Little Orphan Hailey

“Are you going to the funeral?” Joanne asked me over the phone.

“What funeral?” I replied.

This was how I learned that both of my parents died this week; from a casual phone call to my high school boyfriend's mother. We talk on the phone all the time. This time, we had something different to talk about. She assumed that someone else had already told me. Anyone else who could have, probably also assumed the same thing.

My parents were driving home from church on Tuesday when either they hit a semi tractor trailer or it hit them. Either way, their car lost. The strange part is that no big rig trucks should be driving on the small roads between their church and their house. But I don't know all the details. Maybe they went to a restaurant for dinner before going home or were on a larger street for any number of reasons.

What I know is that my father died on impact. My mother was taken to Fairview Southdale Hospital, which is usually ranked in the top 5% of Minnesota hospitals. I have no doubt that she got the best possible care. She died on Wednesday. I am not the least bit surprised that she hung on longer than he did. She was always more stubborn. He probably saw the truck, opened his arms wide and said, “Jesus, here I come.” She probably saw the truck and said, “Oh, hell no. Not today.”

I rarely talk about my parents. Mostly because they were horrible people. My mother always told me that if I did not have anything nice to say, I should not say anything at all, even though she had plenty of negativity to spread about others. I took her advice when it came to talking about her. They were horrible from my point of view. I'm sure most at their church thought they were the salt of the earth, and there was a good deal of grief and prayer when word came down about the truck joust. Especially since it happened right before Easter. Regardless of how I feel about my parents, I have some empathy for the congregation in that regard. I have no doubt they will all put on their Sunday best and carry on, but Easter is supposed to be about celebrating resurrection from the dead, not mourning real people who actually died. It's funny how subjective life is. While I think, if there was a Hell, my parents would now be roasting on a spit, other people who never had to live with them might think they should be canonized as saints.

On a strictly personal note, I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing. I did not jump up and down with joy when I heard that both of my parents ate it. I did not cry either. I am not particularly bothered, and that bothers me a little. You are supposed to feel something when your parents take a dirt nap; sad, happy, angry, shocked, or anything, really. I feel indifferent. Hearing about their deaths was like hearing about an old celebrity whose work I never paid attention to who died long after they stopped doing whatever made them famous. They were 67 and 61, not as old as anyone really needs to be when they die, but far from spring chickens.

I have an older brother. Though he and I never really had a falling out, our relationship was collateral damage in the war with my parents. He was forced to take a side and, probably wisely, he chose them. They could offer a roof over his head, food in his stomach, clothes on his back, and a college education that lead to a fulfilling future. All I could be to him was a sister.

I have not spoken to my parents or my brother since I was 16. Nothing is going to change with my parents, especially now. I probably always knew that, but there was a time or two when I thought that maybe we could put our differences aside, if not in some dramatic TV moment, at least in a temporary truce. My last drop of hope evaporated after I was in my own collision with a big rig truck. I was in Beijing, so obviously they were never going to visit, but there was not so much as a phone call or even a single emoji text message. I know they heard about it. I know people who know them, so even though there was no bilateral communication, they were given occasional intelligence. When told that their daughter was fighting against the gaping maw of death, they remained silent. I was already dead to them. Their death forever closes the door to any possible reconciliation. But that door was locked, sealed shut, barricaded, and walled up a long time ago.

The biggest unknown in this equation is my brother. Now that our parents are no longer an issue, can we be siblings again? But he is not the one who told me about them. He has been out from under their thumb and living his own life for well over a decade. He could have easily called me in Beijing, or any number of times, without fear of financial repercussions. They could have, and likely would have, been disappointed in him for contacting me. They could not affect his livelihood.

I found out about my parents from my high school boyfriend's mother. That sounds strange, but I speak to her far more often than anyone to whom I am actually related. We will call the mother Joanne, because that may or may not be her name. Joanne feels more like a mother to me than anyone else. She was always more of a mother to me in high school than my actual biological mother.

There is also the issue of the funeral. I could go. Now might not be the best time to travel to the United States, and I could really do without all the TSA bullshit at American airports, but the people who stamp passports would have to let me in. Getting time off work is easy, especially when someone dies. It is illegal in this country for an employer to interfere with a relative's funeral, parents especially. But I have no desire to go to the funeral, and I would not be able to say anything. You have to say nice things at someone's funeral. I can't think of anything nice, aside from, “They never murdered us in our sleep, so that's something.” I doubt that would go over well. There is no real reason to go.

I said goodbye to them a long time ago. It was more like go fuck yourselves than goodbye, but the results were the same.

They would not want me there anyway.