Turn the Page

By Laura D. Hollingshead

Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever.

~Author Unknown

My father died young. He was only forty-two years old that November afternoon when his coworkers found him slumped over his desk. I was sixteen.

The memory is very clear. Mom and I were in the kitchen making spaghetti for supper. Italian sausage had been browned nicely and was simmering in a tomato sauce seasoned with basil, oregano, parsley, onions, and lots of garlic. I can still remember the garlic smell on my fingers as I lifted the phone receiver to my ear.

A deep male voice on the other end asked to speak to Arlene, my mother. I didn't recognize the voice, but I could hear the barely controlled panic and my stomach tightened into a knot of fear. That year had been full of unpleasant surprises for our family.

In May, Dad had been in California working and had been hospitalized with severe congestive heart failure. Doctors had not expected him to live, so Mom had flown from New Jersey to California to be with him. My two brothers, my sister, and I were left home with our aunt to oversee the household for a few weeks.

During Mom's absence our dog developed a fractured vertebra, which caused him severe pain and partial paralysis. The vet said there was nothing to be done, so we had him put down.

Mom was in California for over two weeks. The day she returned with Dad, all of us were speechless as they got out of the car. Dad had lost about forty pounds and was gray. He couldn't walk even a few steps without being out of breath and sweating profusely. The biggest surprise though was that Mom couldn't walk or raise her right arm.

Mom went into the hospital the next day. Ten days later the doctors gave us the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. No one could tell us if she would regain the use of her right side. Our lives were changed forever. Four teenaged children were now responsible for the care of their two parents.

Dad stayed in New Jersey for a month to regain his strength and rest. He would have open-heart surgery at the end of November, but in the beginning of July he went back to California to resume working. We made plans for the rest of us to move to California as soon as possible. We had six weeks to get the entire household packed, and make arrangements for the moving company and our own journey across the country.

Since Mom wasn't in any condition to do much packing, it was left to us kids. We held a couple of garage sales to get rid of things we no longer needed. We sold one of the cars because there was no way for us to get two cars from New Jersey to California when the only person with a driver's license was Mom and she was in no condition to drive. We made arrangements to have a family friend drive us across the country in the remaining vehicle. Moving day arrived quickly and we set out on our journey.

On arrival in California we felt like visitors in a foreign land. Before school started in early September, the four of us kids had the house unpacked and things pretty well organized. Being a loner and a moody teenager, I took solace in my music. I played four instruments, but spent hours after school at the piano. When Dad came home in the evening he would listen to me play and ask me to play one piece for him over and over. This had been a pattern for years. I resented it. I didn't really like my dad. We seemed to constantly butt heads, and I was full of teenage angst and resentment toward him. I loved playing the piano, but I wanted to play the songs I chose, not be asked to play one song repeatedly for his pleasure.

On the afternoon he died I had practiced all of my favorite songs but I hadn't played his song, thinking I would have to play it for him at least four or five times when he got home. After my time at the piano I had gone in the kitchen to handle dinner preparations and that's why my hand smelled like garlic as I picked up the phone. Normally I would have let Mom answer it, but we had a wall phone in the kitchen and Mom couldn't get to it from her place at the table. So I answered.

With my stomach in knots, I could hear the words that my father was dead as the panicked man spoke to Mom. The next few days and weeks were a blur. There isn't much I remember, but I do remember feeling very compelled to play my dad's favorite song at his funeral.

The day of the funeral arrived. Even though I had the song memorized from playing it so many times over the years, I carried the sheet music into the chapel with me in case I got nervous or couldn't remember the notes. I can't tell you how the program unfolded or what was said. I remember that I became calm when a ray of sunshine came through the stained glass windows of the church, illuminating the piano and bench as I sat down.

I opened the sheet music to the page and started to play. It had been years since I had needed sheet music to play the song but I thought I would be nervous and might need to refer to it. Back when I had needed it, there were two places where I always had to stop and struggle to turn the page. The music was in a book so I couldn't just lay the sheets out flat and avoid a page turn. That day of my dad's funeral I sobbed uncontrollably as I played. I cried for all of the miscommunication between us over the years and how I had been so rebellious at times.

I played from memory through the tears, but was astonished when I reached the place in the music where a page turn would be necessary. I felt a hand on my shoulder and saw the pages of music turn without me lifting a hand. There was no visible person sitting next to me, but I could feel a presence and I could feel the weight of that hand on my shoulder as I saw those pages turn. As I finished the piece and reached to close the music, the tears were still streaming down my face. My hand was clasped tightly and I heard the voice of my father in my ear say, "Thank you. I love you. Goodbye."

I've played that piece thousands of times since his death thirty-eight years ago, but I have never again heard his voice or witnessed the pages turning on their own. On the other hand, I never play that piece without remembering his voice, his touch or his final words from the other side.

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