“The struggle you’re in today is developing the strength you need for tomorrow.” - Anonymous
Looking back to those months after Dad’s funeral, my life went on as usual. I started a new job, passed the CPA exam and soon moved into a brand new home of my dreams. June, however, worked very hard at making sure everyone believed her life had remained exactly the same and she didn’t need help especially from me.
If June found herself bursting into tears when Dad’s death certificate arrived in the mail or when she found a bottle of his cologne tucked into a drawer she missed after cleaning out his things, or even setting the dinner table for only one, I’ll never know. Every time I offered to take her out to dinner or shopping, both things she loved to do, she put on a good front; she was doing just fine. I could see no cracks in the facade, nor did I take the time to look any deeper for them. I had to live my own life.
Nancy and Doug, the neighbors who had so graciously taken Shana in, stepped up and offered to drive June to the grocery store and hairdresser appointments. Doug bought a big, brand new boat like Cadillac every two years and had no problem giving Shana the same leather passenger seat my father had allowed her in his own car. Minimizing the disruption in the dog’s life seemed the most important thing June could do for herself.
They fell into a routine and every Saturday when I called to see how June was doing, she relayed some antic of Shana’s and some dumb remark of Doug’s. I never thought Nancy and Doug were the kind of people June would call friends. June loved the big city, they appeared small townish. Doug was a big, overweight, lumbering kind of guy, who wore a long, expressionless face no matter what his mood. Nancy, on the other hand, wore the pants in the family, stern, precise, never missing a single detail.
Because they were so kind to June, Richard and I often included them in our dinner parties. Doug loved being around my friends who were younger and livelier. He had an eye for the girls, and was a tad on the dirty old man side. He loved to socialize and tell silly jokes, while Nancy stewed in the corner.
The cracks began to appear slowly but surely. First Shana, at the age of eleven, had to be put down. The loss of a family pet is never easy and June dragged it out spending all of her available dollars at the veterinarian in a grand effort to keep Shana alive and vibrant. Based on Shana’s age and size, it was her time, but June struggled to let her go because it also meant the grieving process for her beloved Paul was about to start all over again.
Without Shana to act as a buffer between June and Nancy and Doug, Nancy boldly announced they would no longer be available to drive June wherever she needed to go. June told me that she accommodated their schedule when making her appointments but I suspect they grew tired of being at her beck and call. Nancy and Doug loved Shana but possibly June showed her stubborn and controlling side too often to suit their simple lifestyle. According to June, she also added this;
“Linda only invited us over so we would bring you too.”
This statement is sort of true I will admit. They did make my life easier by not driving 6 miles one way from my house to pick up June and to take her back home at the end of the night after I downed several glasses of wine.
I like to think I welcomed all kinds of people into my home, for the sheer pleasure it gave me to share what Richard and I had to give. Nancy and Doug blessed my family in our time of need and I’m thankful for them. It made me sad she pulled the plug without any notice and without allowing me to explain myself.
I should have paid attention to this blip in the road because I would run into it again later when June thought she made all the necessary arrangements to care for herself. She believed she had not a worry in the world; her friends would look after her well-being. What she never considered is they believed the responsibility for June belonged to me. I wish Dad had given me a little more insight through the years into how June’s mind worked before he burdened me with his final words. He knew what he was asking me to do without giving me the tools I needed to do it.
***
“Linda, it’s time for me to move closer to you. In Delray, into a smaller place,” June announced shortly after Nancy made her proclamation. “I talked with a real estate agent and she’s lining up some places for me to see tomorrow. I put this house up for sale yesterday.”
“Great idea, June.” I said. “It’ll be more fun to have you closer. Richard and I will look around here too and give you a heads up if anything looks interesting.”
“I don’t really want to leave my Boca Raton address but after that hurricane, I don’t want to be alone here any longer.”
Hurricane Andrew ran through Miami like a buzz saw on Sunday, August 24, 1992, approximately a year and half after Dad died. As always June had planned a Sunday dinner since my birthday fell during the week that year. We had to cancel when the area was placed under a hurricane warning and we were ordered to hunker down. I invited June to spend the night at our new, three bedroom, solidly built, concrete block house, but she refused. That stubborn streak of hers popped up at the strangest times and always when all I wanted to do was help and be kind to her.
The category five storm barreled through south Miami, devastating everything in its path. In Palm Beach County, 75 miles north of Andrew’s landfall, we suffered minimal wind damage. Hurricanes for some reason seem to come through at night, in the pitch dark making them even more menacing.
“I spent the night in the downstairs powder room and I never want to do that again,” June told me. Her voice sounded raw and crackly like she spent the night hollering for help.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, dumfounded that she felt the need to cram herself into a bathroom the size of a postage stamp with only room for a toilet and a sink, barely enough space to sit down when she could have spent the night sleeping in my comfortable guest room.
“It’s the only room in the house without a window. That’s where they told me to go,” she said.
“Who told you to go there?” I asked, thinking one of her worrywart neighbors thought they were doing her a favor but instead struck fear in her mind.
“On the news, they said to take shelter. Didn’t you?” she asked. I sensed frustration in her voice.
“No, June,” I said. “We went to bed and slept through it. The storm was a hundred miles away from us. We had some wind and very little rain.”
“Don’t patronize me, Linda. I don’t like your tone.” She used that word my mother loved to say. The hair on my arms bristled.
“June, I asked you to come over but you refused. Nothing happened here and you spent the night worrying over nothing. All you had to do was call me.”
Click went the phone. Within three months time, June settled into a perfect two bedroom condominium only a quarter mile from my home. The apartment had two spacious bathrooms, an eat-in kitchen and a lovely balcony where she could smoke to her heart’s content. It had one other important thing. Hurricane shutters and a handyman willing to close them for a small fee.