A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (12 page)

Leo laughs. “I’d forgotten about that!”

“Uncle Huston had to dive in and pull me out,” Abigail says, taking Mateo’s hand. Evie grabs Emilygrae. I hold on to Leo.
I glance back at John, with his hands still in his pockets. Our eyes meet again. My adulterous body reacts and it takes everything
I have to look away.

“You must have weighed close to seven hundred pounds with that cast hanging off your leg,” Huston says.

“You never told us you broke your leg, Mami,” Evie says, forgetting for just a moment that she’s supposed to be unimpressed
with everything and everyone.

“Well, now you know why,” Abigail says, laughing.

“Mom was so mad at you,” Huston says.

“Yeah… she…” Abigail trails off.

The laughter subsides and a hush falls over the group as we open the doors to the parking lot. One by one our smiles evaporate.
Mom
. I let out a small residual sigh, swing my purse forward and begin the excavation for my car keys. Leo smiles at me. I wiggle
his hand around in mine and smile back. Abigail brushes Mateo’s wild curls out of his eyes. Huston’s cell phone rings again.
He quickly answers it.

“Huston Hawkes? Yes, sir. Just a second.” Huston puts his cell phone down, “It’s Dad’s lawyer. See you here at seven?” he
asks the now dispersing group. Everyone nods. Everyone deflates. Abigail and the kids wave their goodbyes and head over to
their awaiting minivan. John stands next to Huston while he finishes talking to the lawyer. I motion to Leo to hang on a second
and run after Abigail.

“For you,” I say, passing her a can of Coke from my purse.

“Thanks,” she says, hesitantly taking it.

“See you tomorrow?” I ask.

“Seven a.m.,” Abigail answers. I give a quick wave to the restless natives just inside the minivan. Abigail climbs into the
driver’s side. She puts the Coke in the cup holder.

“For later,” she says, and backs out of the parking space. I watch them leave and walk back over to Leo.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Leo sighs, looking off into the distance.

“It was a shitty thing he said,” I say, trying to get him to look at me.

“Shitty, but true,” Leo says, his eyes welling up again. I take a deep breath.

“We all make mistakes. Do things we regret,” I say. Leo finally looks at me.

“It wasn’t a mistake and I don’t regret it,” Leo says, a smile breaking across his tearstained face.

“Well, maybe I’m the only one who regrets things,” I say, noticing that Huston has finished his phone call and that he and
John are now in deep discussion.

“Yeah, but I get it,” Leo says, working it out in his head. I can feel my BlackBerry vibrating in my pocket. I ignore it.

“
You
didn’t walk away,” I say… just barely.

“No,” Leo agrees, still working it out. I can see the wheels turning.

“So,” I say, eyeing Huston and John once more.

“We all died that day,” Leo starts, his theory now complete.

“Who’s the drama queen now?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Leo continues unmoved, “It’s not like anyone actually dealt with it,” he says, finally finishing his equation. I look at him
putting together all the factors and creating a working theory. My shoulders relax a little. Leo shakes his head and puts
on his motorcycle helmet. His face squishes up as he flips up the glass visor.

He continues, “See you tomorrow? Seven?”

“Seven,” I agree, reaching through the open visor and pinching his cheek. He smiles, which looks hilarious, and walks to his
motorcycle. I begin walking over to my car. I look over to where Huston and John were talking.

Gone.

My BlackBerry vibrates again. As I stand alone in the middle of the parking lot, a new rain just starting to fall, I pull
the phone out of my pocket, see that it’s Tim, and send the call to voice mail as I walk to my car. I toss my BlackBerry on
the passenger seat, start up my ancient BMW, press the clutch in and put the car in reverse. I look in the rearview mirror
as a precaution.

John.

My foot quickly hops off the gas pedal and the car stalls in an elaborate symphony of backfires and rumbles. I unbuckle my
seat belt and leap out of the car.

“I could have killed you,” I say, slamming my car door. The rain mists around us.

“You can’t keep arguing with everyone like that. It’s going to make this harder if you keep coming at people like you want
to rip their throats out,” John says, his voice urgent.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to get my bearings.

“Right, I need to be far more specific, I forgot,” John says, settling into his stance. I flinch, stunned. John’s mouth opens
to say something, and then closes. Why I expect him to forgive me so easily is laughable, and yet I can’t help but want it
more than anything right now.

“Don’t hate me. I can’t have you hating me,” I say, looking down.

John says nothing. I look up, not sure I can handle seeing anger in his eyes still. Our eyes meet and I see a flash of something.
A hint of something. And then… it’s gone.

“I’m here as your family’s attorney. I no longer have any personal feelings about you one way or another. But as your attorney
I am telling you, you
have
to control your temper,” John advises, his voice clear, his eyes cold. Whatever hope I had, whatever I thought that flash
meant, slips away.

“Control my temper,” I repeat, nodding.

“That’s all.”

“Consider me advised,” I answer, shutting down, back to the Nothing. I look down at the ground, trying to catch my breath.
I feel John hesitate. I look up, that nagging hope makes me look at his chest, to see if my name is still engraved over his
heart. I can almost feel his skin under my hands, his black, wavy hair at my fingertips. His soft lips on mine. I move my
gaze up his body and we lock eyes again. I can’t breathe. He holds my stare.

“Grace?” a voice calls. Who dares to call my name right now? I resolve to punch whoever it is smack in the face. The residue
of John’s warnings about controlling my temper hangs in the air as I tighten my fist. I turn, my eyes wild, and see Tim casually
ambling across the parking lot. I loosen my fist… a
bit
.

No. Please. No.

I see John steel himself, the vulnerability of the last moment completely gone, as he looks from me to Tim and back again.

“Grace,” Tim says again. This time it’s more of an exasperated statement. I can’t look at John. I step toward Tim, hoping
somehow that John will simply not notice. Maybe he’ll think Tim is a kindly salesman who’s offering me a snazzy new vacuum.
If only Tim would have brought a vacuum. A Dirt Devil, even. No such luck. John stuffs his hands back in his pockets and just… takes
in the scene.
He knows.

And suddenly, I know.

As Tim walks over to me, what I know for sure is that I never loved him. In reality, love wasn’t even on the table. He was
the polar opposite of John, and I wanted to be anyone but me. The rain mists around us and I can’t seem to get a breath.

“Tim,” I say, hoping he’ll just drive back down to LA and forget he ever knew me. He doesn’t.

“I just called you. It went straight to voice mail,” Tim announces. I look guiltily at my BlackBerry on the passenger seat.
Bad
BlackBerry.

The three of us stand in silence for several seconds. Awkward.

“Tim Barnes,” Tim finally says, extending his hand to John. Doesn’t he know that men have lost limbs for less? I eye John.
His face is completely unreadable.

“John Moss,” John says, pulling his hand from his pocket and extending it toward Tim. They shake hands. During this exchange
I think I’m having a small stroke. Maybe this is just another thing Dad and I share.

“Are you one of the siblings?” Tim asks, looking from me to John.

“My name would probably be Hawkes if I were,” John answers, his face showing his amusement.

“Ah,” Tim answers, fully picking up on John’s tone.

“John is our attorney,” I cut in. I let my hand fall on John’s arm as I formally introduce him. I can feel the curve of his
bicep through his suit jacket. His muscle twitches under my hand. Heat surges through my body and as if I’m being electrocuted,
I tighten my grip. This time, he doesn’t pull away.

“Attorney? Why do you need an attorney?” Tim asks, as the mist begins to morph into droplets of rain.

“People usually call an attorney when they have a legal issue,” John explains mockingly. Tim’s entire body stiffens. He glares
at me.

“You ready to go?” Tim asks, eyeing his car.

“We needed an attorney because Dad gave Huston his power of attorney and not the second wife,” I explain, finally easing my
death grip on John’s arm. He shifts his weight and moves a few inches closer to me. I feel my blood pressure rise. My heart
beats faster. I…
feel
. Dangerous… dangerous.

“That’s bizarre,” Tim says.

“My Dad’s bizarre,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh, so you know him now?” Tim asks, chuckling. I know he’s trying to be funny, but making a joke about my strained, yet budding,
relationship with my father stings.

“Wow,” I hear John huff.

We fall into an uncomfortable silence once again.

“So, I’ll just wait in my car and you can… I’ll just follow you to the… Just let me know when you’re done here,” Tim stutters,
turning and walking quickly toward his car through the now falling rain.

“Pleasure meeting you,” John calls after him.

Tim turns around, briefly thinks about coming back. I’m willing him,
willing him
to just walk away. John looks unaffected, downright
relaxed
, as he watches Tim. I can’t help but imagine Tim as a young man, his underpants pulled up somewhere around his shoulders,
having this same internal battle. He tightens his fists, his face tense, and looks from me to John and back again. The rain
falls.

“You, too,” Tim finally manages, his entire body deflating. He turns and walks to his car, beaten. A wide smile breaks across
John’s face as he turns to me.

“A proud moment,” I say, turning to him.

“For both of us,” John says, stepping closer.

“He’s a… it’s a…” I stutter.

“It’s a little late for explanations,” John finishes, his head tilting just so.

I have a vision of a tiny pinprick of light miles above this prison floor. Tilting my head back, the rain falling on my face,
I take the deepest of breaths.

A way out.

“It’s not too late,” I say, looking John in the eye. Straight. Shooting right through those black-as-pitch eyes and diving,
body and soul, down to where the memories of me… the memories of
us
live.

Tim honks the horn off in the distance. Ah, yes—please make me break up with you faster than I was already going to. We won’t
even make it out of this parking lot as a couple now.

John rips his gaze from mine. I take pleasure in noting it was difficult for him.

“You’d better get going,” John finally says, his voice low.

“John—” I start, my hand outstretched.

John cuts in, “I trusted you and you broke my heart.” His mouth tight, his eyes focused. I recoil, my stomach churning, my
legs about to give way. I open my mouth to say something.

John holds up his hand, stopping me, and continues, “I’m going to take a page out of your book and just…”

And he walks away.

I watch him retreat to his car as the rain starts to really fall around me.

“Who is he?” Tim asks, as I fold into his car seconds later.

“My ex,” I say. I’m so tired of lying.

“Is he even your family’s attorney?” Tim asks, clicking the indicator right… left… right… left.

“Yes,” I say, my purse on my lap, my seat belt unbuckled.

We are silent, save for the clicks of the indicator.

“So… dinner?” Tim offers, looking over at me.

I am silent. The words I need are stuck in all the broken-down architecture of the last five years. But they
are
coming.

“Grace?” Tim asks again.

“I need some time,” I start.

“To get ready… take a shower?” Tim says, starting his car up.

“To myself. Alone,” I say, hating that I sound all cryptic and mysterious.

“I wasn’t insinuating we shower together. I know you aren’t into that,” Tim says, trying—once more—to defuse the situation.

“You’re the perfect guy,” I start.

Tim reacts. His face flushes.

I continue, “Just not for me.”

Tim turns the car off. I shift my body in the passenger seat and grab the door handle.

“Look, you’re going through a really difficult time. You’re going to need someone,” Tim offers. I pull the handle and the
door clicks open.

“I already have someone,” I say. I push open the door and climb out into the fresh, cold air.

“Grace?” Tim calls.

“I’ll see you back at the office,” I say, slamming the door.

I tilt my head back. That pinprick of light that was so far away from the prison floor is now within reach.

Y
ou from around here?” a soft, gooey lady asks me as we stand in line at the B&B’s breakfast buffet the next morning.

“Pasadena,” I say, putting on my best early-morning etiquette. The woman puts a luscious-looking blueberry scone on her plate,
adding a dollop of clotted cream for good measure.

“Up here for the holidays?” she asks. Flashes of the ICU, Dad’s rumbling cough, being herded out of his hospital room like
interloping trash, Tim’s surprise visit.
I trusted you and you broke my heart
…

“Absolutely,” I lie.

“Are you here with your husband?” the woman asks, now eyeing the array of fresh fruit. I stare at her. My night of panic-stricken
sobbing, chocolate and
Frasier
reruns looms large.

“It’s more of a family vacation,” I say, spooning a big helping of oatmeal into my bowl.

“Isn’t it just…” The woman trails off as I grab an Earl Grey tea bag and pour myself a mug of hot water. I smile and put what
I hope to be an insurmountable, yet polite, distance between us. It’s probably only about a foot—but in breakfast buffet yardage
it should be equal to the Serengeti Plain.