by Carol Weston
Dad and I looked at each other, eyes wide.
“Excuse me, Alexa, but you do leave me alone! As well you should. You’re getting older, and soon, you’ll be off to college, and you’re going to leave me alone more and more.”
Now they were both hollering. The neighbors were probably having a field day. I hoped nobody was going to walk by with a cell and press Record. “I have to start looking out for myself for a change,” Kate was saying. “Which will work out for you in the long run because you won’t wind up feeling responsible.”
“Who said anything about feeling responsible?” Alexa shot back. “And how do you know he’s not using you for a place to live!”
“He has savings! He’s contributing! This isn’t a free ride for him. We’ve done some math.”
“How do you know he’s not just on the rebound?”
Mumble, mumble. “…over a year since his wife died…judge of character…discussed it at length…faculty housing”—mumble, mumble—“…evicted…”
“Wow, so you figured you’d roll out the welcome mat? I hope this is temporary?”
Kate lowered her voice then said, “I hope it isn’t.”
Dad and I stood frozen, partners in crime.
“Mom, they could have rented! You could’ve had your stupid little romance—”
“Dammit, Alexandra!” Uh-oh, Kate was ticked. “Do I strike you as a woman of ‘stupid little romances’? I made a mistake of sorts—well, honey, not a mistake. Of course not a mistake—thank heavens I married Bryan and had you. But when we didn’t work out as a couple, I took myself right off the playing field. I became an umpire for everyone else’s romances. This time, I want in. Gregg is a great guy. And I’m not twenty-something. I’m forty-six! So I’m going for it. Yes, he’s lucky he found me. I’m a catch. But he is too.” I looked at Dad; he was rapt. “He’s kind; he likes his work; he’s attractive; he’s healthy; he’s…straight! And he’s a doctor, for God’s sake! And he loves me. So I feel lucky too. Really lucky! Because I love him.”
Dad gave me a thumbs-up, and I was happy for him even though a part of me still wished…
“What about me?” Alexa asked, suddenly sounding like a hurt little kid.
“Darling, I adore you. You’re my number one. You know that.” Mumble, mumble. Kate’s voice was quieter now. “But let’s go in. Gregg and Sofia made you a welcome dinner. And there’s something else I should probably tell you.”
“My home has two new people in it, and there’s something else you should probably tell me? Mom, my head’s going to explode. What? What is it?” Alexa flew into another rage.
“It’s nothing big…” Kate said. I leaned against the house, my heart beating a mile a minute. I was still processing Kate’s “you’re my number one.” Was Kate going to tell Alexa about Sam? Please don’t tell Alexa about Sam!
“You know Sam?” Kate asked.
“What? In the biblical sense?” Alexa replied. Kate winced, and Alexa added, “What about him? And why would I care?”
“Good. Then never mind.”
“No. What? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” Kate said.
“Are we adopting him too?”
“No.” Kate paused. “But…” She hesitated. “He and Sofia met at the lake, and they went on a bike ride. She borrowed your bike and had a spill and wound up in the hospital.” Dad put his arm around me.
“Oh no, is my bike okay?” Alexa asked.
Bitch! Then again, I vaguely remembered having that very same worry.
“It’s fine. Your helmet got trashed, but Gregg already replaced it with a more expensive one.”
“Good. I should hope so.”
Somehow, this felt like reality TV. Dad and I never watched TV together anymore because he ruined it with his commentary. During doctor shows, he’d point out that neonatal specialists do not strut in heels or hook up in supply rooms. During sitcoms, he’d point out that people in their twenties can’t afford spacious apartments.
But here, he and I were both transfixed.
“Look, Alexa, they’re going to Spain tomorrow night,” Kate said. “They’ll be gone a whole week. And I really appreciate your trying to be on board with all this.”
“Mom, are you in la-la land? I’m not on board with any of it!” She headed toward the front steps.
Dad and I dashed inside, and he raced to open the front door. “Alexa! Welcome back!”
“Hey,” she replied. I remained in the background, and she and I exchanged a quiet hi.
“Sofia and I made dinner in your honor,” Dad said.
“I’ll be down soon,” she said and raced upstairs—probably to call Amanda to say there were Wolfes at the door.
• • •
When Alexa came down, both cats wandered over. “Coconut!” she said, picking up her old, white cat. “I missed you!” She kissed him between the ears.
I scooped up Pepper, and it felt as if Alexa and I were both armed. Pepper, as in pepper spray?
“I see your cat has moved in too,” she said.
“Yes, this is Pepper.” I lifted his paw as though to shake Alexa’s hand. What was I, three? Alexa kept both her hands on Coconut, so I let Pepper’s paw drop. “The cats are mostly staying out of each other’s way,” I informed her, “though Coco has hissed a few times. Pepper gets nervous around her, and he’s also scared to go out. He likes the great indoors. We rescued him from a shelter, and he’s always been skittish.” Stop babbling! I told myself but then wondered if babbling was better than going mute.
Alexa reached over and scratched his ears. “He’s right to be nervous. Coco’s used to being the boss around here.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Dad called with impeccable timing.
We sat down, and Kate asked, “How was the trip?”
“I got here, didn’t I?” Alexa glowered.
“Do you like the dinner Gregg and Sofia made?” Kate tried again. “Shish kebabs, caprese salad, and corn on the cob!”
“It’s okay.”
Dad said, “So tell us about the Canadian Rockies. See any animals?”
Alexa finally took the bait and started talking about moose, elk, eagles, and loons. “You got my moose postcard, right?” Kate nodded. “I took tons of photos with the camera Dad gave me.”
I considered saying, “I’d love to see them!” But I didn’t want Alexa to bite my head off.
Kate’s cell rang, and she picked up. “Yes! Just now…” She handed the phone to Alexa and said, “It’s the Bryans, in their car. They have you on speaker.” I wondered if “the Bryans” often called together, and if so, whether Alexa ever wanted to talk just to her dad.
“Hi, Dad! Hi, Brian!” She walked down the steps of the deck and toward the field, though we could still hear every word.
For distraction purposes, Kate chimed, “Dinner was delicious! Gregg, how’d you make the lamb so tender?”
“No, no, perfect timing…” Alexa was saying. She lowered her voice and asked accusingly, “Did you guys know?”
Alexa came back and handed Kate her cell. “Mom, I’m going into the city tomorrow,” she said. “Brian’s making angel food cake and devil’s food cake for my homecoming.”
“But Gregg and Sofia are leaving tomorrow,” Kate protested. “I was looking forward to a little mother-daughter time.” Alexa was silent. “A little girl time,” Kate added.
“Yeah, well, I was too,” Alexa shot back, then added, “And by the way, Mom, you’re not a girl.” Kate looked hurt, and Alexa added, “You realize I could live with the Bryans if I wanted to, right?” She let that land, then turned to Dad. “Hey, Gregg, Brian—not Bryan my dad, the other Brian—once asked me to ask you something. You know they’re gay, right?”
“Right,” Dad answered warily.
“He wanted to know if there are
any gay male gynecologists.”
“Uh, I’ve never seen any statistics…”
She shrugged. “He’s pretty crazy.”
“Who isn’t?” Dad said.
“Kate’s not,” I said, then wondered why in God’s name that had popped out of my mouth.
Maybe because I was almost feeling sorry for her?
Alexa stared at me, disgusted. “Don’t kid yourself, Sofia.” She got up and said, “Mom, don’t wake me tomorrow until, like, two. Our plane left really early, so I didn’t even try to sleep last night.”
Kate nodded, pained.
I’d been worried Alexa might strain things between Sam and me. Now I was worried she might strain things for all of us.
• • •
I woke up early to the sound of birdcalls and got busy packing.
When Alexa got up, around noon, she came into the kitchen with an overnight bag. “Did anyone make coffee?” she asked, then told her mom she was going to Amanda’s and that Amanda would drive her to the train station.
Alexa barely acknowledged me, but as she left, I said, “Say hi to New York for me.” She stared at me like that was the lamest thing anyone could have possibly said.
Maybe it was. Alexa brought out my stupid side.
• • •
Dad’s and my flight to Madrid left after dinner. Almost immediately, the captain said, “We are experiencing some turbulence…” and that there would be “more bumps ahead.” I tried not to take that as a sign.
Somehow, I dozed off, and then, in what felt like seconds, the flight attendants woke us for breakfast, hungry or not. Soon, they were asking us to lock our tray tables, fasten our seat belts, and “prepare for landing.” Was I prepared for what Dad and I had to do?
A recorded voice told us in Spanish and English to be careful taking down our carry-on bags because “contents may have shifted during flight.” I was all too aware of what was in Dad’s carry-on: the “crematory container” with Mom’s ashes. Had the ashes shifted? Did it matter?
At the Barajas arrivals area, my checked luggage said MAD for Madrid. But I was SAD, not MAD. I tried not to stare as mothers hugged their children—and children hugged their mothers. I also tried not to feel the echoes of long-ago hellos and good-byes, bienvenidas y despedidas.
Dad and I took a train to Chamartín, boarded the AVE train to Segovia, then found seats on the number eleven bus to the ancient aqueduct. Even though I was fighting sleep, I’ve always loved the aqueduct with its tall stone pillars and arches, so I got out my cell phone and took a selfie to send to Sam and Kiki. Then Dad and I took a taxi (they’re white in Spain) to my grandfather’s. On the way, I pointed out two pairs of storks on top of roofs and church towers and told Dad what Abuelo had told me: that stork pairs usually return to their nests every year from early February to early August. Dad joked, “And storks bring babies.” I said, “With a little help from obstetricians.”
We got to Abuelo’s in time for a late Spanish lunch. He was so happy to see us; he’d prepared tortilla española, salad, shrimp with their heads on, and fresh peaches.
His home looked about the same, though he’d framed two more photos of Mom: one of her as a teen and one of her with him and her own mother, my abuelita.
We sat down and Abuelo said grace, and I had seconds of the potato omelet and shrimp.
Afterward, Abuelo peeled his peach artfully, removing the skin in one spiral. When I was little, he used to peel my oranges for me, and afterward, I’d reconstruct the peels so they looked like real oranges even though they were fragile, empty rinds. I’d offer them back to my parents and they’d play along. I never fooled anyone, yet from a distance, a real orange and an empty rind did look about the same—like a confident girl and one who’s shell-shocked.
Sixteen months ago, had I looked about the same on April 8 as I had on April 6, even though the floor beneath me had completely given way?
After lunch, Abuelo, Dad, and I each made a distinctive knot in our cloth napkins so we’d know whose napkin was whose at the next meal. We put all three in a terracotta bowl that said “Salud, Amor, Dinero—y Tiempo Para Gozarlos.”
I’d seen that bowl many times but had never given much thought to the words. Health, Love, Money—and Time to Enjoy Them. Now it seemed like they represented a great truth.
Dad and I retreated for a siesta, and when we woke up, we went for a walk—as did the rest of the town. The weekend paseo was a local ritual. Everyone spilled into the streets and strolled in the same direction, many arm in arm.
Abuelo’s neighbors couldn’t get over how much I’d grown. Several said I was guapa (pretty) and that I looked like my mother. They asked, “¿Cuánto tiempo te quedas?” and “¿Qué haces por aquí?” The first question was easy: a week. The second was harder. I didn’t want to tell them about Mom’s ashes.
Ever since my grandmother, Abuelita Carmen, died a decade earlier, when I was four, Abuelo’s neighbors had been referring to him as el viudo—the widower. Odd to think that Dad was also a viudo. Strange how the word “viudo,” unlike “widower,” brought a quick new stab. Dad said his grief group had talked about “grief bursts,” unpredictable bursts of sorrow that could be triggered from a sight or song—or word.
That afternoon, my grandfather and father both relied on me to translate, so when Abuelo looked at Dad and said, “Hijo mío,” I looked at Dad and said, “My son…”
Dad still didn’t ask me to translate anything about Kate. Not that I blamed him. Mañana, mañana. Tomorrow, tomorrow. There was plenty of time—all the time in the world. If Dad got the tone and timing right and I got the translation right, someday, Abuelo might even wish his son-in-law well.
Then again, maybe not. Dad could get a new girlfriend, but Abuelo could not get a new daughter any more than I could get a new mom.
Dad and Abuelo did ask me to help them plan the next morning. We were going to walk to the Catedral de Santa María, climb the winding path through the Sierra de Guadarrama hills, and there, above the aqueduct and the rivers, near the fairy-tale castle, the one Abuelo said had inspired Walt Disney, scatter Mom’s ashes.
I relayed the words in Spanish and English, hating the sound of them in both languages.
I had thought about saving some ashes to place by Mom’s tree in New York, but I wasn’t sure I had it in me to scatter my mother twice, and last year, whenever Dad had wanted to talk about the ashes, I’d cut him off. It was too late to ask about saving some now, wasn’t it? Besides, I didn’t really believe Mom was in these ashes. And she had loved these hills. Abuelo said that when she was a little girl, una nenita, she’d liked to talk to shepherds and suggest names for their newborn lambs.
After the scattering, our plan was to go to Mesón de Cándido, a restaurant where Mom had celebrated many childhood birthdays. Once, Chubby Chef Cándido himself stopped by in his tall, white chef’s hat to wish her a feliz cumpleaños as she ate Baked Alaska, his signature dessert.
Years later, Mom had been known for her Baked Alaska. I used to help her mold the ice cream, bake the cake, whip the meringue, slide the dessert into the oven, remove it, sprinkle it with brandy, and set it on fire. We always brought it to the lobby on New Year’s Day.
I couldn’t imagine making that dessert without her.
But then, I couldn’t imagine doing what we had to do now either.
• • •
The Spanish hillside smelled of rich, damp earth. A flock of soft sheep grazed nearby, bleating rhythmically. A pair of storks circled overhead. Below, the waters of the Eresma and Clamores Rivers flowed endlessly onward. My father and grandfather and I stood in the gentle breeze.
“Es hora,” Abuelo said. It’s time.
Dad had already opened the white container and removed the plastic bag of ashes. Now Abuelo extended his palm and Dad tipped some of the contents first into my grandfather’
s palm, then mine, then his own. Abuelo’s hand, I noticed, was trembling. I flinched but accepted my handful of the dark gray “cremains.”
I had a memory of being at the petting zoo in Central Park years earlier. Mom bought pellets from what looked like a gum-ball dispenser and spilled them into my palm. Nervous, I offered the pellets to the baby goats and tried to stand still as they licked my small hand with their muscular tongues.
This time, the wind licked my open palm. I wanted to say something, to slow the moment down, but the wind was too quick. The “maldito viento,” damn wind, as Abuelo put it, did the initial scattering for us. The ashes disappeared like puffs of smoke—here, then gone.
Dad spilled a little more into each of our hands, and this time, I crouched and sprinkled them onto the grass by my feet, as if scattering seeds.
We took a third and fourth grim turn, and then the bag was empty.
Just as Mom’s life had ended in an instant, our ceremony was over almost before it had begun.
Abuelo pointed at my shirt. A gust had blown some ashes back onto my shoulder. I stared, almost spellbound and didn’t want to brush them off. But what else could I do?
I patted at the dark dust—and my face contorted as I brushed away the last physical remains of my mother.
Abuelo reached for my hand and grasped it, and we stood in silence, our long, linked shadows stretching across the Castilian countryside. He was comforting me, but I knew my hand was a comfort to him as well.
I wondered if he would come back to this spot after Dad and I returned to America. I imagined he would.
Finally Abuelo said, “¿Nos vamos?”
I couldn’t answer—there was still a lump in my throat—but we three turned and began the walk back to town.
We’d done what we’d come to do: we’d brought my mother home.
• • •
At Mesón de Cándido, Dad made us wash our hands, and then we sat at an outside table next to the aqueduct the Romans had built two thousand years earlier. Abuelo ordered a Spanish lunch with bread, salad, suckling pig (cochinillo asado), local wine for them, and grape juice (mosto) for me.