Her childhood home was a three-bed, two-bath bungalow. It was small, especially with three girls jockeying for space in the bathroom. Her dad spent most of his time in the detached garage workshop or at the Union Hall. He always thought the house she and Ted bought in the very same neighborhood was too big and too fancy. But he did admire its bones. And back then the bones were the selling point, it needed work, which was reflected in the price and that was how they afforded their stately home. Her home. The home Ted enjoyed with Star. Ugh. Ali thought back to when her dad visited the first time.
“They don’t make them like this anymore, I’ll give you that,” he’d said as he ran his work-calloused palm over the hard plaster walls when he walked through during the inspection.
Over the years, he’d complimented Ali on her restoration skills with the house. It made her happy that he noticed the care she’d taken to restore, not demolish, the place.
She’d updated it and taken care to make things modern without jettisoning the historic character of the home.
Her childhood home was also stuck in time. But her dad didn’t worry about modernizing at all. It was a time capsule, really. It was fifteen years since her dad had purchased anything new. Instead, he touched up paint when needed and focused on meticulous maintenance. Style? Well, style wasn’t Bruce Kelly’s concern.
Bruce Kelly’s house was in good repair. It was neatly organized, albeit out of date. The kitchen cabinets were from the 70s. Five years ago, Ali would have just said they were ugly. Now, they sort of seemed groovy when compared to the epidemic of white kitchen cabinets. The plain brown flat front paneled cabinets and harvest gold appliances seemed ironic in today’s world. But this place was nothing of the sort. It was their childhood home, décor frozen from the moment their mother died. Bruce kept things in repair and in order, he did not “freshen up the interior design.” She remembered being so embarrassed by the kitchen when she compared it to the homes of her more la dee dah friends. They had mauve and teal and everything new. And of course, it all came back around—even 70s kitsch.
Ali put down her bag in the corner of the breakfast nook.
“Darlene? I’m here. Hope I’m not too late.”
“Ali, you look tired. You sure you don’t want me to call and get a night person to cover?”
“No, just one of those days.” Ali didn’t feel like describing the two scenes that had surely contributed to her frown lines today.
“Hmm, well, we’ve talked about you taking the oxygen mask first, you know?”
“I’m fine, really, how’s he doing?”
Darlene Effler, the hospice nurse, was an angel on Earth, Ali believed. She was shorter than Ali, so maybe just over five feet tall? But she was all muscle, heart, and practical advice.
They’d called her last month when Dad said no more treatment. Ali wished they’d called her two months sooner for all the compassionate care she’d provided to their whole family.
And as her father lay dying, it was Darlene who made it possible to keep him in his home. It was Darlene who knew how to manage his pain. It was Darlene who could see that Ali had had a doozy of a day.
But even Darlene had limits, and it was time for her to head out and for Ali to clock in for her overnight vigil. They’d been managing things in shifts like this for just under two weeks.
“I think we’re down to hours, honey.” Darlene’s warm hand patted Ali’s shoulder.
Ali wanted to cry, accept a hug, and take a shower. But she did none of those things. It felt like letting go of control with a good cry would be akin to a bursting damn. She had her dad to think of, her event at work, her kids, and her little sisters. They all relied on Ali. Ali wasn’t going to fall apart. She didn’t have time.
“You really think tonight?”
“Maybe.”
Darlene was matter-of-fact, and she had answers without histrionics. She understood that Ali didn’t want sentiment. She wanted data. She wanted to know so she could prepare. Darlene had been through this dozens of times, but Ali had not. She appreciated the steady guidance and the angel on Earth that was Darlene Effler of Toledo Loving Hospice.
“I’ll check in with him and then call my sisters to keep them up to speed.”
“Look, you know what to do, right, if he stops breathing, wants medication, anything?”
“You taught me well. Go home.”
“Call me if he passes. I’ll help you through the next bit.”
“Thank you for everything.” This time, Ali squeezed Darlene’s shoulder. So many families owed her so much, Ali realized. She made the worst situation less so.
Ali put her things in her old room, but likely she’d not sleep there tonight. If Darlene’s assessment was accurate, Ali would be sitting bedside, until…well, until whatever.
Bruce Kelly was once a giant of a man, tall, broad, strong, and frightening really. But he was disintegrating now, thanks to cancer. He’d barely said a word for over two weeks.
Ali used to be so afraid of him. He ruled the house as a single dad—a widower who’d had to figure out how to raise three daughters.
He didn’t share emotions other than anger, and he didn’t walk down memory lane. He told them very little about their mother. What Ali remembered was perfume, pretty hair, and, sometimes, chaos.
