I stepped over the low hedge that separated our house from the Crawfords’ and walked up their porch, ringing the doorbell. A moment later, I was gratified to see Mrs. Crawford open the door. I was afraid she’d be frightened by my mohawk, and I purposely tried to look as nonthreatening as possible, but she opened the door all the way, totally unafraid. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Crawford! Thank God you still live here. Where are my parents? I just went next door and there’s a strange man living in our house who said he’s never heard of us.”
Now there was fear in her eyes. She moved slightly behind the door, ready to slam it at the slightest provocation. “Who are you?” Her voice sounded older than I remembered, weaker.
“I’m Bob.”
“Bob?”
“Bob Jones. Don’t you remember?” I could see that she didn’t. “I’m Martin and Ella’s son!”
“Martin and Ella had no son.”
“You used to babysit me!”
She started to close the door. “I’m sorry — ”
I was so frustrated that I felt like screaming at her, but I kept my voice even. “Just tell me where my parents are. Martin and Ella Jones. Where are they?”
She looked at me, squinting for a moment as thought she almost recognized me, then shook her head, obviously giving up her memory search.
“Where are they?”
“The Joneses died six months ago in an automobile accident. Drunk driver.”
My parents were dead.
I stood there as she closed the door on me, not moving, not reacting, not doing anything. The door clicked shut, followed by the snick of a dead bolt. In my peripheral vision, I could see the curtains move on the window to the right side of the door, could see Mrs. Crawford’s face peek through the opening. I was vaguely aware that the man living in my parents’ house — Taz — was calling to me, saying something.
My parents were dead.
I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. I had not had enough time to think about their lives to be able to react to their deaths. I had not had time to prepare for and cultivate a sense of loss. The shock had been too sudden. I wanted to feel sad, but I didn’t. I simply felt numb.
I turned slowly around, walked out to the sidewalk.
I hadn’t been invited to my own parents’ funeral.
I wished that my parents and I had been closer, but I’d always assumed there’d be time for that, that eventually it would happen, that age would provide common ground, that years would bring togetherness. It was not something I’d actively planned for or sought out, just a general feeling, but now those vague hopes had been permanently dashed. I should’ve made an effort, I thought. I should’ve known that something like this could happen to them, and I should’ve put aside the babyishness, the pettiness, and not let our disagreements divide us. I should’ve gotten closer to them while I’d had the chance.
Taz was still calling to me, but I ignored him and got in my car, turning the key in the ignition. I glanced back toward the Crawfords’ as I pulled out, and now both Mrs. and Mr. Crawford were looking openly through the parted curtains.
Six months ago. That would’ve been June. Jane and I had still been together then. I would’ve just gotten my job two months before.
Why hadn’t someone notified me? Why hadn’t I been called? Hadn’t someone found my name and address somewhere amidst their personal effects?
I had not really thought of myself as being ignored by my parents, but as I thought back to my childhood, I was surprised to find my memories slightly hazy. I could not recall any specific instances in which I’d done things with my mom or gone places with my dad. I remembered teachers, kids, pets, places, toys — and events related to each of them — but of my parents there was only a general sense that they’d done a good job of raising me. I’d had a fairly normal, happy childhood — at least I’d thought I had — but the warm, loving recollections I should’ve held, the remembrances of individual events I should’ve possessed, were nowhere to be found. There was no personalization to my parental memories.
Maybe that’s why we hadn’t been closer. Maybe I’d been merely a generic child to them, a personalityless blank they were obliged to feed, clothe, and raise.
Maybe I’d been Ignored since birth.
No, that couldn’t be true. I had not been ignored by my parents. They’d always bought me birthday and Christmas presents, for Christ’s sake. That proved that they thought about me. They’d always invited me home for Easter, for Thanksgiving. They cared about me.
Jane had cared about me, too, though. That didn’t mean I wasn’t Ignored.
Six months ago.
That was about the time I’d first started to notice my condition, that I’d first become aware of my true nature. Maybe it was connected. Maybe when my parents died, when the people who knew me and loved me best passed away, what had always been dormant within me had been activated. Maybe it was their knowledge of my existence that had kept me from being completely Ignored.
I’d been fading even faster since I’d lost Jane.
I pulled onto Harbor Drive, pushing the thought out of my mind, not wanting to think about it.
Where were my parents’ belongings? I wondered. Had they been auctioned off? Donated to a charity? There were no other relatives except me, and I hadn’t gotten anything. Where were all our pictures and photo albums?
The photo albums.
It was the photo albums that did it. It was the photo albums that were the trigger.
I started to cry.
I was driving toward the freeway, and suddenly I couldn’t see because of the tears in my eyes. Everything was runny, blurry, and I pulled to the side of the road and wiped my cheeks and eyes. I felt a sob in my throat, heard a sound come out of my mouth, and I forced myself to stop it, to knock it off. This was not the time to be maudlin and sentimental.
I took a deep breath. I had no one now. No girlfriend, no relatives, no friends. Nobody. I was all alone and on my own, and I was Ignored. I had only myself — and my job. As strange and ironic as it was, it was now only through my job that I had any sort of identity at all.
But that was going to change. I was going to find out who I was, what I was. I was through living in darkness and ignorance. And I was through with letting opportunities pass me by. I had learned from my mistakes, I had learned from my past, and my future was going to be different.
I put the car into gear and headed toward the freeway. It would be nearly midnight before I got back to Brea.
I stopped by a Burger King and got a Coke for the long trip home.
Fifteen
Monday.
I was ten minutes late for work due to a three-car pileup on the Costa Mesa Freeway, but I didn’t sweat it. No one would notice if I was late.
I’d spent the weekend calling my parents’ friends, the ones I remembered, asking if they knew what had happened to my parents’ personal effects. None of them had known. Several of them wouldn’t even talk to me.
None of them remembered me.
No one had known or was willing to tell me which mortuary had handled the arrangements and at which cemetery my parents were buried, so I went to the library, xeroxed the appropriate pages from the San Diego Yellow Pages, and called every damn funeral home in the book. Of course, it turned out to be the last one. I asked the funeral director if he knew what had happened to my parents’ belongings, and he said no, he didn’t. I asked him who had paid for the funeral, and he said that information was confidential. He was understanding and apologetic and told me that if I could bring proof that Martin and Ella Jones were my parents he would be happy to divulge the information to me, but he could not tell me over the phone. Proof? I asked. Birth certificate, he told me.