A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (27 page)

“We, huh?” I say. John turns around in the empty parking lot. Serious.

“Yep,” he says, standing in front of me.

“Wait… are you seriously equating getting back together with committing to bringing dessert to a potluck?” I say, tilting my
head, smiling. Dad’s safe. Dad’s safe.

“It does make it sound a little…” John trails off, pulling me close.

“If you say sweet, I swear to God,” I say, kissing him. And kissing him.

“I wasn’t going to say sweet, because in my mind we were bringing some kind of cobbler,” John says, taking my hand.

“Yes, that could have been misleading,” I say, walking to my car.

“So, I’ll meet you at your house?”

“Well, with the whole romantic dessert commitment, how can a girl refuse?” I say, unlocking my car.

“See you there,” he says, closing the door behind me.

“Remember—we have to take the southern route because of parade traffic,” I say, as he begins to walk away.

“Right…” he answers, giving a quick nod.

I smile and watch as he walks to his car. The red lights flash in the distance as he beeps it unlocked. He climbs in and waits.

I put my car in reverse and head out of the parking lot, just as night settles in around me.

John follows.

“No, just the hot dog. No bun. No… no ketchup or anything.” I can hear Manny bringing Huston up to speed on Mateo’s Spartan
eating habits over by the grill. Mateo is trying desperately to keep the required distance between himself and the grill.
This is a feat of great strength and control; the grill pulls men of all ages toward it. John and Leo have already succumbed
to the tractor beam and stand idly by as Manny scans the yard. Mateo is going to make a run for it. I walk inside to the kitchen
and find Abigail and Evie bustling around the kitchen. I spy a bowl of chips and can’t help but partake.

“So?” Abigail asks, as she pulls a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge.

“No, but I knit a little,” I say, popping a corn chip into my mouth.

Abigail sniffs. Waits.

“You and John?” Abigail begins.

“He’s hot, Aunt Gracie,” Evie offers.

“Evelyn Grace Rodriguez,” Abigail warns.

“Well, he is,” she says, smirking. I can’t help but smile back. Evie gives me a little peck on the cheek, the look of distrust
in her eyes gone. I got another chance. She heads outside unaware that she just made my night.

“Didn’t you guys break up?” Abigail presses.

“Yeah,” I say, dipping another chip into the guacamole.

“What changed?” Abigail asks, carrying the bottle of sparkling water out onto the deck.

“I don’t know,” I answer. Abigail turns around, blocking me.

“You don’t know?” Her voice is dripping with contempt.

“No, I mean—I did, I guess.”

“Well,
you’d
better not mess it up this time,” Abigail finally says, her body stiffening as she awaits my comeback. I think of my old
upright piano now sitting in my living room and don’t say a thing. Abigail looks back confused, waits a beat, shakes her head,
smiles and continues out onto the deck.

“We’ve got hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled chicken, and one gross veggie blob,” Huston announces, setting a tray of barbeque
fare down in the center of the table. I grab my gross veggie blob and wave off the cries of disgust from the table.

Abigail has set a silvery runner down the center of the table, dotted with candle-filled hurricane lamps. The brisk night
air has kept us all bundled up throughout the evening, but not quite enough to take this little party inside.

“Mateo, get away from the grill!” we hear in the distance.

“Thank you all for coming over tonight.” Manny smiles, lifting Emilygrae up into her seat. He tucks a napkin into the collar
of her shirt and begins to cut her hamburger into tiny pieces. Her little face glows in the candlelight as she looks around
at everyone.

“John?” Abigail says, motioning at the tray, pushing Mateo’s seat under the table. Mateo eyes my gross veggie blob. John grabs
a burger.

“It’s vegetables smushed up into a blob,” I whisper to Mateo.

“Ewwwwww.” He laughs, watching as Manny sets one single hot dog on his plate. The tiny bespectacled superhero tilts his head,
scouring the hot dog for absolutely any unfamiliar hangers-on. A speck of relish? A crumb from a nearby bun? He’s vigilant.

“Have a seat, Huston,” Manny calls from the head of the table. Huston climbs the stairs to the deck and tucks in next to John.

“You know that took the longest to cook, right?” Huston announces, eyeing my gross veggie blob.

“It’s very dense,” I explain, whipping my napkin into my lap.

“Insert dense joke here, just about any one will apply,” Leo cracks, reaching into the center of the table for a hamburger.
The table erupts in laughter.

“Evie, mija, did you get your hot dog?” Abigail asks, as Evie holds up her plate. Satisfied, Abigail squeezes in next to Manny
and reaches into the center of the table for a chicken breast. Leo picks up the pasta salad.

“Who’s hungry?” Huston and Abigail both say at the exact same time. The four of us share a moment. Just like in the old days.
I sigh. I’m part of something. Again.

“Before we go on… here’s to a new year,” Manny toasts, raising his glass. We all follow Manny’s lead. The center of the table
is crowded with jelly jars, sippy cups, wineglasses, and two pint glasses.

“To a new year.” We all toast. Huston keeps his glass up.

“To Dad,” Huston adds, lifting his glass just that much higher.

“To Dad,” we repeat, lifting our glasses. The flickering candlelight reveals glimmers of smiles, welling eyes and worried
looks. But underneath is the most unbelievable thing—we just toasted our father. This is unprecedented. We are silent. Awkwardly
silent. I cut into my gross veggie blob and stuff it into my mouth.

“Mmmmmm,” I coo. The entire table cringes, but everyone is glad for the distraction. Those few quiet seconds brought flashes
of Dad in the hospital, Connie screaming at the top of her lungs, and pain. Leo passes the pasta salad to Huston. He scoops
out a generous helping and waits as he watches me overact swallowing.

“She ate it!” Emilygrae screeches with her mouth full, pointing her fork across the table at me.

“Em,” Abigail warns, her smile negating her scolding tone. Emilygrae giggles into her plate. Huston passes the pasta salad
to John, shaking his head. John scoops out a helping and passes it over to me. In his struggle to make sure the bowl, as well
as its contents, doesn’t touch his hot dog, Mateo chokes, hacking up the tiny morsel of chewed “meat” onto his plate. Manny
pats his back and holds out a glass of water (no ice) for him to take. Abigail watches intently. Emilygrae shoves a forkful
of pasta salad into her mouth, seemingly unfazed by her fallen comrade.

“Drink this, Matty,” Manny says, sweeping Mateo’s mouth with his finger. Mateo hacks again, takes the glass and drinks in.
He coughs a bit and hands the glass back to Manny.

“There was sumfin on it,” Mateo declares, wiping his mouth of any disgusting remnants. We all relax.

“Phew,” I say, shoving a giant bite of gross veggie blob into my mouth. He scrunches up his face and re-situates his glasses
in response. I make a silly face at him, wobbling my head around. Mateo just stares. Quiet. Disgusted.

Visions of Connie and Dennis are thankfully far away.

For now.

I awake the next morning to the sound of a B-2 stealth bomber and two F-22 fighter jets flying overhead. The Rose Parade.
I check the time. Just before eight a.m. Visiting hours start at ten a.m. Two hours until… well, just two hours.

It’s New Year’s Day.

I rub my eyes and stretch my arm across the impression John’s body left in my bed. I let my eyes get accustomed to the sunlight
and whip the covers off to go investigate. I am unreasonably proud of myself that my initial thought wasn’t that John fled
sometime during the night.

Stepping out into the chilly hallway, I am forced to pull my robe tightly around my pajama-less body to keep warm. I walk
past Mom’s picture in its little niche. I have a flash of regret that I didn’t make the niche bigger—am I going to have to
add another picture soon? I cinch my robe tighter as the chill settles in.

I smell coffee.

I am just about to walk into the kitchen when I spot John out in the backyard. At least I hope it’s John—either that or I’m
being burgled by the most lackadaisical criminal in history. I am about to open the French doors, but find myself just staring
at him through the wavy glass. He’s bending down to test the temperature of the pool in the backyard. He’s wearing the same
suit as yesterday, but now it’s being worn in a far more intimate, early-morning deconstruction. The pants are loose and hang
just above his bare feet. The crisp white oxford-cloth shirt hangs open and unbuttoned. His thick black hair is a ruffling
muss in the early-morning chill. He whips the water off his hand and stands, finally catching sight of me through the French
doors. A smile breaks across his face as I approach. A light in the darkness.

“Surprisingly warm,” he says, pulling me in for a long kiss. I breathe him in with unending pleasure.

“Me or the water?” I say, my lips centimeters from his.

“Both,” he answers, pulling me in again.

“I forgot how much I love having an outside,” he finally says.

“You’re still in that downtown loft?” I ask, remembering and remembering.

“Go ahead and say it.”

“The Furnished Downtown Loft with No Soul,” I rattle off.

“Yes, I’m still in the Furnished Downtown Loft with No Soul,” John admits.

“Before I saw it, I would never have believed in the devastating power of an all-black leather décor,” I joke.

“Well, then see—right there, you learn something new every day.”

“And all those Lichtenstein prints really warmed the place up.” I twist the knife further.

“I don’t even notice them anymore,” John argues.

“Yes, well—that’s really the purpose of art: to not notice it after a while.”

“I didn’t know you swam,” John says, motioning to the dark blue pool in the middle of the backyard.

“It was just a concrete slab when I moved in. I redid all of this about a year ago. I wanted it to feel private and away from
everything,” I say, surveying the blooming lavender, the outside dining area with real, working fireplace, and the pool I
had
to have, but have yet to swim in.

“It doesn’t even feel like we’re in the city at all,” John adds, taking in the skyscraping Carolina cherries that surround
the entire property.

“That’s what I was going for,” I answer.

“So, you swim?”

“Well…”

“You have got to be kidding me.” John is genuinely shocked.

“I just never had the time,” I admit.

“We have time right now,” John says, checking his watch.

“To what?”

John eyes the pool again.

“I was thinking more along the lines of breakfast,” I say, starting back into the house.

“All you have in there is some bullshit kefir and blueberries. Not quite the breakfast that’s going to tempt me,” he says.
I turn back around and find John half-naked, his shirt in a puddle next to the patio table I’ve never sat at once.

“What are you doing?!” I blurt, unable to wipe the smile off my face.

“I’m going swimming,” he says, shedding his pants one leg at a time.

“I have neighbors,” I say, staring. Staring. Staring.

“You said yourself that you built this with privacy in mind,” he says, now pulling his boxers down. He’s enjoying this far
too much. Shit, I’m enjoying this far too much.

“Not
naked
privacy,” I say.

“
Naked
privacy?” John laughs, kicking his boxers into the perfectly tended lavender.

“It’s a valid concern.” I laugh, unable to stop myself. John gives me one last look and launches into the pool with what can
only be described as a “hoot and a holler.” I immediately look over at the neighboring houses. Not one peeping neighbor aghast
at my…
naked
privacy. John bursts through the water’s surface, his black hair wet and slick.

“You coming in?” he says, dipping under again. I clutch at my robe, my eyes dart around the backyard. I start for the pool
house.

“Let me just get my bathing suit,” I try, running along the pavers to the small cabana I’ve never been in that holds the bathing
suit I’ve never worn.

“Gracie, I’ve already seen you naked. The jig is up,” John yells from the pool.

“Yes, you’ve seen me naked, but Owen and his grandmother haven’t, so…” I trail off, my hand on the door to the pool house.
John goes underwater again, I can see him swimming toward me. My hand stops. He’s almost here. One more stroke and he’ll break
the surface. I breathe in the crisp air. Time slows. I watch John under the water and I’m overtaken with an overpowering need
to feel alive.
I am alive.
I yank my robe off and launch myself into the pool, cannonballing just next to the love of my life.

“It’s about damn time,” John says, laughing, as we both come up for air. The water feels amazing. This pool has been here
for a year and I’ve never gone in. The overarching metaphor of this is not lost on me at all.

“You’re a naked pool bully,” I say, swimming over to him.

“Naked pool bully?” John repeats, laughing. John easily envelops me as I float into him. He steadies himself against the tiled
wall and holds me close. I wrap my everything around him as I try to stabilize myself.

“So, you in need of a pool boy?” John says, as the water laps around us.

“I’m being serviced by a nice gentleman already but thank you,” I say, kissing him.

“How else am I going to earn my keep around here?”

“I’m sure we’ll find another way,” I answer, fervently hoping Owen and his grandmother can’t see what John does next.

“Any sign of Connie and Dennis?” I ask, setting my purse next to the folding chair in Dad’s room at St. Teresa’s. I’m holding
my Casio keyboard and a cup of tea. My hair is still wet from this morning’s pool rendezvous. I feel like I’ve just gone from
fifth gear on the Autobahn to a crashing halt. But, strangely, both are equally life-affirming.