The Dreaded Destination

The day after Mom died was a blur of details and distractions: get the plane ticket, get packed, get to work to cover last minute details, get the Christmas tree taken down (I know - small detail, but I didn't want to deal with it two weeks later). Call a lawyer, figure out what we're dealing with. It was like running on automatic pilot. Flew to CA, took the train over to the right side of the bay and was picked up by a friend. I was staying with one of my best friends (I've known her since 4th grade), and I don't know what I would have done in those months without her home as a sanctuary!

The next morning was D-Day - my dreaded day. By that point, brother #2 (EV) had arrived and taken over the "death watch" on my stepfather, so TW had made his way home. I met him and my SIL at their home, and we headed out to Mom's house. It's hard to explain what a trek this was, physically and emotionally. I grew up in the "East Bay" of San Francisco, and Mom lived on the coastline north of SF. Between here and there is a mountain, Mt. Tamalpais, and there are only 2 ways to get there. Climb the mountain and go up and down the twisty roads (slightly shorter, but harrowing), or go around the mountain through redwood forests and twisty roads (slightly longer, but much less harrowing - our preferred route). Either way, it was 1 1/2 hrs. each way from where I was staying, 2 hrs. from my brother's house. Most of the route is unpopulated. Up, down, around curves I hadn't driven in years.

At one point, we stopped at a grocery store for supplies, figuring odds were that no edible food would be present (smart assumption). My brother and I were standing in the soda aisle, when it really hit me what was about to happen. I just looked at him, stunned, and said, "I don't want to do this. I really don't." He nodded in understanding, but what else could he say - there was no avoiding it. It was like standing on a cliff knowing you have no choice but to jump with both feet.

Mom and LL hadn't always lived out there. When we were living with them, they lived in the East Bay, a couple of miles from my grandmother's. I was able to attend the same schools, keep the same friends even after moving in with them, which was good. However, both Mom and LL had spotty employment records, particularly Mom. There was always a "good" reason, and it was "never her fault," but she rarely held down the same job for more than a year or so. It's always confused me how someone so intelligent, so well spoken, so literate, could fail to manage to arrive on time, do the job for which she was hired, and keep her work at least marginally organized.

Shortly after we were placed with Grandma and Auntie, Mom got a job working with the Bolinas Water Dept. She had a lot of experience with water treatment, and this rural community seemed like a great place for her - a little eccentric, but welcoming to her. She and LL bought a house, and told us about the layout, how we would live there with them "when they got us back," and which rooms would be ours, where we would go to school, etc. Once again, it was a dream world produced from her own delusions. I didn't want to move out there. I had already planned to run away if we were placed back with them (not like they were well-thought out plans - I was only 12 after all). Visitation was increased in stages - first at Social Services, then supervised at other sites by Grandma & Auntie, eventually, when I was able to drive, by me. Radius increased as well, till eventually we were allowed to make the 1 1/2 hr. drive to Bolinas. In all that time, we never saw (nor were we allowed to see) LL. Mom had long since been fired from that job, but they remained in Bolinas, where their eccentricities fit in with everyone else's eccentricities.

So that drive, over those hills, was a trip back through my memories. I hadn't been sure I still remembered the route, but it came right back to me. Each mile was another twist in my gut.

The reality of the place, after not having seen it for so long, was disturbing. As I said, even when we were children, Mom had a "cleanliness" issue. There were always piles all over everything. Never an empty surface. Never able to find anything. But at the time, it was basically clutter. It could have been gone through - it just wasn't. The last time I had seen into the house, when I brought DH out to meet Mom for the first time, it had been waist deep and impassible. We only saw it through the doorway, did not go in, but DH said that was enough and he didn't want to have to go back again.

The property location was actually quite beautiful. It is at the end of a short road, with no other houses. The lots across the "street" are not buildable (too wet), and so there are no immediate neighbors to the front or side. But the lot was a junk yard. Two rusted 10-ft storage containers (metal, like you'd use for shipping) greeted us at the end of the muddy driveway. Several non-functioning cars, three rusted-out horse trailers, and miscellaneous junk were strewn about. There was another 40-ft shipping container in the back of the lot, along with several poorly constructed wooden buildings (which had previously housed horses). A small broken down camper was in the middle of the lot (I was to learn later that this was home to an itinerant man from town - more on him later). Plants to the left of the house were overgrown, and scattered with other junk (planters, plates, paint cans, what all) buried under the plant life.

The deck leading to the front door was rickety, and contained a old, large (non-functioning) grocery store wall-to-wall refrigerator, and another (functioning) fridge next to the door. A hot tub (non-functioning) sat just beside the deck, and some old pieces of deck furniture had fallen off the edge. The rest was covered with rain-soaked boxes (many unopened), horse equipment, and plastic bins full of mail. We were greeted by Carl, the cashmere goat - a friendly sort, whose favorite pastimes were getting in the way when you were carrying something, and pooping on the deck where you wanted to walk. Carl quickly became our mascot.

Inside, we found my stepfather, in an ancient lounge chair, covered with who-knows-what, with the foot rest supported by an old stool. A similar chair sat beside it, previously occupied by Mom. These were the only open surfaces in the house. Every other square inch was covered by stuff. Piles and piles of it. There was a cow path to the two chairs (facing the TV), to the bathroom, and to the bedroom. The back half of the house was completely inaccessible (laundry room, long hallway, and two good-sized bedrooms). The kitchen was inaccessible (hence the fridge on the porch). The fireplace was covered, the dining table, the walls, every bit of floor. Even the passable bits had paper and other stuff you had to step on. Three cats roamed the house, and the litter box had not been cleaned in days (months? years?), so they had resorted to using other parts of the house. A large parrot sat on an open tree-type stand - Lola the blue and yellow macaw. The walls were yellowed by cigarette smoke, dust, and blackened cobwebs. Bits of ivy from outside grew through the ceiling and through some of the windows. Many of the windows were broken - repaired with bags stuffed in them, or plastic taped over them, or just plain ignored.

The smell in the house is impossible to describe, but very distinctive - a mixture of mold, dust, cigarette smoke, old animal smells, and ???. I still have items and papers from her house which will likely always bear that scent. One whiff and I am back in that house, back in those rooms.

Seeing my stepfather was... underwhelming... freaky, but underwhelming. You know how these things can become bigger-than-life? I had realized years ago that he had only the power to hurt me that I granted him, and certainly could not touch me as an adult, yet that childhood fear remained. But he looked so broken down sitting there - dirty, unshaven, subsisting on beer, cigarettes, and morphine.

Then I got the first of many shocks in this odyssey. LL asked me to sit down, because he wanted to go over some things. He reiterated that he planned to die within the next few days. He would leave everything to us three kids. And he wanted me to be in charge of everything. He told me he trusted my judgement above everything, and all decisions were to be mine. He would stay alive long enough to sign whatever legal paperwork was necessary to smooth the way, but otherwise, it was all up to me.

I couldn't believe it. 25 years of estrangement. All the stress, all the sadness. We had barely spoken more than 100 words to each other in all that time. And he trusted me. He said he knew, through Mom, what kind of person I had become, and that I would be responsible and fair. My brothers, for all I care about them, have their own issues, which would make them unsuitable, but he had had at least had some contact with them in the intervening years, but he had chosen me. From that point on, any questions addressed to him about "what should we do with X," were answered with, "Ask Heather, it's her decision."

Where do you even begin in a pile like that. We had brought trash bags, and not knowing what else to do, we starting filling them, and sorting out the apparently useful items. It seemed a Sisyphean task - even the 1 1/2 weeks I'd been allotted for bereavement would be insufficient. But it was the only thing we knew how to do. Pick up, make a decision - throw away or move to a pile for later sorting. General piles started - electronic equipment, horse equipment, books, craft equipment, movies..... But the trash bags outnumbered them all.

At one point, my SIL thought she might be able to save some time by glancing through the top layer of each box and determining whether the contents were worth sorting. Early in this process, she pulled a box from under the parrot's stand. It was filthy, encrusted with everything you would expect under a parrot stand. She was about to toss the entire, stinking mess. Then, out of curiosity, she pulled out a small box... and found a priceless antique pocket watch, several old coins, and other old family mementos of LL's. A book in the same box (Dr. Phil's diet book), was almost moved to the Book donate pile, when we noticed writing on the front - see page 100. Curious, we turned the pages to see what had fascinated Mom enough to make such a note. And found several $1 bills dating back over 100 years.

From that point on, we knew there was no way around it. In order to make sure we didn't toss any items of true value, we would have to go through every single item on that property. Piece by tiny, rotting piece.