Day 89

When I was younger and Dad would take us out to dinner, he and I would often order ice cream for dessert. One of us would order vanilla. The other would order chocolate. Then we’d each give each other half. Dad always had to have an equal amount of vanilla and chocolate on each spoonful. The same went for black and white cookies — a nibble of black and a nibble of white. He’d never eat one side and then the other.

I hate people. And Dad would agree. He hated people, too. Which is why he loved animals. Compared to people, animals are compassionate and kind. Humans just suck. Okay, not you guys. My friends don’t suck, but other humans do. Mom has not yet gotten her stimulus check — you know that money that Trump thought would made everyone bow to him. The money that in reality would cover neither a month of rent nor a mortgage payment. But Mom wants it. I can’t blame her. Trump screwed us over, she deserves something. Anyway, we checked on line to find out why she hadn’t gotten it, but the IRS didn’t recognize her social security number. So she called. The man she spoke to was a complete asshole. Instead of answering her questions, the minute he found out that Dad died, he wanted to make sure we knew how to return Dad’s money to the government. Money he hadn’t even gotten. I completely lost my temper. Trump’s callousness, his selfishness, his lies, his narcissism, and his utter incompetence killed my Dad. And now the government, instead of helping my mother claim the money she is entitled to, wanted to make sure they could get their grubby hands on the money that might be sent to the man Trump killed. Oh, I was livid. Mom had to take the phone away from me because I started to shred the government representative on the other end.

And then, I got an email from my son’s Spanish teacher telling me he had to make up four assignments from the week of April 13th. I nearly punched a hole in the wall. Seriously, I emailed my son’s general teacher after Dad died (on April 14th) asking for him to be excused from all work that was to be done that week. She was very understanding and told us not to worry about school. Now, nearly two months later, I’m getting an email saying my son needs to do that work. I sent the Spanish teacher an email explaining that he had been excused for  work that week. She insisted that he had to complete two assignments. UGH! Well, I wasn’t having it, so we compromised with a zoom conference — her and my son on Tuesday. One conference, she’ll review all the material, and then he doesn’t have to complete the work. And why is she waiting until the last minute to contact me? I used to be a teacher. None of my administrators would have tolerated me waiting until the last minute to contact parents.

After lunch, I took my son to the sound. We weren’t there very long when he started begging me to go home. “I’m bored,” he kept repeating as if it were a mantra. I didn’t want to go home. At home he’d want to sit on his tablet and I’m not a fan of him spending his life on a device, so I said, “You used to love the beach. What can I do to make it less boring for you.” His response broke my heart, “Bring back Grandpa.” I turned away to wipe my tears. I wish I could bring him back for him, for Mom, for me, but he’s dead, and the dead only come back to life in crappy TV shows.

When we got home, Mom wanted a driving lesson. She has a license. She’s had it for more than fifty years. But she doesn’t drive. Just the thought of driving scares her. The last time she drove was forty years ago when I was a kid and we came out here for a month. The week Dad returned to the city to work, he left Mom the car. She drove one day. She barely made it to the beach and it started to rain. With anxiety ripping her apart, she turned around, went back to the house they had rented, parked the car, and never drove again. Until today. She nearly killed me reversing. Instead of hitting the break, she slammed on the gas and nearly hit a tree. I took a deep breath and patiently calmed her down, got her to relax, and then to move forward. She drove slowly. But she managed to go three miles. I was proud of her for trying. 

At dinner, as we were discussing Black Lives Matter and the current call to defund the police, my son explained to Mom how easy it is to kill someone with a choke hold. He explained — very meticulously — the proper way to choke someone out. He learned how to do it from his taekwondo instructor during a self defense lesson. He went on to say, “But you have to be careful. Even a ten year old can kill an adult. So if a ten year old can kill an adult imagine what a cop can do. It shouldn’t be allowed. At taekwondo, I learned that I should only do it if it’s my life or someone else’s. I think cops should get trained as well as I do? If they had my instructor, maybe they’d be better prepared.”

Tonight we watched “Race to Witch Mountain.” Halfway through the movie we paused it so that I could scoop out some ice cream — vanilla and chocolate — for all of us. I sat down with my bowl of ice cream and commented, “Dad would have liked this movie. He never needed a good plot, as long as there was lots of action.” No sooner did I say that, then the curtain rod fell off the window and landed on me and my son. It was as if Dad’s spirit was playfully punishing me for mocking his taste in movies.