Saturday, October 22, 2016—
We cruise past the Car Wash into NutraTek’s parking lot. Aubrynne’s been howling since Mayor Magrath Drive. We’ve just spent two nights in the Crowsnest Pass, observing fifteen years of marriage by acquiring Christmas gifts for seven children. We’re hours overdue at the house, where our six sons are trying my parents’ patience with their living room volleyball tournament. “No hurry,” my Dad says, when I call home to check in. But three hours later, hurry pummels my nerves. We’re one block from home with Christmas to conceal. Last stop: Jared’s office, to secrete Santa’s haul.
We pull in beside Jared’s dad’s white Nissan. Dad is out in his harvest-wear—blue jeans and button-shirt, stripes now so faded the colors all blend into dishwater gray. Irritation drags its fingernails down my mental chalkboard. Does he usually spend Saturday afternoons at the office? We don’t have time to socialize.
Jared opens the back hatch and greets his dad. I unbuckle Aubrynne, cover-up, and nurse. Only her hunger prevents me from bolting the one block to home, to my boys, to my parents. Jared opens the office; Dad holds the door. It takes Jared four armloads to empty the hatch.
As Jared disappears behind NutraTek’s doors, Dad leans in the driver’s side window.
“So you got away for a day or two? Left the kids with your parents? It’s great to have supportive folks who can do that for you.”
My tongue inflates. Maybe he thinks we’re neglectful.
“Got some Christmas for your kids?”
I blush. He must think we’re extravagant
Dad smiles and nods. “That’s great.”
I’m mute. What’s my problem? Dad fills in the gaps: He departs early morning. He’s headed to conferences. Tomorrow’s the Sabbath. He’d rather not travel on Sunday, but this time the schedule’s too tight. Back-to-back meetings. Four in the morning. Amishland. Then San Diego.
Jared comes back. “The deed is done,” he grins. His dad grins, too. They converse; I don’t listen. I step out with Aubrynne; I’m walking her home. She’s done with her car seat; I’m done with the chit-chat. I clutch little Aubrynne close under my hoodie and leave . . . without hugging Dad, thanking him, or waving good-bye.
Twenty-one days, twelve hours and counting.
* * * * *
Friday, April 27, 2001—
The boat-length Dodge Aires chugs through the circle drive of the two-story home across the street from the schools. Jared emerges, legs stiff from twelve hours behind the wheel, due North. The troops erupt through the front door: Landon, Emily, KK, Lowyn, Dallin, Janae, Shelyse, Joseph, Mom, Dad.
“You made it!”
“You’re back!”
“Come in!”
“Are you hungry?”
“Grab his bags.”
“Welcome home.”
It’s late before father and BYU son stand alone at the kitchen sink, elbow-deep in dishwater. The YSA girls and youth boys are out dancing. Mom’s asleep with the baby. The little girls in their bedroom whisper secrets between themselves.
“Who are you dating?” Dad’s number one question.
Jared lists a few girls from the ward, one from work, and one random contact in Spanish Fork, Utah: Sheralee Bills.
Dad’s heard my name before. “Tell me about Sheralee.”
“We go to Devotionals each Tuesday morning. I took her to a Temple Square concert. We went kite flying with her family, we meet sometimes on campus, we’ve gone to a couple of senior recitals. After, we sing and play piano together in the practice rooms. She works at the Writing Center. She’s a great girl.”
“You like her?”
“I love spending time with her. I can talk to her more easily than anyone else I’ve ever known. But I don’t think I would ever marry her.”
Dad has never met me, and yet he pleads my case. “What else are you looking for?”
Jared can’t answer.
Silverware clinks against stoneware; sloshing water underscores Dad’s counsel: “Don’t be too quick to give up a good thing in search of something better. That kind of communication doesn’t happen every day.”
Fifteen years, six months, seventeen days and counting.
* * * * *
Sunday, July 8, 2001—
Before the sun or anyone else rises, Dad pads to the kitchen in bare feet and bathrobe. He stirs up some Postum and scans the family corkboard. Amid wedding announcements and emergency phone numbers perches the Bills Family photograph: two parents, five brothers, three sisters—one of them me. I sit in blue velveteen and Young Womanhood Medallion, front row and second from left. He studies my smile, my demeanor, my aura. Jared had hoped to bring me home for July First to meet his family; but I was in Kirtland, Ohio—church history touring—so my photograph had to suffice. Dad pokes at his Postum, ponders his second son, ponders the stranger in blue on the board.
What satisfies his soul-searching he describes as assurance. He phones Provo to tell Jared. “This will be all right.”
Twelve days later, Jared proposes. His dad picks the diamond: a round solitaire in rose gold, on clearance from Ward’s. “You don’t have to use it,” he wheedles obliquely. “There will be others who’ll need diamond rings.”
We take it.
Fifteen years, three months, twenty-four days and counting.
* * * * *
Sunday, October 17, 2004—
”May I hold that baby, Sher?”
I relinquish my bundle, one-day-old Seth Lawrence, to his shiny-eyed grandfather. He is my second son. He is his Grandpa Hardy’s seventeenth grandbaby, but the first to share his middle name.
Here in his kitchen, Dad's life looks serene: table set for nine, his signature Sunday roast beef and mashed potatoes, garden-grown corn, green beans, and buttercup squash steaming on the stovetop. Beneath his handy apron lies a heart suffering turmoil I don’t comprehend—a tangled paradox to this prosaic Sabbath hearth. Fifteen months ago, Health Canada officials and local RCMP raided his burgeoning business, charging him and his partner with six different counts of violation of the Food and Drug Act—all for marketing a multinutrient to stabilize mental health. Five of those charges will be dropped before he actually appears in court in two years. Of the sixth, he’ll be acquitted on a claim of necessity in a judicial triumph that will validate years of struggle, genuinely endeavoring to assist the mentally ill.
But tonight, only bags beneath his brooding blue eyes betray the scars of opposition. For this moment, he’s simply Grandpa, snuggling my new baby son. For forty-five minutes, the two sit still and cuddle. I chat with a sister-in-law, read to my toddler, watch through the big picture living room window as dusk fades to darkness before Grandpa returns my sleeping Seth.
“Thanks, Sher,” he murmurs, his voice thick and husky. “It’s amazing how therapeutic a baby is.”
Twelve years, twenty-seven days and counting.
* * * * *
Recurring phone call: multiple times per year, 2004-2016—
The phone rings. It’s 3639—Jared’s Dad. I answer.
“Is this the Incredible Sheralee Hardy?”
“You must have the wrong number. The only Sheralee Hardy here is well below average.”
He chuckles and completes the call; he’s usually looking for Jared. Despite my denying his compliment, and although my words ring truer than his, he has left me better than he found me, raised my sights, redirected my feet to higher ground.
* * * * *
Thursday, April 18, 2013—
Fourth month without salary, living on savings and drinking powdered milk.
I tuck in my two oldest after our nightly chapter of Where the Red Fern Grows.
“Why did Grandpa ever split with Truehope?” Ammon, almost eleven, wants to know.
“He and his partner had different visions for how to help their customers. Grandpa needed to branch out on his own in order to follow his heart.”
“Everything was fine when we were with Truehope,” nine-year-old Seth complains.
“Everything looked fine to us. But it was hard on Grandpa.”
“I wish he’d never left.”
Seth lies under his covers, prostrate. I rub his back. “That’s what the ancient Israelites said. Why did they leave Egypt? Why did Lehi leave Jerusalem?”
“They were slaves,” answers Ammon.
“God told them to,” asserts Seth.
I smooth their fuzzy blankets over their pre-teen spines. “God is going to lead Grandpa to the promised land,” I whisper. “But Grandpa knows we’ll never get there without a journey through the wilderness.”
By September, Dad’s sons will start bringing home paychecks. Sub-minimum wage will have never looked so good. Dad will take nothing, sell his stocks, mortgage properties, lose credit, grow vegetables, drop grudges, pioneer.
“Jared, I’ve been here,” he’ll privately testify when the outlook looms bleakest. “When you’re backed against a wall and there’s no way out; when the Egyptians are upon you and the Red Sea before you, that’s when the Lord parts the waters.”
That April night, I type a letter. The boys deliver it for me in the morning:
Dear Dad—Thank you for reminding us, by precept and example, that faith precedes the miracle. Thank you for the evidence resplendent in your history that our Father’s hand is crafting every detail of our lives, that in His hands, our lives transform from menial to Masterpiece. My greatest earthly blessing is being part of your family; my greatest heavenly blessing is the prospect of making that family eternal. We love & ever pray for you. Your loving Daughter-in-Law
Three years, six months, twenty-six days and counting.
* * * * *
Wednesday, May 14, 2014—
I catch Dad out of the corner of my eye, clad in his garden grubbies, crossing the playing field that separates his home from the High School track. It’s planting time, but he has snuck away for just a moment. He slips in beside me as Mr. Hogg announces, “Runners, take your marks.”
One hundred meters away, Ammon strikes racing stance for the Grade 6 Boys 100M Final. The starting gun fires. I shriek to release the heavy-weight tension, shriek like my cheers might propel his pavement-pounding feet. Dad clenches his fists, cranes his neck, urges inaudibly under his breath, until Ammon flies, fury-faced, first past the finish line.
Dad beams with his whole face, his whole being. He congratulates his grandson with unequivocal pride, pounds his back, pumps his hand, basks in his victory. When he strides back across field and street to his garden, his steps skim earth’s surface, as buoyant as Ammon’s.
Two years, five months, thirty days and counting.
* * * * *
Wednesday, November 9, 2016—
I’m couched on a red plastic chair outside the 9th Grade Language Arts classroom, waiting my turn for Parent Teacher Interviews, when Kim, my sister-in-law, slumps down the hallway, studying her smartphone screen.
“How are you, Kim?” I bubble.
“How am I?” she sticks out her tongue. “How are you?”
I’m confused. “How am I? I’m fine.”
“Fine? How are you?”
“Okay; I’m lost. What are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Didn’t Jared call you?”
I don’t tell her that he couldn’t; I’m one of the twenty-first century’s last laggards who still doesn’t carry a cell phone.
“Sher, Dad just had a stroke. They took him away in an ambulance.”
My brain fogs. “How bad is it?”
“Total left-side paralysis. So yeah. I’m kind of stinky, all things considered. Now you know.”
She walks away. On my right sit a family practitioner’s wife and the wife of the EMT who just drove away with Jared’s dad.
“There’s a three hour window,” they tell me. “He wasn’t home alone, so they almost certainly beat the three hours. As long as you catch it in three hours, they can recover, just fine.”
Three days, fourteen hours and counting.
* * * * *
Saturday, November 12, 2016—
“I’m not trying to sell you anything.” Lowyn’s steady bass belies his heartache. “They won’t remove the oxygen until Shelyse gets here; she’s due to arrive about nine. But Jared, if you want to be here, to say good-bye, this is it. Mom has requested that we keep it to Dad’s biological children only.”
The latest episode in this week of Sturm und Drang: A powerful priesthood blessing and absolute peace. A STARS flight to Calgary. MRIs, diagnosis: massive MCA stroke, extensive tissue damage, total left-side paralysis. Assessment and counseling. Dad’s coherent expression: “I’d rather live a life of disability than die.” Mom’s absolute support. A craniectomy. Rest. Then, just when we’re sure Dad’s on his road to recovery, rapid swelling and fluid accumulation, beyond the reach of further surgical or medical intervention. Unresponsive. Coma. Come say good-bye.
I heat Jared some soup, pack his overnight bag: pajamas, socks, Sunday suit, tie. Dad bought it for Jared: “How does that look on him, Sher?” Jared would never have purchased a tie at that price; but this was for business, and Dad wanted the best. Deodorant, toothpaste, phone charger, DEN. In the bedroom, Seth is sobbing, “Grandpa, Grandpa . . . please, let me go!” Oranges, water bottle . . . there must be more. Jared shaves and eats and hugs each of our kids.
“If you email me a message, Seth, I can read it for you to Grandpa.” Seth shakes his head, vehement.
Jared puts on his coat. Lunch cooler in one hand, suitcase in the other, he stands in the bathroom. I hug him and weep.
“Can you give your dad a message from me?”
He has to wait; I can’t get it out. Sobs strangle my sentences. “Tell him thank you,” I finally choke. “And tell him, ‘I love you.’”
Nine hours, forty minutes and counting.
* * * * *
Friday, November 18, 2016—
Solace engulfs us one hug, one flower, one phone call, one memory at a time. We can’t walk down the street without friends of Dad’s touching our elbows, sharing our tears, murmuring, “What a great man.” As Dave from Milford Colony puts it, “If he isn’t going to heaven, ain’t nobody going to heaven.”
I shuffle my boys past the tables of treasures: Grandpa’s green Ralco hoodie, his handy apron, his garden grubbies—the shirt he was wearing at NutraTek the last time I saw him alive. Photos upon photos, from childhood to the conference in San Diego, the week before his stroke. Among God’s tender mercies, Mom called Emily as she and her girls showed Dad around the San Diego temple grounds. “Take pictures,” Mom requested. Now they’re framed on his funeral display. Jared has sent them to researchers around the globe. “This is what David stood for. This is what drove his work. This is what gives us hope.”
We slip into the viewing room, approach his lifeless body. White-clad, at peace; I hear his guttural chuckle bidding the grandkids, “Sleep with your eyes closed.” Dallin’s Heather compels the piano, solicits the harmonies of heaven itself.
Eight-year-old Abigail sits among her four sisters and one brother, James, tears tumbling. Her Mama’s slender arms can’t encircle them all. If Grandpa were here, I know he would hold her. I leave my own children with their daddy; he needs them. It’s amazing how therapeutic a baby is, even babies who’ve grown up. I cross to the chairs where my nieces are huddled, open my arms to Abigail, and lift her right into my lap. I stroke her hair; we cry together. “Grandpa loves you,” I whisper.
A clock won’t divulge the time we have left, but I’ve learned that eternity’s counting.
