Last Saturday was sublime, a perfect day to ignore obligations (probate, condo) and go for a walk under that great blue expanse of Fairbanks winter sky. Every personal errand that I run, every crossword and coffee date with John, or evening realization that I failed to accomplish something related to my parents' estate feels like an undeserved indulgence. But I'm a practiced hand at avoiding that weight of guilt.
So I dropped off the girls at dance class and headed over to Creamer's with Bruce for some exercise. Not for a real run, just a little walk. It's been over three months since I've gone on an actual jog with Bruce (knee injury, laziness). As I buckled his harness, I could definitely tell it was tighter than usual – and I'm certain he's not the only one whose dimensions have expanded over the holidays.
 |
| Looking southeast toward town |
 |
| One happy dog |
 |
| Blue shadows in the golden sun |
Fairbanks on a warm sunny winter day is perfection: the immense blue of the sky, the productive crunch of boots on snow, the liquid gold light of the perpetual sunset. Why,
yes, there
is a reason we live here! Everyone I encountered on the trails was smiling, and we all greeted each other or nodded in tacit congratulations for our mutual good fortune to live in such an amazing place. I ran into friends; I wore sunglasses; the dog was happy to sniff all the smells. The world was grand. (Ask me again in thirty below darkness what I think of Fairbanks – but then, such bipolarity is the essence of being an Alaskan.)
I rounded the bend on the far side of the field, following some rather enormous dog tracks, and was put to mind of an incident that happened a couple years ago at the same spot: I was on a jog with the girls in their big double stroller when a loose and snarling dog started to chase us. I remembered the feeling of slo-mo surreality combined with knee-jerk protectiveness as I put myself between the dog and the twins in their stroller. I screamed at it and held it off until the owner (upset, yet perplexingly unrepentant) arrived to leash it. I was angry that she hadn't truly apologized, and filled with the adrenaline of righteous indignation for hours afterwards.
As I contemplated that moment of maternal rage, a large German Shepherd appeared out of the mist on the trail ahead, dark and gorgeous in its grandiosity. Its paws were the ones that had created the prehistorically large prints we had been following. The dire-dog's ears were perked at attention – and then – it started to approach us, gaining speed with each second. In the moment, it seemed like it wanted to eat us. The owner (who had been taking a photo, transfixed with the beauty of the place, just as I had been) was startled out of her reverie and started yelling at her dog with increasing desperation. "Jasper! Jasper! Come! Leave it! Leave it!" My own human hackles were raised, and it was the stroller incident all over again. I stood my ground. I felt just as protective towards my sweet Bruce as I did my girls. I was rooted to the spot and planted myself between my dog and the attacking German Shepherd as it circled us. I made myself bigger than I felt and yelled (in my deepest, angriest, anti-soprano voice), "Leave it! Leave it! No!" until the dog eventually decided we weren't worth the effort and returned to its owner. This time the owner was utterly apologetic and hastened away, ashamed. I was too stunned to even care and just let her walk on ahead before continuing on the path toward my car, worried that I'd be late to pick up the girls if I veered off trail or turned around the way I came.
Later that evening, as I was half-heartedly attempting to post photos of our walk to Instagram ("
Just went for a sunny walk at Creamer's! Narrowly escaped dog attack LOL"), I got an email from a neighbor and board member from my parents' condo association, directing me to check and replace the thermostat batteries and threatening to enter the premises if I didn't respond within the week. Hell is an HOA of retirees with nothing better to do than peer through their window blinds at the neighbor's unit, speculating as to the source of all the world's ills.
It felt just like the adrenaline of the German Shepherd attacking me. Which is ridiculous, because it was just an email, not a dog, but everything condo-related provokes anxiety. There are boxes of mementos and belongings inside that I have yet to cart over to our house. There is a closet full of Pendleton shirts and quilting fabrics that I know I want to keep (do they spark joy, sadness, or both?) but have no idea what to do with. When I drive within a mile of the condo, I feel myself shutting down. "I should stop there now," I tell myself. "Even if it's just for fifteen minutes, I should stop and get things done." But then maybe I'll meet a neighbor who will ask what the status on moving out is, and I just don't want to face them. I often pass by that dark cloud of obligation and find another way to occupy myself. Before we moved back to Fairbanks from Seattle, I'd spent vacations in the warm respite of my parents' kitchen, imagining blueberry jam recipes and Sunday night dinners. Now, the condo had become the albatross around my neck, a problem to deal with rather than a place to enjoy.
Of course we had checked and replaced the batteries, and quite recently. Of course we were visiting the condo and checking on things. Why was I being singled out from the snowbirds who leave their units empty for months at a time when I was a regular visitor (albeit one who seems to be only able to play the same sad Chopin Nocturnes on the piano and pore over photo albums instead of actually moving out)?
My email response was measured, detailed, and calm – the very opposite of how I feel most days when I contemplate the enormity of the task ahead of me in emptying out the unit of a lifetime of possessions and completing all the necessary probate paperwork. I wrote back to let them know that the batteries had recently been replaced and nothing was amiss, temperature or otherwise, in the unit, but that I would ask my husband to stop by that evening just for peace of mind. I pretended that we were all on good terms and finished the email with an innocent query about whether garage sales were indeed disallowed on the premises. They're not allowed, and I had guessed that much, but
look at how normal I am! I'm not just a grieving daughter unable to cope with her parents' possessions, but a daughter planning for the future! The future of an empty condo!
John had taken Theo to a movie that afternoon and was already in town. I texted him to ask that he stop by the condo on his way home just to satisfy the neighbor's demands. John was only too happy to comply. He's always happy to comply. He's a real go-getter, handy-man, and do-gooder around the condo, that John. As he has been ever since my parents moved there more than a decade ago. A proper son-in-law, still completing his son-in-law duties even after my parents have passed away.
John later revealed that stopping by the condo hadn't been just an easy in-and-out. The same neighbor who had emailed me just hours before, had apparently noticed the lights on when John had stopped by, and had gone over to investigate ... and instigate a bizarre and patronizing confrontation. John was confused by the repeated insinuation that we had been neglecting the place. The neighbor kept repeating the fact that the batteries had to be replaced yearly and then tossed off a Grandpa Simpson-esque, "AND NO GARAGE SALES!" as the final rejoinder in their increasingly heated conversation. I imagine this neighbor clicking the "SEND" button on that email in righteous indignation, and the stamp on the hardcopy letter licked with Ebenezer Scrooge-like officiousness.
And it is utterly ridiculous, but I am apparently undone by the disapproval of this virtual stranger and can't stand to even check mail at the condo now. The kids were asking why we don't go over to play, and I have nothing to tell them. I just ... can't. A hint of negative energy has me thinking of the condo as a no go war zone. My parents' ashes (and Uncle Art's for what it's worth) still rest on top of the piano there; every time I sat down at the keyboard, I touched the boxes, talismans of comfort (whose comfort, I'm uncertain). I find myself wanting to believe in ghosts, that the place is haunted. It is not. But I
want it to be, I want there to be a conclusive sign from the afterlife, a message from my parents that all is well on the ski slopes of Elysium, but any spirits have been resolutely silent on the matter. The condo is quiet, half-packed and still – devoid of ghosts but full of the glare of indignant scrutiny from the neighbors across the lawn.
I can see things from the other perspective. It's been over a year since my dad died. Why haven't I been able to clear things out? Why haven't I sold the condo unit yet? I
want to sell it. I
want to see a new owner move in. I
want to clear my plate of all this responsibility. I
want to apologize for my grief and the resultant coping mechanism of procrastination, but then ... I also want others to apologize to me: the salivating realtor who texted within hours of my father's death (I'm sure it was a coincidence, but what timing); the neighbor's wife from across the lawn who never bothered to befriend my parents in their life but was intensely curious about the condition of their condo during their illness; that same neighbor's friend who called to ask (demand) when the condo would be for sale and seemed intensely put out when I couldn't give an exact date; the neighbor who airs his petty grievances under cover of concern about thermostat battery replacement.
Everything is an impotent mix of rage and regret. I obsess over my mistakes and the mistakes of others. Getting angry at my mom when she was oblivious to her symptoms. The dog owner who refused to apologize when I thought my daughters were in danger. The lawyer who drafted my father's will to whom I had to explain Advanced Medical Directives. The neurologist who blithely refused to diagnose my mother's condition until I demanded tests, and whose clinic schedule forced us to wait months for appointments (thus progressing her disease beyond the possibility of a cure). I'm angry that my parents had a tendency to stick their heads in the sand to avoid decisions and I'm angry at my own almost genetic predisposition to do the same. I want to apologize to my parents for not coming up with a quicker, better solution. I want to apologize to the condo neighbors for not moving quicker through my grief. I want that one neighbor to apologize for being an asshole. I want my parents to apologize for not having their affairs in order. I want them to apologize for dying on me.
