by Liza Palmer
“No?”
“No,” he says. So close.
John continues, “Your mom and dad never stopped loving each other. And it’s that… that’s what’s in his heart now.”
“I want to believe you so badly.”
“How can you even question it? The love you’ve carried for your mom is beyond belief and it certainly didn’t stop the day she passed away,” John says, pulling my face up.
“No, it didn’t… it didn’t,” I say, my voice cracking. I know the feeling of being warmed from the inside by someone who’s no longer here. That fire never goes out. Ever.
“Of course it didn’t,” John finishes.
I am quiet. Trying to catch my breath. Find a point on the horizon. Anything to stop the world from spinning.
John continues, “And I hate to break it to you, but even though Ray and Evelyn were definitely the loves of each other’s lives, it was probably the four of you that made them both the most proud.” His face is hesitant. He’s obviously not sure I can handle what he’s saying.
I can’t.
The tears speed up my throat, from deep within. So deep. So buried. Intentionally. I knew my turn would come. I watched it happen to Abigail. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was overtaken. And now, as I finally allow myself to really feel the loss of Mom, I begin to feel this sensation of weightlessness and freedom. A glimmer that I can be whole again. That I might be able to heal. John’s arms tighten around me as I begin to mourn a family I didn’t know was broken, a father I wish I’d known and a future where I must now go on without parents who loved me more than anything.
“I guess it’s officially your turn,” John says, as my sobbing finally subsides. The windows of his Escalade are steamed up. To passersby, it probably looks a bit tawdry.
“You saw to that,” I say, taking a long, slow breath. I can finally breathe deeply and grab all the air my body has to give. No more Chutes and Ladders. No more compartments and roller coasters. No more obstacles. But instead of feeling empty, I feel… hope.
“You said something about Indian food?” I ask, untangling myself from John. He nods, turning on the ignition.
I continue, “Nothing like a good tikka masala after a mini-breakdown.”
chapter twenty-two
What took you guys so long?” Huston sighs, opening the large wooden front door to his house for John and me. Without traffic, it only took us about forty minutes to get from South Pasadena to the Palisades where Huston insists on living. It’s near the beach, he argues. What it’s not near is any of us. I think that’s probably more of a pull than its proximity to the ocean.
“I had a mini-breakdown in the parking lot,” I answer, stepping into the foyer of Huston’s house.
“Of the Indian place?” Huston asks, taking some of the bags of Indian food.
“St. Teresa’s,” I answer. The Spanish tile is buffed a beautiful orangey-red, the arches are high and solid. When I last saw this house it had been taken down to the studs and Huston was living in a tent in the backyard, aka the sandlot in the back of the “fixer-upper” he bought for a few million dollars.
“Why does it matter which parking lot it was?” John asks.
“I guess it doesn’t,” Huston muses, walking into the kitchen. We follow.
“No, I see where you’re going with it. If the breakdown were in the Holy Cow parking lot, it would’ve been a lot more dramatic. Exposed, somehow,” John argues, as we thread through the rooms leading into the kitchen.
“Plays to state of mind,” Huston adds. He’s wearing a paint-splattered Harvard Law T-shirt and an old pair of jeans. Bruce Springsteen blares from his iPod and a bottle of Corona sits on the counter.
“Can I get off the stand now?” I sigh, taking in the kitchen. John pulls several take-out boxes and various tinfoiled batches of naan from the plastic bag. Huston turns the music down and walks over to the refrigerator.
“You brought it up,” Huston says, passing John and me a couple of beers.
“Something I’ll never do again,” I say, cracking open the bottle and taking a swig.
Huston laughs. “Oh, please.”
“This is nice,” I say, looking around the almost completely renovated house. Who needs therapy when you have a kitchen that needs retiling?
“That’s right—you haven’t seen it since—” Huston answers.
I cut in, “There were walls.”
“I burned that tent in a ritualistic pyre after I moved into the main house,” Huston says, taking a long swig of his beer and eyeing the food.
“We got you the vindaloo,” I say, pointing to an orange-tinged, oozing take-out box.
“I’ll get plates,” Huston says, reaching up into one of the cupboards.
John and I settle in around the dark wooden table tucked into a little nook in the corner of the kitchen. There are four chairs around it, but it’s tucked in so tightly to the nook that only one chair is really functional. John and I wedge ourselves into the other chairs and don’t say a thing.
“I had Charlotte collate all the information we were talking about today,” John says, loading up his plate with rice.
“Who’s Charlotte?” I ask, dumping my tikka masala onto the plate.
“My assistant,” John says, tearing off a piece of naan.
“I think that’s probably the key to this whole thing,” Huston answers, taking a bite of his vindaloo.
“What are you two talking about?” I blurt, my mouth burning with overly spicy Indian fare.
“Whoa,” Huston says.
“If you tell me not to have another mini-breakdown I’ll—”
“Hawk a giant loogie on me?” Huston laughs, taking another huge bite of his vindaloo.
“I’m definitely not above that,” I say, taking a long swig of my beer.
“Your dad set up a bunch of accounts for the little kids: Evie, Matty, and Emilygrae,” John says, carefully watching my reaction.
“You okay?” Huston tests.
“Accounts?” I ask, feeling hungry for the answers to as many questions as possible. And with the mini-breakdown clearly in my past, I don’t feel that constant threat of impending hysteria looming around every corner.
“Money for college, they were named on life insurance policies—that kind of thing,” John answers.
“John thinks it establishes another layer of Dad’s… involvement,” Huston explains.
“Involvement,” I repeat.
“They’re going to come after us, but having proof that Ray also wanted to take care of the little ones…” John trails off.
“Shows a purposefulness and integrity to his actions that should stay above the fray,” Huston finishes.
“Are we expecting a fray?” I ask, piling my masala and some saffron rice onto a piece of naan. I shove it into my mouth. How long has it been since I’ve really eaten? I just picked at the sandwich Abigail brought by this afternoon.
“I think Connie made that quite clear,” John answers. We all remember the day we got Dad out of St. Joseph’s in Ojai. It seems so long ago and the fact that it was just yesterday stuns me.
“I guess I thought that since she had her $113,000 and a town house that she might just slink into the background,” I offer.
“She might,” Huston answers, taking a swig of his Corona.
“She won’t,” John cuts in.
“She hasn’t been to St. Teresa’s. One could argue that if she had big legal plans she would want to, at least, look like she’s tried visiting Dad,” I argue. Huston nods.
“We were all there that day. Not one of us believes that she’s done with this family,” John argues, no longer eating.
“I don’t know. I have to agree with Grace,” Huston starts.
“You have got to be kidding me.” John stops, his fork drops to his plate.
“She’s all about the endgame. If she wanted to keep this circus going, she would have had to come to St. Teresa’s to build the sympathy vote,” Huston
argues, pointing his rice-clad fork at John.
“We talked about this earlier and I didn’t agree then either,” John counters.
“It’s just a theory.”
“Call it what you want,” John says, taking a swig of his beer.
“I just called it a theory, so obviously I’m referring to it as such.”
“I just want you guys to be prepared,” John presses, trying to sit back in his cramped chair.
I smile. “That’s why we have you.”
“Right,” John answers, his face tense.
“We’re not deluded, but maybe she’s not quite the mastermind we built her up to be,” Huston offers, his voice calm.
“Then how do you explain Ojai?” John argues.
“It’s an upper-class enclave of about ten thousand people tucked away in the hills of Southern California,” I answer, giving a small wink at Huston. He smiles.
“Very funny,” John says, his expression easing.
“Let’s just eat,” I beg.
“Fine,” John concedes.
“I’ll give you the grand tour when we’re done,” Huston says. He motions to the rest of the house with his fork.
“I’d like that,” I say, beaming at him and relishing the fact that I’m here. John picks up his fork and continues eating. He’s quiet while Huston and I chatter on about light fixtures, subway tile and the lavender that’s now blooming in his backyard.
“Mateo, get away from that grill!” I yell, standing in a park just down the street from St. Teresa Manor early the next morning. No sign of Connie or Dennis again this morning.
“Yeah, so I was walking in the parking lot last night and happened to see your little sex show,” Leo announces, as we watch the kids play. My face flushes red and I immediately want to bury my head in the sandbox.
“We were talking,” I say, watching Mateo move over to the climbing structure.
“Yeah, I talk to everyone like that.” Leo laughs as Emilygrae joins Mateo on the play structure.
“I had a mini-breakdown,” I confess.
“Was it anything like Abigail’s?” Leo sighs, shaking his head.
“No,” I answer quickly.
“Where did that come from?”
“Same place all of ours have come from, I guess.”
“All of that… all of that was just in there,” Leo theorizes, his eyes elsewhere.
“I know,” I sigh.
“Mateo, don’t eat the sand!” Leo yells.
Once John dropped me off at St. Teresa’s this morning, I asked Abigail if she wanted to spend some time with Dad alone. She agreed, deftly skirting questions about her show of emotion yesterday. She’s clearly not comfortable with our thinking she’s vulnerable. She quickly jumped into issuing strict orders to wash my hands and said something about getting my taxes in on time. I just nodded and allowed her the moment.
I understand Abigail’s hesitation at being alone with Dad. When we huddle in groups in Dad’s room, we can hold it together and stay upbeat. But when we’re alone with him, whether by accident or on purpose, everything comes crashing down. It’s almost an immediate reaction. Walk into room. See you’re alone with Dad. Start trying to fend off the growing torrent of sobbing as you end up mumbling something about love and forgiveness under your breath.
Leo and I walked over to the park with the twins soon after. Abigail and Manny thought Evie should go back to school when it started back up after the holiday. Evie responded to their decision by screaming, “That’s FINE! It’s just that everyone hates me at that GODDAMN school!” Her great moment fizzled when Mateo responded, “I don’t think everyone even knows you at that goddamn school.” After many stifled giggles and language warnings, Evie flounced off to her room proclaiming that no one understood her.
“Should I be doing some sort of penance? I mean, I feel weird about the whole straddling-John-in-a-Catholic-parking-lot thing,” I ask, noticing Mateo in full conversation with himself on the rickety bridge between spiral slides. There’s much karate-chopping.
Leo laughs. “That’s the most ridiculous sentence I’ve ever heard.”
“I know, right in the middle of it—I was like… stop, STOP, STOP!” I respond, laughing at myself.
“It’s the whole life-affirmation thing,” Leo argues, now lost in thought.
“I never really understood that.”
“Well, it wasn’t so much after Mom died, because I think we were all just… well, we all just turned off, didn’t we?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“Roller coasters and skydiving…”
“Piña coladas and getting caught in the rain?” I laugh, finishing Leo’s laundry list of life-affirming activities.
“If you like.” Leo smiles.
“It just seems creepy to even have these feelings with everything that’s happening to… well, with just everything that’s happening…” I trail off, remembering another night of passion and “life-affirming” activities with John. I can’t help but feel guilty.
“No, it totally makes sense,” Leo says, turning his body toward me. “Mortality gives you this bird’s-eye view of how you’re living your own life.”
“I can’t even say the word,” I whisper.
“What word?” Leo asks. The word death stands like the Reaper himself between us.
“I say mortality, too,” I say.
“Yeah, well.” Leo clears his throat.
“It just seems anti-instinctual.”
“Quite the opposite, in point of fact,” Leo says, his voice becoming passionate.
“If you start singing ‘Circle of Life,’ I swear to God,” I say with a weary smile.
“It’s actually quite relevant,” Leo agrees, his mind now lost in theory. I watch the twins go down the big spiral slide one after the other.
“And what about you? Any life-affirming relationships?” I ask, channeling Abigail.
“It’s hard to get serious about anyone,” Leo says, his voice distant.
“You haven’t caught this whole life-affirming thing?” I ask.
“It’s almost like I can’t even think about it. You go on a date with someone, then there’s marriage and kids and… I just don’t have any models for that kind of thing,” Leo says, his voice detached and cold. Always ten steps ahead, working the equation out way into the future.
“Huston,” I suggest, looking at him.
“I know… I thought of that. I think of him a lot.”
“A kind of ‘What Would Huston Do’ sort of thing,” I joke.
“I’ve got little bracelets and everything. WWHD?” Leo laughs.
“It doesn’t look like either one of you has made any big commitments, though,” I say, getting a bit more serious.
“I know.” Leo’s voice is quiet.
“There isn’t anyone?” I press. Leo looks like he’s about ready to burst. He speaks quickly.
“There’s this really cool physics professor from Delhi. Amazing theories on how th—” Leo stops dead as we both hear the screaming coming from the play structure. The twins.
We get up and run over to where Mateo is trapped on the spiral slide by an oversized rat of a dog. It’s barking, sniffing and nipping at the terrified little boy. Our terrified little boy. Leo picks up Emilygrae and I swoop in and pick Mateo up from the spiral slide, nudging the dog back. Mateo’s cries subside as I smooth his hair and tell him it’s okay… it’s okay… it’s okay. The dog is nipping me as I stand there. Every time its wet nose touches my leg, I get angrier. Mateo was terrified. Mateo is terrified. I look around for Rat Dog’s owner.
“He’s friendly! He’s friendly!” A woman in a flowing ensemble of scarves and linen approaches like a gypsy in an open-air market somewhere in the desert sands of Arabia.
“Come get your dog,” I say, my voice loud and clear. Leo and Emilygrae walk over to the benches. I gather Mateo even closer.
“Oh, he’s friendly!” the woman keeps repeating, getting closer and closer.
> “Whether you think your dog is friendly or not has nothing to do with how terrified my nephew is. Just come and get him,” I say, as the woman wrangles the Rat Dog at my feet. Her scarves and linen don’t quite cover up the doughy roll around her midriff.
“It’s okay, though. No harm done,” she says, standing up, her dog still not on a leash. The dog sniffs at my feet and charges up again at Mateo. Mateo squeals and clutches my neck tighter. The woman lets out a little chuckle. I hold Mateo tighter and closer.
“Can you hold your dog? Leo, can you come get Matty?” I start, yelling over my shoulder at Leo, who’s coming up fast, his arms wide, ready to engulf little Mateo. The woman pets her Rat Dog, mumbling something about it being friendly and how I need to “loosen up.” I hand Mateo over to Leo and wait. Wait for them to get out of earshot.
“I’m sorry your boy doesn’t like dogs,” the woman finally offers as some kind of backward attempt at an apology.
“What are you thinking? This isn’t your backyard, lady. This isn’t even a dog park,” I start, stepping toward her.
“You don’t need to—” The woman’s face flushes red.
“What I need to do is go see if that little boy is okay after your dumb-ass dog traumatized him. That’s what I need to do,” I spit.
“My dumb-a—” the woman repeats.
“Leash your dog up and get out of here. We clear?” I say, inches from her face.
“I… I’m sorry your boy was upset,” the woman mutters.
“I’m sorry you’re a shitty dog owner,” I say, staring her down. Unblinking, I rest my hands at my hips and wait. The woman pulls a tiny pink leash from a quilted fanny pack pulled taut at her waist. She clips the leash on the Rat Dog’s collar and starts off across the sand.
“Your language…” the woman starts.
“My language? Your dog mauls my nephew and you’re worried about my goddamn language?!” I say, stepping forward again.
“He didn’t maul him,” the woman whispers as she hurries out of the sand pit toward the path that leads out of the park. I can see her mouthing something to Rat Dog—something about the “mean lady.”
“Have a great day!!” I yell, giving a big wave to the woman. I look over at the benches where Leo and the kids are watching. I give a big smile to Mateo and he beams back at me, giving me a giant thumbs-up. My smile gets even bigger.