Since my father died and we registered his will, every
week I get two or three letters in the mail from people I don’t know, encased
in cheery pink and yellow envelopes or white business ones – and they all start
out with some version of “Condolences on your loss" and then wind up for the pitch, "Hey - I’d like to buy your
house, all cash, as-is condition, close in 30 days or less!”
It’s the sorriest version of a marketing
message I’ve ever seen. It makes me mad, and every time I open one I say
“Vulture!”
Emptying out the house after your final parent is gone
pulls on every heartstring you have. My
family members have each played a role in clearing the collections of my
parents’ lifetimes. We've tagged the things
we want to keep and have taken multiple trips to Value Village to drop off
giveaways: black trash bags stuffed with towels and bedding and throw pillows, boxes full of ancient kitchen tools and dishes and office supplies. My local
sister will take the TV and caned chairs and the bed in the guest room. One
friend took the Scan dining room set with the retractable leaves, the beige
microfiber sleeper sofa purchased two years ago that’s hardly been used, and
the one good navy leather recliner that Mom used to sit in. The matching
recliner – worn at the top and arms from Dad’s head and hands and patched
lovingly by me with adhesive-backed faux leather – was the one my father
practically lived in. He refused multiple offers of a new one, stubbornly clinging to the one he'd broken in. It was so "him" I couldn’t bear the sight of it, so I begged my
friend and contractor B. to take it away right after Dad died. He sent me a
picture of it on the back of his truck before he hauled it off, his shadow
visible on the tailgate, with the note “Got it.” It was like seeing my father’s
body taken away a second time.
I’ve learned a lot of things since my father’s death, and
in my role as executor of the estate. It’s a lot of work. And a lot of paper –
including the aforesaid “let me buy your father's house” letters. I didn’t foresee the number of threads that
would need to be tied off after a death, or the pain that comes with otherwise
simple administrative tasks. I make call after call to insurance companies and
banks and lawyers and have to say over and over, “My father died in March,
and….” Everything has a little sting of
finality: cancelling the home phone number, finding out when the property taxes
must be paid, buying three-packs of 10x13” manila envelopes to package up
requests to close out accounts, with letters of administration to prove I am the
personal representative and my father’s death certificate. I am weary
of seeing “Decedent’s name” and “Date of death” at the top.
Grief is a constant, but not the
throw-yourself-on-the-bed-and-cry kind. It shows up in different ways and in
the most inopportune places, like the grocery store, when I think for a second,
“I’ll get Dad some steamed shrimp” or when I see a small elderly man bent over a
walker like he used to, or find an old birthday card where he’s written, “I
don’t know what I’d do without you.” Not
having him to care for gives me back a big chunk of time, and for weeks, the
idleness has made me restless and edgy…but little by little I’m getting on
board with this new phase. I’m the bounce-back girl, after all.
And yesterday – ah, yesterday something beautiful happened. My
father’s house will settle in a week, and I invited the buyers to walk through
and see if they want any remaining furniture before I do a final purge. I’d
only met them in passing before, leaving the house as the husband and wife and
two daughters – one of them an autistic 10-year-old – came to see it for the
first time.
Just the husband showed up this time – Y, a
round-cheeked, cheerful black-haired and bearded fellow with a short, sturdy body in a
polo shirt and shorts and running shoes, with his sister E, almost a
body-double, minus the beard. The first thing he did was tell me how sorry he
was about my father. His sister, who doesn’t speak much English, held both
hands to her heart and then out to me to tell me the same thing. He said, “The second I walked into this house
it felt like a good place, a happy place.”
I walked them around, pointing out the art deco bureaus
that were my parents’ (and that my sisters and I hated to just give away,
because they are now antiques) and he said, “I love these! I’ll refinish them!”
E nodded and smiled, only understanding that this was good, her brother was
happy, and sensing that I was pleased with whatever he was saying. The same
thing happened with the heavy oak furniture in the guest room that had been my
sister’s, and then mine, when we were teenagers. There’s a part in the front of
each piece that is carved, a lovely block of ivy emerging from the wood, and Y said, “This is beautiful. And guess what? I am a wood carver. I will make you
something and bring it to the closing.”
Are you supposed to love your buyer when you sell a
house? Because I was starting to, and I know my father would have loved him,
too.
When we went downstairs, he said he wanted to show E the
back yard – which is massive for such a small house – and said to me, “This is
so good for my autistic daughter. She hates to be out in public, and she can
run and play here without other people around.” He spoke to E in Spanish,
who grinned and shrugged, and Y turned to me to translate, “My sister has a
business in El Salvador, but our parents are gone and it is just the two of us
left. I told her I want her to sell the
business and come live with us permanently. I’m going to break through the wall
here and make E a nice bedroom.”
Back upstairs, he told me his whole family is living on
the top floor of a house right now, and the space they will have in Dad’s house
is going to be magical to them. He told me what he’ll do with the house: pull
up the carpets and redo the floors, paint, texture the ceilings to cover the
imperfections, strip all the cabinets in the kitchen and paint them a dark
color, and replace the countertops. I was charmed by his excitement, by the way
his speech quickened and his eyes lit up. He couldn’t stop smiling. This was a
man living a dream, and giving his family their first real home.
And then he said, “I want to make this easy for you.
Don’t worry about emptying the rest of the house. Just move what you need and
leave all the rest – I’ll take care of it.” I nearly cried with relief – I
wouldn’t have to do that crazy, desperate, hysterical dance that happens when
you’re moving out of a house and suddenly it’s midnight before your closing
date and every last scrap of paper must go.
Before he and E left, he gave me his cell and told me
he’d like me to come see it when he’s worked on it. As I drove home, I thought
about what my father had said to me many, many times over several years: “I’m
worried that you’re going to have to empty this house out mostly on your own.”
Father love is powerful, and I think he must have had a hand in connecting Y with us to solve two problems: a daughter who
needed some help, and a family who needed a home.
This I know: it will be a good place, a happy place.
© 2019 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
It's been a long time since I posted on this blog. I'm doing my "big writing" elsewhere these days, and I sometimes forget about this space where I shared so many thoughts for a few years.
