D.N.R.
Tags: Storytelling, Fiction, Family, Fathers, Short Story

When she next opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the gigantic fireplace. The irony hit her so hard that she began laughing hysterically, on and on until she thought she would faint. The laughing became screaming, and the screaming weeping. She sobbed uncontrollably for her loss and the unfairness of it all. When the tears finally slowed, she toppled over on the sofa and slept again.

The ringing of a telephone finally woke her. It took her a moment to figure out what the harsh burring was. She’d had a cell for over 15 years, and what used to be a most common sound was now disorienting. She stumbled from the sofa to where the phone sat on the end table by the recliner, and murmured a slurry “hello?” into the receiver. It was the hospital. Was she coming in today? Decisions had to be made.

“I need some time,” Bethany mumbled. “I can’t come today, and probably not tomorrow. Keep him on the respirator until I can think things through.” After she hung up, Bethany walked through the house. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. It smelled like old man, whiskey, and the faintest whiff of stale perfume. On the nightstand on her mother’s side of the bed, Bethany found a half-empty bottle of Red Door. Growing up, Arpège had been Mom’s favorite, but she had mostly stopped wearing it by the time Bethany left the house for good.

She picked up her mother’s pillow and sniffed it; it smelled strongly of Red Door. Tears sprang to her eyes: Dad had been spraying Mom’s pillow at night when he went to bed. The unfamiliar scent offered Bethany no comfort, and she set the pillow down again.

In the master closet, all of her mother’s clothing still hung, massively askew. Bethany rolled herself in the clothes still on their hangars, and immediately understood why everything was all jumbled up.

She left the master and opened the door to her old room. To her surprise, nothing looked familiar. The bed was still under the window, but there was new bedding and someone else’s clothes in the closet. Books were piled next to the unmade bed. So, this was where The Whore had been living.

In the kitchen, Bethany made coffee, discovered there was no milk, and drank it black with extra sugar. The weather was too cold to sit out on the deck, so she threw the curtains in the living room open wide and sat at the nearby dining room table. Several weeks’ worth of junk mail and assorted bills were piled up, and she realized that she was now accountable for getting those paid. She felt her anger flare, and then immediately fizzle as the weight of responsibility crushed her. Estate. I have to settle my father’s — my parents’ — estate.

Clearly, Dad had done nothing with any of Mom’s things. The house wasn’t a total wreck, but it was grimy and in need of a good cleaning. Thoughts started bombarding her: I need to see the lawyer this place is dirty I need to get milk I wonder where the checkbook is what am I going to do with Mom’s clothes I should go to the hospital am I hungry? She slapped her hands on the dining room table and the tumult stopped. She needed to think, but it was too hard. She needed a distraction from thinking.

She started in the kitchen. Dishes, scrub countertops and cabinets, clean out the fridge, mop the floor, dust, vacuum, remove cobwebs, scrub the bathtub, the sinks, the toilet, move to the master bath, scrub shower, sink, toilet, dust, vacuum, make bed, spray air freshener. Keep moving, begin wiping down baseboards, walls, move furniture, kill dust bunnies, empty trash, empty buckets, clean kitchen sink again, clean coffee maker (had it ever been cleaned?).

The sun was going down when she came in from the second trash run. She felt physically drained but more clear-headed than she had since Mom died. She was looking in the fridge for something edible when the phone rang again. A high-pitched feminine voice asked,

“Is this Bethany?”

“Who’s calling?” Bethany replied, suspicious.

“This is Suzanne, Suzanne Forkes. I’m the nursing student who’s been staying at your Dad’s?” The Whore, Bethany thought, but God she sounded so young!

“What do you want?” Bethany asked dully.

“I’m really sorry about your Dad,” the timid voice began, “I wouldn’t bother you, but…but I need my things.”

“Things?”

“My stuff. My clothes, my books.” There was a pause, then in a rush, “Look, I know the timing is terrible and I hate to intrude, but I have to go to my classes, and I need my clothes — ”

“When are you coming?” Bethany cut her off.

“I was hoping tonight?”

“Come as soon as you can.” Bethany hung up abruptly.

In less than half an hour, the doorbell rang. Bethany opened the door to a short blonde girl (child!) and a lanky boy with several folded boxes under his arm.

“Hi, I’m Suzanne,” the girl said, “and this is Ryan, my boyfriend.” Bethany stepped aside and let them in. “I’m so sorry about your dad — ” the girl began, but Bethany turned and waved them off.

“Just get your stuff and get out.”

The two young people disappeared into Bethany’s old room, and for the next hour she heard the sound of a tape gun. A little while later, the two of them made a couple of trips out with boxes, presumably to their car. There wasn’t much stuff.

At last, Ryan left with one more box and Suzanne stood before Bethany in the kitchen.

“About your dad,” Suzanne tried again, “I did the best I could, but I’m still just a student. I tried — ”

“It’s not your fault,” Bethany said sharply, not looking at the girl. “I don’t blame you. He’s the stupid drunk who fell down the stairs.” Suzanne’s brow furrowed.

“Look, it’s not my business — ”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s not my business,” the girl persisted, “but it was hard for him after your mother died.”

“It was fucking hard for me, too!” Bethany shouted in the girl’s face. “You didn’t know him! You don’t know anything about us!”

“I know what he told me. We talked when I made him dinner.”

“You cooked for him?” Bethany scoffed.

“Sometimes. He wouldn’t eat much unless I made him. I wasn’t his nurse or housekeeper, more like…like a friend.” Bethany glared at her and Suzanne rushed on. “All I wanted to say was he was nice to me, and what happened to him was terrible. I’m sorry.” She slapped a key on the counter and turned and left, pulling the front door closed behind her.

Bethany screamed and raged at the door. She opened the kitchen cabinet and pulled every glass she could reach from it, hurling each one against the wall beside the doorway. She continued screaming and stomping her feet until her voice literally broke and she could only emit a whispering gargle. She collapsed and remained in a heap on the kitchen floor until morning.