Getting to this point in writing about my parent's lives felt like a journey to me, now that i'm near the end. I can't say that i know my parents all that well, i just know some of the things they did, the choices they made, but i can't say i understand all the whys. That's ok, though; it was theirs, i'm just one of the results.
Last night, at the Target snack bar, i'm sitting with Guillermo and Eva, my two youngest, and Eva asks me if i've always been the way i am. It would have to be Eva to ask that sort of question; the most introverted child next to me. On summer break, she spends most of her day figuring out video games; out of the house, she's trying to figure me out. I asked, what "way" are you refering to? and she gives me a vague analysis of her perception of my personality. And i see what she has done, she has compared me to an extrovert, namely, her mother. She will eventually learn to better analyse by not comparing apples to oranges. The point is, my kids will probably never know everything about their parents either; we had our lives as individuals, and as a couple, before them, and that is ours to share or to keep.
We all had no doubt that dad's other family meant business, they would call the police in Matamoros if we tried to move dad to an assisted living facility in Texas. What happened next, i will give few details about because i had little to do with; it is something my younger sister did, so it would be her story to tell or not tell. She went through her state representative's office and got the authorities involved; the authorities did meet with dad and the matter was resolved. Unfortunately, dad told them he would stay in Matamoros; surprising for me? yes, shocking? no. I witnessed dad's mental state of being, as well as his physical condition. The sharp mind i was used to was no longer there; in it's place, something a little more like modeling clay.
I disagreed with dad's religious convictions, but that is far from thinking that he didn't have a sharp mind. I disagree with my younger sister's religious convictions as well, and i could never acuse her of having a dull mind, no matter how i've tried. But then, her and dad's dogmas disagreed as well, so they didn't gang up on me like my dear wife and Tania, my oldest daughter, do; but, i think keeping the dogmatic wolves at bay keeps my mind sharp.
They had convinced him to stay with them, and though sad, we acquiesced. They wanted him that badly, all we could do is hope they would find the way to give him the care he needed. Dad lived for another 10 months after that unpleasantness; i would call and my younger sister would call. I can't remember when exactly they started telling us that dad was not around, he would supposedly be somewhere; it might have been right after my visit, actually. My older sister never called him, she said that she had said good-bye to him forever the day he went to live with those people, and she told us from the begining that when dad died, they would not pick up the phone to let us know. Trish, a veteran of Mexican family wars and conflict, told me the same thing the day dad left: prepare yourself for that outcome.
And i did, i could very well imagine that, but i also said that if they were reasonable people they would realize, in the end, what part i played in their lives. What exactly did i do, did i beg to be born to their father? I think they will do the the decent thing when the time comes.
It was mid September the following year, i got a call from Arturo, in New Orleans, where he spends a lot of time with his grown kids. He told me that his mother, dad's first wife, who gets a social security check because dad had applied for her years ago, had gotten a letter from S.S., telling her that she would be getting an increase because of the death, but it did not mention any names and that's all they understood at the time. So, he was pretty certain that dad had passed away and that he didn't need to go poking around and didn't want to have anything to do with those people. I told him that i believed him, but would poke around anyway.
I called the Matamoros number and asked to speak to dad; C. told me, with obvious strain in her voice, that he was unavailable at that time for some reason i can't recall. I then called my younger sister and asked her when was the last time she'd spoken to dad; it had been a while and she had spoken to C. also a couple of weeks before, and had been told he was napping. I then told her what Arturo had told me.
Fortuitously, Trish had become aquianted with the pastor of the Mexican baptist church in Wichita Falls where dad's other family attended services, when they were living with dad in Burkburnett. The pastor had told Trish that he had visited her father-in-law one time, at his house, and asked about them. So, she called the pastor and explained the whole situation and asked if he could give them a call to ask about my father. He was glad to do it, and the next day he came over to tell us that C. had told him that her father had died about six weeks before.
And that was it, i never called again, never felt the need to speak or yell at them. I understood then the level of unadulterated bitterness and resentment that was fostered in that family. Of course there was anger on my part, but there were also conflicting feelings from imagining what their life must have been that i could not concentrate on that anger i thought i should be fostering. Calling family to tell them what had happened reminded me that it was grieving that i should be doing, and after that was done, the anger was just resentment.
No comments:
Post a Comment