September 27th, 1995.
Twelve years ago today, at 6:04am, I officially became an orphan. I was sweaty and smelly from spending two days in the hospital - I remember I was wearing blue Calvins, a white Washington DC t-shirt that I never wore again, and my black cowboy boots. My hair was tangled and natty. I was sleep deprived and running on adrenaline, barking orders to nursing staff, relatives and friends. I had a list… after Dad was pronounced at 6:21 (we had to wait for the on-call to arrive), I went into the nurses’ lunchroom and pulled out the little black and gold plastic card (it looked like a VIP card for a posh and exclusive club - and it was, in a way. it was the 24-hour contact number for the undertaker, for pre-paid clients only) and arranged for the “pick-up”, like some kind of mobster.
I called work, told them I wouldn’t be in.
I called my father’s best friend (who also happened to be my best friend’s father) to activate the “Danny’s dead telephone tree”.
I called my cousins - my father’s brother’s girls, even though their father was with me. I had assigned him the task of cleaning Dad’s room instead. He needed to be kept busy.
I called my Godmother. She hated me, I hated her, but hey, these are the things you do.
I called the lawyer.
I called Air Canada to begin the process of giving me my quarter million.
For the next three days I donned my staid black dresses and low heels. I smiled wanly at distant relatives I neither knew nor cared to know. I allowed old people to pat my cheeks and kiss me; already familiar with the smell of death, what was three more days of it. I stood vigil to make sure that no one opened the casket - Dad’s express wish, because cancer is a disease that makes you ugly. I arranged cars and hotels like a good travel agent. I signed forms and checks without paying much attention to fine print or dollar value. I mouthed the 23rd Psalm which I already knew by heart, having been to so many of these events since the age of 7.
Occasionally I remembered to eat, remembered to feed the cat. I desperately wanted a whiskey, but there was too much driving to be done. And when it was all over, and everyone had gone and left me alone, I baked pies. Really, dozens of pies. I was all by myself, my boss had forced me to take more time off than I needed, and I realized (after almost running over a group of schoolgirls on the sidewalk) that I was in no fit state - with or without alcohol - to be driving. So I was trapped in my apartment with nothing to do and no one to talk to. And I baked 23 pies.
A few days later I turned 19.
