Visiting Sharon

  As I walk up the tunnel from the plane to the gate, my mouth is like a moss carpet, my throat is dry, my eyes are puffy. Three glasses of red wine on the flight from Raleigh to Denver has left me irritable and dried out like a date. When we took off this morning, the sun an orange glow on the horizon behind us, I thought the wine a well-earned reward for what lay ahead on arrival in this state of right angles. Funny how a rigidly outlined land contains some of the most free-flowing people in the country. It’s my first visit to Colorado; I’m hoping to return one day under more enjoyable circumstances.

  I proceed with my fellow passengers to the baggage claim. I miss the days when your friends and relatives could stand at the door of the gate, awaiting you with balloons and squeals of delight. The long walk through endless corridors, down escalators, and on trams dissipates some of the excitement of landing in a new place. As I funnel through the final checkpoint to freedom and spill out into the open lobby, my eyes scan the crowd. There, amongst the big, bear-hugging families and trailpacks mounted high on rugged flannel-encased shoulders, stands Sharon.

“Oh, hon! You made it,” Sharon says as she pulls me into a gigantic cocoon hug. Towering over me, and engulfing me with her girth, my “Hello” is muffled in the soft folds of her tie-died caftan-covered breast.

  To call us sisters would be the most clinical use of the word. We share a father and little else. Sharon is the offspring of our father’s first marriage, I am the second daughter from the second marriage. There were one or two more marriages, and possibly siblings, but I’m not sure. Communications were cut when I was twelve therefore there are details unknown to me. Sharon, however, is of good, forgiving Mormon stock. She stayed in touch with our Father, got to know him, even developed a tentative friendship with him. I am my mother’s daughter; I chose to remain as far away as I could, until today.

  “Did you have a good flight?” Sharon asks, looking me over. Since I am half her size and six inches shorter, her meaningful stare comes down from a blonde mountain peak. We last saw each other when I was four and she eight. Time has not been kind to Sharon, at forty-one she could easily be mistaken for my aunt, or mother.
 
“Well enough,” I say. “I’ve been up since four, East coast time, but I’ll manage.” I smile, not sure if I’m happy to see Sharon, or hoping that if I smile hard enough, I’ll start to believe I am.

  She is a lot to take in, this sister of mine. Sharon shares our Father’s height and, poor thing, a bit of his features. A large nose is the centerpiece of her wide visage; butterface pops into my head and I scold myself for being callous. We reunited online a few years ago, and I learned her love of sharing every waking thought on the internet. Sharon has a penchant for mermaids, fairies and all things Hello Kitty, as well as a need to post atmospheric images of Jesus herding his flock surrounded by quotes from the Book of Mormon. We could not be more different.
 
  Mom remarried when I was four, whisking me away from the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains of Salt Lake to the kudzu-covered foothills of Atlanta. I grew up far from my roots, an acclimated Southerner with conservative East Coast tastes. When Sharon and I first reconnected, I was ecstatic. My mom and step-Dad had no children of their own, forcing me into the role of only child. The relationship between siblings is something I watch from afar, somewhat envious of having an extra person around to bear the blunt of over-attentive parents. And yet, siblings are a mystery to me, a bond I don’t understood. On finding each other, a part of me lit up with the hope that maybe she could be my sister; a lingering childhood fantasy.
 
  Although her junior, I feel ten years older than the adolescent Sharon. Married and divorced, she has three children who live with her mother. It appears my sister follows in our Father’s footsteps. Upon learning of Sharon’s incapacitating medical issues, the inability to hold a job, her love of the fantastical, and an incessant need to share her mind with the world, I pulled back. She struck me as needy and defective, someone to whom I would crack a door and she, in turn, would kick it down and invade my quiet, well-ordered life. I wanted to know about siblings, but in an un-messy, detached kind of way. She unsettles me.

  There is a sadness to Sharon’s face as she looks at me, and I know talk of our father is coming, details of the day ahead. “Sis, we should talk-”

  “Oh, there’s my bag,” I say, and walk off to grab my little backpack. I never check a bag, but I was hopeful that this would be the one time my luggage got lost, delaying the start of my visit just a little longer. This trip to Colorado isn’t simply a reunion visit with my long, lost sister; I am here to hold Sharon’s hand as we face our Father on his death bed. I am scared for all the things I need him to say; I want him to answer for how he could leave me, his daughter, so far behind.

  We exit the airport and find Sharon’s Hyundai hatchback in the short term parking. A grouping of necklaces hang from the rearview, dangling charms of crosses and angels. A bobble head Jesus anoints the dash and the seats are covered in faux pink fur. The car’s interior, littered with magazines, clothes, and sundry detritus, reminds me of my own filthy vehicle back home. It is the one place I allow my inner slob full reign; the Explorer is so old and nasty that no one will ride in it with me. The last outpost of my absolute solitude. Sharon and I share the common bond of an unkempt car. Maybe we are related, I think, giving rise to fleeting hopes of exchanged Christmas presents and long get-to-know-you phone calls.

  “Ok, so, I didn’t want to tell you inside the airport,” Sharon begins, glancing at me, “but, he died this morning, while you were in the air.”

  Silence fills my head, and I test myself for the emotional kickback her words should bring. Long hours of meditation, and therapy, have prepared me to deal with this moment, to let myself feel whatever emotion arises, and be with it. No matter what comes, it means I’m alive to my human experience. But right now, I feel nothing, except maybe the start of a hangover.

  “You ok?” Sharon asks me, my silence misleading her into thinking I’m in bereaved shock. It’s then I notice her blood-shot puffy eyes, and how they must resemble my own. Yet hers are the result of genuine emotion, while mine are from dehydration and lack of sleep.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, casually as if she’s asking me about my day. “Where to? I’m guessing there’s no need to go to the hospital now.” I start thinking of the trip I’ve made, the money wasted on airfare, and how much it will cost to change my flight so I can leave tonight. I pull out my phone to bring up the airline information. It’s harsh and devoid of feeling, a detached reaction. Something twinges in my chest, near my heart, but I dismiss it out of hand.

  Concern colors Sharon’s face, my reaction not as she’d expect. “We’re meeting Richard and Ann for brunch to discuss the arrangements and the will.”

  “Richard? I think I might have met him. Did he DJ at a radio station?” I ask, a fuzzy memory coming to me. “He took me to a radio station once, and I think it was his brother working there. I remember a long-haired, skinny guy showing me rock albums, LPs.”

  “You remember that? You must have been three at the time! Don’t mention it around, Ann. Those were Richard’s rebellious years and she doesn’t like to be reminded of them.”

  Impishness, spurred by anger and exhaustion, compels me to ask, “Because they’re Mormon and what, aren’t allowed to listen to Rock and Roll?”

  I am curious about this religion that holds sway over a state and presumes to spread itself around the world. Growing up surrounded by Southern Baptists, Evangelicals, and every variation thereof, I’m used to Christian fanatics. But from a distance. Though raised Mormon, our Father left the church after divorcing Sharon’s mom. By the time I was born, he was a confirmed atheist, winning a battle against my grandmother to have me baptized. An atheist herself, my mother allowed me to find my way growing up. I attended different churches and Sunday schools with friends, but nothing caught me with religious zeal and I figured it just wasn’t for me. Eventually, I came to Buddhism, not as the established religion that pervades Asia, but more of an Americanized version steeped in mindfulness, meditation and philosophical thought.

  Today I am mindful of a cyclonic whirring in my mind that refuses to form into a coherent thought.

  In response to my cynical question, Sharon gives me the look, the one I’ve seen on the faces of the Mormon girls who come once a year to our neighborhood and knock on doors, soliciting for our souls. When I quickly brush them off, they give me a smile, one steeped in an all-knowing look that says, “We know better than you. One day, you’ll get yours...”

  “No, it’s not because they’re Mormons,” Sharon starts in a tone that must sound as unconvincing to her as it does to me. “Ann is just very conservative, and they are highly regarded members of the Church, they have to set a good example.”

  “Yeah-huh, ok,” I mutter, turning to look out the window and the Rocky mountain peaks. A sharp, persistent pain has begun behind my right eye, like an ice pick drilling into my skull, slowly twisting back and forth to keep the pain present and precise. I try to think of something else, and touch on the reason I’m here.

  “How did he die? Was it quiet?” I don’t really want to know, but I sense Sharon needs to talk about it.

  Nodding her head slowly, she tells of our Father’s last night and morning.

  “He never really recovered from the lung collapse back in April. He was on and off a ventilator these past few months. But the emphysema took its toll, shutting his lungs down, day by day. Last night, he struggled for every breath.” Sharon’s voice wavers and cracks, a single tear runs down the side of her cheek. She breaths deeply and shudders it out into a sobby hiccup. “All night it just got worse and worse. The nurses said it was normal. But he was in such pain. This morning, around six, he gave up.” She wipes her eyes with the back of one hand.

  I envision the man I’ve seen in a photo on Sharon’s Facebook page, laying in a hospital bed, mask strapped to his mouth and nose, faintly damp with condensation. I want to give him intellectual credit for having some deep scientific program, like NOVA, on in the background to keep himself entertained, when in fact it’s more likely he was engrossed in the comings and goings on Maury during his final days. And probably making passes at the nurses, as well. I plumb the depths and find myself without genuine concern.

  I make an effort to be kind, “I’m sorry Sharon. I know he meant something to you.”

  She sniffles a nod. “Look, I’m not saying he was a great guy, I know how awful he was to you, and me, and pretty much everyone he ever knew. But he was a person, and it’s sad that it had to end this way.”

  Yes, it is sad. Our Father loved none so much as himself. He cheated on wives, ran out on children, alienated his family, and, in the end, was utterly alone. Except maybe for Sharon. He spent his final years in a tiny Colorado desert town, weaving astrological predictions for a local magazine and lecturing on alien abductees. He ran as far from Mormonism as he could possibly go, and then some. When Sharon told me of his science fiction predilections, she warned me, “He’s just not quite right, if you know what I mean.” I laughed to myself, thinking of her membership in a religion invented by a pioneer looking to have his own legal brothel. In her own ironic way, she was obsessed with Wicca and the supernatural herself. I wanted to say, “Oh, but fairies are ok?” instead choosing to bite my tongue.

  I don’t ask if anyone came to visit our Father, if there were flowers in his room, if he received phone calls or cards of support for a speedy recovery. In the back of my mind, I fear that the answers will be a resounding, “No.” For if he died utterly alone, granted a situation of his own making, it would stir something akin to pity in me for my silent tormenter. And under no circumstances would I allow myself the weakness of letting that man win over my sympathies. I don’t want to feel regret or sadness, shame for not calling or making an effort to come sooner. No desire welled within to make one last attempt to reconcile with him. He was undeserving of my forgiveness in life, death should make no difference.

         We continue in silence for some time, I looking out the window, Sharon driving. We are separate entities, we don’t know how to talk to each other. Strangers. Perhaps we desire a relationship, but we have no idea how to form one, not with a lifetime of baggage between us. We like to tell each other about our lives, but the connection is tentative at best. Without our Father to cleave us in a common cause, we are perhaps meant to let each other go.

  The Fat and The Moon doesn’t look like your typical diner. We sit around a table that appears to have once been in a dump, on mismatched chairs of varying comfort; corrugated tin walls and salvaged wood floors perpetuate my impression of Colorado as a hippie haven. Sharon assures us that the breakfast is five star; however, Richard and Ann look doubtful, I’m simply too tired to care. Exhaustion overwhelms me, and I guzzle down cup after cup of coffee awaiting the arrival of breakfast. The caffeine abates my headache and I am delirious for the reprieve. Mostly, we sit in silence.

  Once our food arrives, and we are enlivened by the carbs and caffeine, words start to flow, niceties dominating the conversation. Richard takes advantage of a lull to speak.

  “Joan, Ann and I are happy you could make it,” he says to me, Ann nodding along with his words, which are stilted and feel disingenuous. He is technically our Uncle, although we don’t ascribe to him that particular term of endearment. To him, we are the progeny of his wayward brother and of no importance. Today is a day to deal with the end of his brother’s life, on which he will turn his back and never return.

  “Frank asked that his body be donated to the hospital’s teaching branch,” disgust passes over his face. “At noon, we’re going to a park Sharon likes so we can release balloons in his memory, maybe say a few words,” Richard’s voice is tired and his shoulders are slumped; I wonder if he misses his brother. He straightens his back and shoulders, forging on in a business-like fashion. “Frank wrote a will last night, and Ann and I witnessed it.”

  A spike of anxiety shoots up from my stomach into my chest. I am twelve again, on the day my step-Dad signed the adoption papers. When we went to the lawyer’s office, a hope sprung within that my Father would be there to fight for me, or at least to convey a message that he still loved me. I stared at his signature on the papers, effectively signing me away. In my desperation, I wanted to breathe life into each letter of his name in hopes that there was a hidden message, that he loved me, didn’t want this. There was nothing, not even a note. Hearing Richard’s words I return to that day, hungry with needing to know my Father thought of me at least once before he died.

  Richard looks back and forth between Sharon and I before directing his eyes down to his half-eaten omelet, knife and fork perched side by side on the top his plate. Ann places her hand on top of his and squeezes. “He wasn’t a successful man, any money he had went to the hospital bills. He asked that everything in his house be donated to charity.” He looks up at Sharon, “Except, Sharon, he wanted you to have his tarot cards.”

  Ann reaches into her purse and pulls out a shiny purple cloth wrapped around a large rectangular deck. Sharon takes the cards with reverence and slowly unwraps them. “They’re so beautiful. He knew how much I love reading the cards.” Her face lights up for the first time all morning. “Joan, maybe I can give you a reading later.”

  Richard and Ann exchange a glance. How horrified they must be of their Mormon niece.

  Glancing back down at his plate, Richard takes a deep breath before looking up at me. “To you, Joan, well…” He turns up empty palms and shakes his head. I shouldn’t be surprised, but disappointment floods through me all the same. “Since you cut him off, he thought there was nothing of his that you’d want.”

  Memories like razor blades slash through my mind.

  I am three sitting in my mother’s living room, waiting all day for my Father to pick me up, but once again he is a no-show. I want to cry, but the angry beast is starting to rear its head, visible behind my mother’s eyes; instead I smile and act silly, it makes her laugh and saves us both.

  I am five and sitting across from my Father in the dark wood-paneled restaurant of the Hartsfield Airport Holiday Inn. My parents sit at another table, and I feel badly for my Dad, who must feel jealous. My Father is in town on business, stays one night. This dinner with him, it is the last time I ever see him.

  I am eight; my birthday has come and gone and yet again I hear nothing from my Father. A few days before Christmas, a package arrives. A combination gift to cover both occasions, I unwrap magic crystals and a self-published book. The dedication is to his new wife. When did he get married, I wonder. And why didn’t he tell me?

  I am eleven and about to start middle school. My Father writes me a long letter telling me how he’s changed and wants to connect with me, get to know me. Busy with other things and disbelieving of his words I set the letter aside and forget about it. On Christmas Day he calls me, yells at me for not responding to his letter. He tells me, “You’re so selfish, you don’t deserve my friendship.” I hang up the phone and return to playing with my cousins. His words will creep back and slowly torture me for months to come.

  I am twelve. Teary-eyed and too weary for my age, I stumble into my Dad’s office and ask him to adopt me. He is joyous, I am hopeful that my Father is hurt. It turns out, my revenge tactic back-fires. I never hear from my Father again.

  Ahh, I think, now there’s the feeling. Righteous indignation erupts from my heart, my stomach, almost choking me with its violence.

“He said what?!?” Words burst forth and I can no longer contain my thoughts on this recently deceased man. My stomach churns with acid from too much coffee and suppressed rage. “That man abandoned me! And my mother. He left us when I was two, he never paid child support, he never showed up for custody days. He came to see me one time after we moved away.” My eyes dart between the faces of Sharon and Richard, seeking their agreement. “He left me!”

  Hot tears prick my eyes but I blink them away; I promised myself long ago never to waste another tear on that man, and I won’t go back on that promise today. Richard looks away, and Sharon reaches over to pat my hand. In this moment, I am every bit the same child as the last time they saw me, thirty-odd years ago. I pull my hand back, the clammy damp of Sharon’s giant paw too much for me in this moment. “I can’t believe I came here. For what? Nothing! It’s always been nothing with him. And even in death that’s all he can offer.” I fold my arms, disgusted and angry with myself for giving in to false hope one last time. Silence descends for a few minutes and no one dares speak for fear of me lashing out.

  Sharon decides to break the quiet. “Well, I guess we should get going if we’re going to get the balloons and release them by noon.”
 
  I am overcome by the need to get away from them, my estranged family. To go back to what I know, and those who love me. Violently, I shake my head in protest. “No, no, I’m done with this. I’m going home.”

  “But, Joan, please-,” Sharon starts, sadness turns her giant hazel orbs into wet cow eyes.

  “No, this is not my life. He was not my Father. And,” gently, so as to soften the blow, “we are not family.” Tears fall from the corners of Sharon’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Sharon, maybe it’s just because I’m exhausted and stressed out. But this,” I motion to the four of us at the table, “this is a ragtag grouping of sentimental strangers brought together to honor a man because no one else will. And why? Because it was what he wanted? He could care less what we do. We’re here because we all believe in lost causes. Or at least, I did until today.” I rise from the table and pick up my purse and backpack. “I saw a hotel across the street, they can probably get me a cab back to the airport.”

  Reaching out my hand to Richard, then Ann, I shake each with one quick up and down pump. “It was nice meeting you both.” They are startled by my aggression, but recover quickly. They smile, happy to see me go, and wish me a good trip back. I nod as there are no words left worth exchanging with them.

  Turning to Sharon, I know that of anyone in this ridiculous situation, she is the most fragile. I have not tread as lightly with her as I should. Leaning down, I give her shoulders a squeeze. “Good luck, Sharon. I hope you find happiness.” She in turn stands and returns me to the folds of her arms, her heaving bosom jostles me as silent sobs overtake her.

  “Good-bye, Sis. I love you,” she says into the top of my head, leaving a little wet spot from her tears, and possibly snot. I nod, and mutter, “You, too,” before backing away to extricate myself from her grasp. I wave one last time and make for the door.

  Something gets the better of me and I turn back toward them, calling out over the heads of the diners between us, “Releasing balloons is pollution.” I envision tiny turtles and baby birds trying to eat the deflated plastic, choking to death; a final f-you to the world from my Father. They stare back at me blankly, and I shrug. “Just saying.” A few people who’ve caught my words nod their heads in agreement and throw the stink eye toward the people I’ve left behind.

  Back outside in the Colorado sunshine I feel like myself again. My whole life I held onto the question of How could someone walk away from their child?, secretly wondering in that typical way of children if it was my fault. For the first time in my life, it dawns on me the absolute selfishness of my Father. He lived in a world of his own making, and those of us who couldn’t take it weren’t worth his time. A lifetime’s worth of worry and hurt, weighing my shoulders down so long I no longer notice, lifts and in this moment, I am truly happy and free. I feel the last ties to my Father and my past anger release their grasp, and I slip away from them into joy. Peace descends and I walk toward the hotel.