Ask Again Later (24 page)

“I'll do it,” I say.

“It's okay, honey. I enjoy doing it,” Mom says. “Remember the last time I did this?”

“I do,” I say. “Dad helped you.”

A peculiar silence follows.

“The doctor called,” Mom says. “Everything is fine. One year mark. Quite a milestone.”

“That's great,” I say. “That's really great. And you feel good?”

“Never better,” Mom says.

“Maybe the windows can wait,” I say. “Besides, they already look clean.”

“Phil cleaned them this morning,” Mom says. “Or yesterday. He cleaned them yesterday.”

“Well, was it this morning or was it yesterday?” I ask, intentionally putting her on the spot.

“Honey, listen. Since we're going to be married in a few months, Phil is moving in,” Mom says.

“I'm confused. I thought he already lived here,” I say.

“Oh. Okay, well I didn't know you knew that,” Mom says. “I guess we can skip the pretend moving day we were planning.”

Between the Lines

I'M IN THE PARKING
lot of Hildreth's in East Hampton, and I'm having a phone session with Paul the shrink. It is a paved black parking lot. There are no lines to park between.

“It
is
insane,” I say.

“It is insane,” Paul says. “I don't understand why you didn't call me from Sam's house. He knows you're in therapy.”

“Right, why do I care if he hears what I'm saying to you?” I ask.

“Yes, why do you care?” Paul asks.

“I don't know. The employees of Hildreth's are actually taking turns watching me watch them. Hold on a sec, I'm going to turn the car around so they can't see my face. They probably think I'm going to drive through the window,” I say.

“Why would they think that?” Paul asks.

“Because my car is pointed toward their double glass doors, and I'm revving the engine?” I say.

It is the Friday before Valentine's Day, and Sam and I are at his place in East Hampton. Even though he says he'll take a walk while I talk to Paul, I don't quite trust the quiet house. So I insist on doing my session via phone in the car in the parking lot of a home-goods store. It's not about trusting Sam, though.

“I was half hoping you wouldn't answer,” I say.

“Why?” Paul says.

“The four home pregnancy tests I've taken have all been positive. And I'm in shock,” I say.

Silence.

“Nothing?” I say. “You aren't going to say anything?”

“That's wonderful. Really wonderful,” Paul says. “What does Sam say?”

“Sam says ‘If it's positive, why do you keep buying more tests?'” I say.

“And what else does he say?” Paul says.

“That we need to move up the wedding date,” I say.

“I see,” Paul says. “So you're in a parking lot with the engine running…”

“In case I need to make a clean break. Get away. I know what you're going to say,” I say.

“What?” Paul says.

“Drive back to Sam. Experiment with what it feels like to stay when you might be tempted to run,” I say.

“I don't need to say what you already know,” Paul says.

Ashes

MY FATHER'S ASHES ARE
still in the living room in an overpriced container that we bought from the undertaker. Because we were new to this death thing, we didn't know you caught a break if you bring your own container. It reminded me how, for a brief time, some supermarkets were offering a two-cent refund if you brought your old bags back.

 

BUT MOSTLY, IT SEEMS TO ME
, it is ridiculous that you get charged for dying, for needing disposal. Is it any wonder the nation's parks and highways are littered with bodies?

The disposal, or spreading of, his ashes is sort of like cleaning out the junk drawers. Mom and I kept meaning to get to it. But there was always a good excuse not to.

Finally, in April, we scattered them in a place, two places actually, where he'd spent a lot of time. Two fistfuls of him were sprinkled in the tie department of the men's Bergdorf store. Security kept tailing us, like we were going to steal something. It was mortifying. Of course he'd
said this as a joke, decades earlier, to my mother. Their joke. We figured, why not?

The rest of his ashes we poured in a wildflower garden behind our old summer house. The place we went in July and August when we were a family. There was sap on the grass from the trees, and my mother insisted that we put trash bags over our shoes before stepping on the grass. Is nothing sacred?

She and I laughed as we put Hefty bags over our shoes and paraded the urn out to the lawn. It was heavier than you'd expect. Heavier than a bag of flour.

Marjorie, Malcolm, Little Malcolm, Nana, Sam, and Phil waited in the car. Mom and I walked close to the water and an amazing old oak tree. It was a sunny, breezy day, and we lifted the lid and began pouring his ashes in increments. His ashes swirled and flew back in our face and mouth and eyes. Some settled on the grass, some flew through the air and settled on our clothing. Letting go is never easy.