A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (13 page)

She scoops up some fresh strawberries and piles them next to the scone and clotted cream. Only in California. Fresh strawberries
in the dead of winter. I spy a small Adirondack chair just outside on the veranda. One chair. The gooey lady is still talking.
Apparently, she and her husband are from somewhere in Minnesota and just love coming out here every year. She says something
about the weather.

“Have a great morning!” I manage, walking out onto the veranda with my breakfast and fresh mug of tea.

“Happy almost new year!” the woman replies, waving wildly as I walk through the French doors to freedom.

I set my mug of tea on the ground next to me, balancing the plate of fruit and yogurt on my knees, along with the overloaded
bowl of oatmeal. The fresh, cool air blows my still wet hair. I breathe in deeply. I pick up my mug of tea, taking a long
sip.

Am I here with my husband? I repeat. The breakup scene with Tim flashes in my head. I can’t help but feel relief. I know I
did the right thing. Staying with Tim was a sham. One of many.

I’m in love with someone else.

I look back at the gooey lady as she settles into her table, blissfully unaware of the furor her simple question has caused.
Husband
. How do perfect strangers always seem to ask the exact question that makes you feel terrible about yourself? Because they
don’t know not to ask it, I suppose. I set my mug back down on the ground. You have most people in your life trained to behave
a certain way and then along comes a blundering stranger and whammo… are you here with your husband? Why don’t you ask me if
I’m pregnant—that question always goes over well with women you don’t know.

I dig into my oatmeal.
Husband
. The idea that there could be such a union between two people where one isn’t compelled to flee always baffled me. Just because
you have a piece of paper doesn’t mean anything. Mom and Dad never divorced. He just walked away. Back to that again. I take
another sip of my tea and set my mug back down on the ground.

Trust.

Such a giant concept for something you can’t touch. I take another bite of my oatmeal.
I trusted you and you broke my heart.
It was always about trust with John. With me, for that matter, as well. And even when we danced around spending our lives
together, there was still this escape hatch we each kept in some part of our hearts. As a crisp breeze blows across the blooming
gardens of the B&B, I can no longer fend off the memory of the last time I tried to escape the terror that being in a real
relationship caused.

“John?”

“Grace…
Grace?
”

Leo and I are standing at the end of a row at the Ahmanson Theatre trying to find our seats. Instead we find John,
my boyfriend
, sitting in the middle of the row with a tiny blonde woman who, I hardly need to point out, isn’t me. His black wavy hair
is carefully combed and he’s wearing a suit and tie.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my tiny lamé evening bag a tragic prop to this turn of events.

“Nothing much, what’s going on with you?” John says, standing. Blocking?

“That wasn’t actually a casual greeting, John. I mean, literally, what’s going on—
here
,” I ask again, motioning to the confused woman just behind him.

“Hey, if it isn’t Griffon Whitebox,” John says, extending his hand to Leo.

“Not in public, man. Not in public,” Leo warns, sneaking glances around the Ahmanson for possible hacker fan boys or Feds.

“Oh, right…
right
,” John says, shaking my younger brother’s hand.

“Did you want to introduce us to
your
friend?” I ask, motioning to the woman.

“I’m going to go find our seats… good seeing you again,” Leo says, taking the tickets and waving goodbye to John.

“This isn’t what you think it is, Grace,” John starts. He bends just that much closer. The black eyes. The heavy-lidded black
eyes that made me—
compelled
me—to write startlingly bad poetry.

“Really?” I ask.

“No… it’s not.”

“Oh… okay. Um… Miss?” I say, craning past John.

“Tammi,” John says.

“Tamm… Are you kidding me?” I say, leaning back to John.

“She’s a paralegal over at O’Melve—”

“Hey,
Tammi
?” I say, easily moving past John—our bodies so used to each other. Being close… curving, bending.

“Yes?” Tammi answers, confused.

“So, what do
you
think this is?” I ask. I can feel John just behind me.

“It’s a… He asked if I wanted to see a play. I said… I said yes,” Tammi stutters.

“And what do most people call that?” I ask.

“A… a date,” Tammi confesses.

“Which, for the record, is what I thought this was,” I say, bending back toward John.

John laughs. “Are you sure
you’re
not the lawyer?”

“This isn’t funny,” I say, finally starting to walk out of the row of seats toward Leo.

“Grace… Gracie?!” John calls after me.

“No… seriously… a play? You hate plays. But… have at. She seems nice,” I say, my voice flat. I scan the theater for Leo. John
takes my arm and stops me.

“Grace… this is just a casual date.” John’s voice is quiet.

“Yeah, that seems to be the consensus,” I say, tugging my arm away. John takes my arm again and pulls me in. Close. So strong,
yet so gentle.

“I was the one who tried to have a conversation with you about—” John starts.

“So, this is how you react when I tell you I’m confused about what ‘getting serious’ means,” I add, my lamé bag jumping around
as I do giant air quotes around “getting serious.” I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop for months.

“Confused? You refused to even talk about it,” John says. True, but I thought if we talked about it, he would say he wasn’t
ready. That he didn’t love me back. If we didn’t talk about it, we could just keep going on as we were.

John continues, pulling me even closer as people continue to head to their seats, “I thought that meant you didn’t want to
get serious,” John whispers, his mouth tight.

“And now I know why,” I say, motioning at Tammi. Am I relieved? Why am I relieved?

“It’s not like I’m fucking her!” John yells.

And the entire theater screeches to a halt.

“Well… I’m glad we cleared that up,” I say, tucking my little bag under my arm. I see Leo stand up in the far corner of the
theater.

“Grace…” John says… his voice quiet… pleading…

“Have a nice life,” I say, turning to leave.

“Have a nice life? All your shit is at my apartment! You going to walk away from your toothbrush? Your clothes? Your laptop?”
John’s face is stunned, hoping this is all a joke. I tug him up the aisle and into the Ahmanson lobby. He allows me to.

“You don’t get the answer you want, so you start seeing other people? You couldn’t wait for me to figure it out?” I blurt,
as I find an unpopulated corner down a long hallway.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it, because you didn’t want to get serious,” John says.

“And
this
is your solution?” I ask, pointing back to What’s-Her-Name.

“It just kind of happened,” John sighs.

I stop. Stunned. Nothing to respond with. Too angry to be broken. I’m sure it will set in soon.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says, looking at the ground.

“This… what?” I answer, trying to steady my breathing. The lights in the lobby flicker—on and off, on and off. The play is
starting.

John hesitates. I can see his face moving and contorting with a conversation in his mind. The lobby is clearing out, our little
corner becomes more and more private.

“Take too long to decide and I just might walk over to that usher and ask if he wants to get lucky,” I crack.

John jolts up, looks at me, then the usher, and just… laughs. I can’t help but laugh. The usher I’ve pointed to looks like
Burl Ives.

As Burl Ives closes the house doors behind him, John takes a step closer. He looks at the ground for the briefest of seconds,
takes my hand and looks up. We lock eyes.

“When you didn’t want to talk about…” John trails off.

“Getting serious,” I finish.

“Spending the rest of our lives together,” John corrects. I recoil, John pulls me closer, his other hand tucks a piece of
hair behind my ear. His hand lingers at my cheek, so soft. His face is inches from mine. His breath hot and quickening.

“Is that what that conversation was about?” I mumble, my hand now at his belt, pulling him closer.

“Yeah. So when you changed the subject…” John starts, his eyes closing just a bit as I undo his belt.

“It was imperative I ask you what you wanted in your coffee,” I say, my hand now sliding down the front of his pants.

“Black. You know I like it black,” John says, his eyes scanning the dark hallway as I kiss his neck.

“Maybe I was trying to change the subject,” I whisper, centimeters from his ear, my breath ruffling the flips of his black
hair.

“Maybe,” John repeats, his hand at my waist. He pushes open a small door, revealing some kind of janitorial closet. He whips
me around, his hand on the small of my back, and leads me into the small room.

“I hope Tammi doesn’t mind that you didn’t come back,” I mock, as John lifts me onto some kind of stack of crates. I steady
myself—grasping his shoulders. I’m overcome with the feeling that I could hold on to John in a hurricane and yet stay firmly
on the ground. I pull him even closer. John slams the door behind him with his foot.

“Who?” John says, pulling up my dress, my little lamé bag falling to the floor.

Five years later I can still feel the heat of his body. I sip my tea to calm down and can’t help but smile. I lost all thought
when I was with John. But it wasn’t the nothingness I feel with Tim. I was free. No niggling voices of doubt and insecurity
that plagued all my other relationships. Relationships built on the sturdy foundation that unavailability meant love. My relationship
with Tim now seems like a giant middle finger to real love and intimacy. I know that now. Who am I kidding… I always knew that.

If Dad, the one man bound to me by biology, could leave, why wouldn’t every man after?

As I gather my mug and now empty oatmeal bowl, I wonder if I’ll ever learn that lesson. Will I ever give someone a chance
to prove my theory wrong?

“Are you wearing the same thing you wore yesterday?” Abigail asks, as we climb out of our cars in the hospital parking lot
later that morning. I look down at my outfit: jeans, white T-shirt and camel-colored cashmere hoodie. It’s all I could fit
into that damn backpack.

“It’s not anything of yours, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“Ha ha,” Abigail allows.

“I changed my panties,” I say, blowing on the tea I bought at the organic market across the street from the bed-and-breakfast.
I slam the door of my car.

“Charming,” Abigail says, zooming the minivan door open to reveal Emilygrae and Mateo both elbow-deep in their mini plastic
baggies filled with Cheerios. Emilygrae kicks her feet wildly as Mateo leans forward against his car seat restraint. Freedom
is nigh. Evie slides out of the front seat.

“Not until I say so, you two,” Abigail warns. The twins’ fingers are pulsating at their booster seat latches.

“I brought you… well, I didn’t know what kind of day it was going to be,” Abigail says, passing me a little paper bag. I peek
inside: a water bottle, two protein bars and some dinosaur-shaped gummies.

“Thank you,” I say, looking up at Abigail. Aww. I tuck the paper bag into my oversized purse.

“No problem,” Abigail says, pulling Emilygrae out of her kid seat. She breaks free and rushes over to me while Abigail gives
Mateo the high sign. He leaps from his kid seat.

“Hey, Evie,” I say, giving her a little wave. She ekes out a smile for me as she leans against the minivan, smoothing her
hair behind her ears. I’m determined to erode her suspicions and re-earn her trust. She looks away with a sigh. Touché.

“We stayed at a hotel last night!” Emilygrae says, looking up at me.

“First time ever!” Mateo announces.

“I’m seriously rethinking the two queen beds versus a suite,” Abigail sighs.

“They need their own wing,” Evie says.

“By morning we were pretty much all in the same bed,” Abigail says.

“Kickie and Punchie over there slept just fine,” Evie says, yawning. The twins do their best to look like little angels.

Abigail laughs. “For little kids they take up an alarming amount of space.”

“Do you know what’s really awesome?” I say, picking Emilygrae up, making sure I’m careful with her little wrists. She rests
her elbow on my shoulder, zipping and unzipping my hoodie.

“What?” she asks, exploring my collarbones and flipping my gold owl necklace up and down, up and down. The gnarled plaster
of her little hot pink cast is rough on my skin.

“When you go back to that hotel everything’s going to be clean—your beds will be made… the works,” I announce. Mateo ambles
over to Emilygrae and me, hitching his Batman backpack over his shoulders and resituating his sword in the belt loop of his
tiny corduroy pants.

“How does it get clean?” Mateo asks, as Abigail slides the minivan door closed again. She bends back into the front, grabs
her purse and a monogrammed canvas bag from between the seats, and whirls back around, closing the driver’s side door.

“The hotel hires people to clean the room while you’re gone,” I say to Mateo, flipping the strap of his backpack right side
out. He eyes me suspiciously.

“You should have said fairies,” Evie says, looking up from her book.

“I should have what?” I say, laughing. C’mon kiddo, give me a smile.

“It would have been cooler if they thought it was fairies,” Evie repeats flatly.

“Pretty big fairies,” Mateo says, holding his arm up so Abigail can take his hand as we begin our trek through the hospital’s
parking lot. Abigail blows an errant tress of blonde hair out of her face and takes the little boy’s hand. Evie falls in beside
her.