Susana Moreira Marques - Now and at the Hour of Our Death

He made us plan his funeral. In the beginning it seemed ridiculous, but it was out of the question to go against him. He got us all together here and he asked

what kind of funeral do you want me to have?

a regular funeral?

a cremation?

It was unheard of, what he was doing. He wanted to know what we thought, but he never expressed his own opinions. I said

if it were up to me, I wouldn’t cremate you.

My sister said

I can’t get my head around the idea of cremation, but it’s cleaner and I can’t help picturing bugs in the ground.

He wanted to see if he could get us to agree.

Do you want it to be here?

in Figueira?

or in Mogadouro?

It didn’t make sense for it to be in Porto — we’d left so many years ago…

Did we want there to be a mass?

a priest?

We talked about it in the same way we talked about everything. Me and my sister went to speak to the man at the funeral parlor. He was a friend of my dad’s, but he said he didn’t like to go to people’s homes, he said

when they see me, they immediately think business, and I don’t have the heart to go see Rui.

But my dad wasn’t the kind to send messages. He wanted to speak to him in person, so the man from the funeral parlor ended up coming over. They spent a few minutes in his room — I was on the phone to France, my mother was busy with guests — and suddenly everything was settled. He’d planned everything. I felt like crawling into a hole. Sitting with my dad and hearing him talking to this man about his own funeral…

He was in control of everything until the end. Now he can’t control anything anymore. Yesterday, when I got home, he didn’t recognize me. It was so painful. Every time I came home from France, he would get really excited. My sister would say

I’m actually kind of jealous, Dad never cries when I come home.

The last time, he clung onto me and cried, and he said

stay here, I’m never letting you go.

I felt like my trips home brought him strength, like he was holding on to see me. This time I’d hoped to bring him just a little more courage again. On the phone, I’d always say to him

just one week to go now

just two days to go now

I’ll be on my way tomorrow

I thought he’d be waiting for me, that he’d be full of energy. I was looking forward to seeing his reaction… If only for just a few more days, or even just one more day… He’s seen that I’m here, but, the state he’s in, I don’t know if he can remember: he forgets everything from one minute to the next.

My mom lives with this night and day. I come and I’m here for a week. She’s been living with this for months. At his worst, he can spend days on end like this, half-unconscious. My mom, she’s got to listen to him moan in pain all night long. She chose to keep sharing a room with him. It’s not a choice just any woman would make. I respect her even more for that — I didn’t know she was capable of making such a sacrifice.

They always told me I was like my mom and my sister was like my dad, and I always wanted to be like my dad. And my dad said that him and my sister were made of the same stuff, and that created a kind of rivalry between us — and jealousy… The more they told me I was like my mom, the more I’d get annoyed and want to be like him. I always wanted to show everyone I could be as strong and smart as he was. That I could be stubborn like him and never leave anything half-done. I wanted to be a daughter who deserved a father like him — and to be like him.

You could write a book about my dad. No matter what he said, it was always interesting. He’d talk to judges, to maids. He didn’t have any enemies; he never got upset. People always asked him for advice: they needed to know what he thought. He was never boring, never over the top. I knew people liked my dad, but I never knew how much. Having twenty people around on any given day is nothing. People are always bumping into each other here. They’ve got to wait their turn. There were times when there’d be people around till eleven at night. They’re living through this with us. The other day, when I was visiting Mogadouro, I bumped into someone who’d lost more than one relative to cancer and I felt so awful. I thought: ‘You lost your dad too and I never said anything.’

I didn’t give a damn. I just didn’t care. I never liked going to funerals, so I just never bothered. We’re all selfish. Only now do I value sharing this suffering with people, being comforted by them — people are always comforting me these days — everywhere I go.

Whenever I had to ask for advice, to help me make a decision, my first instinct was always to ask my dad. His opinion was the one that mattered. Mom always agreed with him. My mom’s the one who took care of us at home: buying shoes when we needed them, doing our homework, teaching us to cook or to darn socks; she had to deal with the hard stuff. He taught us about morals. He had this amazing life philosophy — and without having ever gone to school. He was such a chatterbox. He spent hours and hours of his life talking to me and my sister. And it was normal — the things he said, they’d sink in, and now that we’ve grown up, we do things we didn’t even know we had in us, but that, little by little, have stuck. He taught us to be sure of where we stood — to dance, but to always know where we put our feet. It was only when I realized I was losing him that I started appreciating what he taught us. I was always really proud of my dad, but I never told him. We never had much time just to ourselves. Whenever I’d come over from France, the whole family would be around. Guests coming in and out of the house. The phone ringing off the hook. But I’d find a way for us to be alone, and still I couldn’t tell him. I wanted to, but it just wouldn’t come out. I so needed to tell him how sorry I was — for the war I’d waged against him to prove I was just as strong, if not stronger, than he was. I know he understood. Last time, before I left, I had to tell him

I’m proud of you.

If anything, I didn’t tell him enough. I didn’t have the time, living so far away. What I didn’t do then I can’t do now. He can’t hear me anymore.

I’m driving and it already hurts to think of how I’ll arrive and then have to leave again. It’s not like living in Porto or in Lisbon, which are sort of near. If I could just press pause on everything over there… Just for a month or two, and take it easy. I could be here to support my mom, to take over for her. I feel like I’m just not enough, that maybe I should be doing more for them. I even blame myself for having moved to France. I’d counted on leaving and never coming back. Now I think

why’d I decide to go so far?

And what about when my mom’s turn comes, when she’s old…

why’d I go so far away?

But life goes on. I come back as often as I can, but going back and forth so much is exhausting, and then there are the expenses and the risks involved in driving so many kilometers. My husband says

you’ll make me a widower, too.

There’s no way of knowing how long you’ll be in this kind of situation. We don’t know if it’ll be today or if it’ll be tomorrow or really soon. If we knew when, it’d be easier to manage, if we could just predict it… I’m afraid something bad will happen to him while I’m away. When I’m in France, I can’t stop wondering