The first thing I placed in the shipping box was a container
with his ashes. It was lightweight because scoops had already been removed and scattered.
One batch of my second husband's remains went to Jackson Park where Tommy got a
hole in one. Another was spread among the plantings outside the YMCA, his
longtime gym; and one more in the park where every morning for 12 years we
walked our dog.
Next, I tucked in his watch and wallet -- both decades old
because he thought it foolish to replace them. I slipped his wedding ring on
the watch strap, threaded it closed, and tucked it in.
Just as I was about to seal the box and affix a mailing
label for Chicago, I heard, "I was wondering when you were going to get
your butt home."
Tommy! My deceased spouse had decided to visit. "Get
your butt home," he'd order when he was alive and I traveled away from
him. He was teasing back then, and now for fun, repeating the phrase.
"I'm not surprised you're glad I'm returning to
Chicago," I said, smiling as I resurrected his voice, which was clear
rather than dimmed by his end-of-life aphasia. "You were never a fan of
Los Angeles," I said. "Too spread out, horrible traffic, wasn't that
your view?"
"Listen sweetheart," he said. "We both grew
up in Chicago. We've got friends there we've known since childhood. That's not
easy to replace."
My make-believe visitor was a clue it was time to take a
break from packing. As I was about to continue with Tommy, another speaker
seeped through my head.
"Remember I told you Princess, that I always wanted to
live at State and Madison?" It was my dad who's been dead since 1958, but evidently
eager to have a say. "I heard you're moving into a building downtown. Terrific;
you're finally listening to me." He held a cigarette between two fingers,
and when he saw my stare, said,
"Carte blanche. No restrictions."
"We're happy you're returning to Chicago, too."
This was a duet. "Mom, Dad!" I said to my former in-laws, a lovely
couple that came with my first marriage. "This is the only time you've
returned for a conversation since you died. Why now?"
"To be honest, we were very unhappy when you moved to
Los Angeles, but it wasn't our place to pry." It was my father-in-law
taking the lead. "Even though you divorced, we felt sure you'd be in Chicago,
in our child's life forever, watching over each other."
My mother-in-law, ever the polite one, said, "When we
learned you were moving back, and picked an apartment near our dear one, we
just had to come and tell you how pleased we are."
Wow, this was getting to be some pow-wow! Just as I was
about to respond, another speaker joined in. I was wondering when she was going
to show up. "Am I the only one unhappy that you're leaving L.A. and my
grandchildren and great-grandchildren?" she said. "I finally had you
all in one place, and typical of you, you're on the move again."
I wasn't distressed by my mother's opinion; I was just happy
to have the chance to conjure her vision. She died in 1981, still a beauty with
hair barely touched by gray. Our kids were teens then, old enough for their
talent to dazzle her.
"I knew it; I knew it, back in their high school years,"
she said. "I predicted they'd be remarkable. " She looked triumphant,
as if she were on stage with her
granddaughters, holding their hands as they accepted awards.
My in-laws soon leapt in. "Those girls are something
else," they agreed, wanting to assure their DNA was also credited.
"Listen," I said to the celestial crowd. "I
know you have differing opinions about my returning to Chicago." Four
heads nodded. "But for now, I'd really appreciate it if you'd just watch
over me and my move."
Tommy was the first to offer: "Since I'm the most
recent up here, I'll be closest to your flight home. I've got that
covered."
"No worries," Dad said. "I'll ride shotgun in
the delivery trucks coming your way, just to make sure everything arrives on
time."
"I suppose we
can handle the reserved elevator," my father-in-law said. "Oh
dear," from his wife. "Thirty-seventh floor. I suppose it'll be
fine."
We waited for Mom to volunteer. "When all of the
furniture is in place and you're finally in bed in your new home," she
said. "I'll tuck you in."
Content now, I returned to my task and assembled another box,
larger this time, to hold family photographs. Everyone was coming with.
