now. What was the productive and useful thing to do after what she’d been through today?
Ali found herself wandering around the house. She and Faye, her middle sister, had convinced Dad to get rid of the shag carpet and the orange countertops, small updates. But not enough. She wondered what a future buyer would think of this place—Bruce Kelly’s well-maintained time capsule.
It was a three-bedroom ranch house south of Kenwood, on Densmore. Ali lived on a double lot at Barrington and Christie. Her dad’s place didn’t have the grandeur of some of the homes near her. It was perfect, though, for her working-class dad, her union-strong dad.
They didn’t make them like her dad anymore, she knew. That was good and bad, she also knew.
He’d raised three little girls with no feminine side of his own to tap into. He barely tolerated their Caboodles of Bonnie Bell and clouds of White Rain. She’d spent her life tiptoeing around his temper.
This house had all those memories. She looked at the framed pictures on the china hutch that sat in the dining room. Senior pictures of Faye, Blair, and her. A picture of her Grandma and Grandpa Kelly, and of course, Bruce with his beloved Starcraft fishing boat.
He’d given the boat up a few years ago. He’d loved putting it in at Devil’s Lake in the Irish Hills. Alas, he never pulled the trigger to buy a cottage there. Too bad, that would have been a nice family memory. Too late though, property in the Irish Hills was too expensive these days.
He worked. That’s what Bruce Kelly did. He worked. He paid for this house and fine-tuned it to proper working order. Over and over.
And now what? Would she move back in here so Professor Can’t Keep It In His Pants could live happily ever after with—what’s her name? Oh, yeah, Star.
She wandered around the house three times and realized she needed her sisters. Darlene had said her dad did, too, and that this could be it.
There was no way Blair could get there tonight, but Faye could. Ali would worry about how to handle the disaster that was her marriage after she’d handled whatever came next with Bruce Kelly.
She texted Faye.
Hey, Dad’s okay right now, but we’re on death rattle watch. Darlene’s assessment.
Got it, packing a bag. One hour?
I think.
Faye lived in Sylvania, close by, but not as close as Ali did.
An hour.
Ali continued wandering around, until suddenly, from down the hall, she heard her father’s voice. Ali rushed back to his bedside. He was mumbling. His head moved from side to side. She also heard the rattle. The end was close, as Darlene predicted.
“Hey, Dad.”
She got the water and put the straw to his lips. He lifted his head and sipped a drop.
“I did it to keep you three safe.”
“What?” Is this a hallucination? What was he talking about?
“You understand? I am sorry, but it was bad. You could have died.”
“I could have died?”
She had no idea what he was talking about.
“I need you to know! I’m sorry. It was the only way.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“I tried to do the best. But I’m not her. I couldn’t be her.”
“Mom? Are you talking about Mom?”
He never talked about their mom. The memories Ali had were fleeting, precious, and never enhanced with the help of her father. Was he talking about Mom now? Did he see her?
“Okay, Dad, it’s okay.”
He’d never expressed anything but gruff confidence in his life as their father. Never a moment of parenting doubt. Was this the last thing he’d think about? A final worry?
“It had to be done. Cut off. The only way,” he continued haltingly. “I thought—I’m sorry—Tell Faye and Blair.”
As he said it, Faye walked in.
“Dad, I’m here too.” She sat down on the other side of the bed and gave Ali a look. Ali answered with a look of her own. A look that let Faye know she had no more idea of her father’s intentions than Faye, who’d just walked in.
“Blair, my Blair.”
“Sure, Dad, it’s Blair.” Her father kept mistaking Faye for Blair. Blair lived in Cincinnati. She’d come in and out when she could work remotely. Blair had done her best to sit bedside and help relieve her two older sisters. But Blair was not there at this last moment.
She’d never make it in time. Cincinnati was four hours away. The rattle Darlene warned about did not last that long.
Faye didn’t seem upset that in her father’s mind, The Middle Daughter was unremarkable. He’d switched Faye for Blair. He’d called her “My Blair.” Blair was Bruce Kelly’s favorite. They all knew that and didn’t hold it against her. Blair was easy to love the most.
Ali didn’t want to accept it, though. She was there to fight for both her sisters, whether they were the middle or littlest.
“Dad, it’s Faye and Ali.”
“Yes, Faye. Sweet Faye. I’m sorry about that, too. What a lucky man I was. I had the best three daughters.”
Ali blinked back tears. An awkward squeeze of the hand when she’d walked down the aisle was the closest Bruce Kelly got to effusive affection. This was the sweetest thing he’d ever said to them.
And it was also the last thing he said. Bruce Kelly, father of three, Jeep retiree, Vietnam veteran, settled back in his bed.
He closed his eyes.
The rattle got raspier.
Just before dawn, even the rattle stopped.