It's You (2 page)

“I have a cavity,” Brett whispers.

“Well, I’ll fix that up for you.”

“Will it hurt?”

“No.” I pat his arm. He’s warm. His arm is small. I want to protect him. When you are a child you have no control. Everyone makes all the decisions for you. I can’t imagine not having any control.

“Are you a kindergartener?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“He’s going to be,” his mom answers from her chair in the corner. “In September. He’s in pre-K now.”

“You’re going to love kindergarten,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I have to wear a uniform. And a vest.” His sadness has changed to despair. “I hate vests.”

“Why do you have to wear vests?”

“Because it’s a Catholic school,” his mother says. “The children wear vests on Mass days.”

Brett looks at her and then me. “I’d rather wear my Ninja Turtle shirt,” he whispers.

“I would, too,” I whisper back.

He smiles at me but there are tears in his eyes.

I smile back because if I don’t smile, I’ll start crying.

Brett leaves the office with thick cotton tucked between his cheek and gum and a shy smile for me.

He has beautiful eyes, golden brown with long black lashes.

Andrew had lovely lashes, too. So long they didn’t look real. I used to touch them lightly, wonderingly.
What did you do to get eyelashes like these?

And then suddenly I remember the note.

Learn to park.

Asshole.

And I want Andrew back. I want him to make fun of the note. And me. I want him to make things better. He knew how to make everything better . . .

Suddenly I can’t be here, in this office, anymore. I can’t handle the frigid temperature or the whir of the drill, or the sweet eugenol with its clove oil scent.

Even though I have yet another patient waiting for me, I walk down the hall, out the door into the warm Arizona sunshine, squeezing my hands into fists, digging my nails into the skin to keep from making a sound.

My heart is broken.

It will never be the same.

None of it will ever be the same again.

• • •

D
r. Andrew Morris finds me outside. Andrew, my Andrew, was named after his father. My Andrew is the third. His father, the founder of the dental practice, is the second. Andrew
Morris the first wasn’t a dentist. I don’t know what he did but he isn’t spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. He isn’t spoken of at all.

“Helene mentioned something about your father taking a spill,” Dr. Morris says, hands buried in his white coat. Unlike the new generation of dentists that prefer suits and ties and collared shirts, Dr. Morris still wears a white buttoned coat over his shirt. He’s old-school, and proud of it. “Is he okay?”

I nod once. “A fractured wrist. He says he’s fine.”

“Are you okay?”

I nod again, more slowly, but no, I’m not okay. I’m not sure what I am.

For a moment there is just silence. I want to go see my dad. Not Memorial Day weekend—two weeks from now—but now. I want to go
now
. Tonight. I need to. I need someone and something that is mine.

“I think I should go see him,” I say quietly. “I would feel better if I could check on him personally.”

Dr. Morris hesitates for just a moment and then nods. “That’s probably a good idea. When would you go?”

“I’d like to go tonight—” I break off, take a quick deep breath. “I’ll be back in the office Monday morning. It’ll mean cancelling the rest of the week’s appointments.”

“I could probably take some of them.”

“You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. “It’s good that you’re heading up to see your dad. But maybe you shouldn’t rush back. Maybe you need more time up there. Maybe you need more time for you.”

“I’ll schedule some time this summer—”

“I don’t know that you can wait.”

I lift my head and look up into Dr. Morris’ face. His expression is focused, his eyes sad. We are all still sad. I’ve secretly begun to think we, who loved Andrew, will never be happy again. His
father, his mother, me . . . we’re functioning, but not living, not the way one wants to live.

A lump fills my throat, making it ache as I swallow.

“Do you need a ride to the airport?” Dr. Morris asks, changing the subject.

I shake my head, even though I haven’t actually thought that far. Can’t seem to think clearly right now. There’s so much white noise in my head. And this unbearable weight on my heart.

“What time is your flight?”

“I haven’t booked it yet.”

“I imagine then that you probably won’t see your father until tomorrow.”

“I’m hoping to join him for lunch.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Hope so.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

I have to think. Since I didn’t make it Easter it was . . . it was . . . “Christmas.”

It’s been too long. I’ve not been an attentive daughter. I should have been up to see him several times since. But Napa isn’t home, and his senior retirement home isn’t where I want him to be. After mom died, I thought he’d want to come live with me, in Scottsdale. He didn’t, choosing to move into the retirement home instead. It’s not close or convenient for my work. I’d give up my practice here, but that would leave Dr. Morris alone.

I look up into Andrew Morris II’s eyes and see things I don’t want to see.

He misses Andrew terribly. Andrew was his son, his heir. The future. Not just in life, but the next generation to run the dental practice. From the time Andrew was a boy, he was going to be part of the Scottsdale practice. It was going to be Morris and Morris.

Instead it’s Morris & Associates.

I’m the associate. Andrew’s fiancée.

• • •

I
’m able to book a flight out while still at the office, and once home, I quickly pack for two weeks. Dr. Morris is taking me off the books for the first half of June as well, but I can’t imagine being gone that long. I’m not someone who likes to sit around. I prefer working. I need to be active.

Andrew used to say I loved nothing more than a long to-do list. I’d make a face at him, rolling my eyes. But he was right. I’m most comfortable being busy, making plans, having places to go, even if it’s just to the grocery store. I have an ongoing list for that, too.

Add on.

Cross off.

Accomplished.

I’m all about the doing. And now Andrew is gone and I’m cracked. Broken. So broken I can’t even make a single list.

Don’t know what to do anymore.

Don’t know where to go.

• • •

T
he shuttle picks me up on time but traffic is terrible on the way to Phoenix International Airport. I’m panicking that we’re not going to get to the airport before they start boarding. It shouldn’t be this long of a drive. I close my eyes, stressed. Eyes closed, I focus on just breathing.

Inhale to a count of ten. Exhale to a count of ten. Inhale . . .

As I breathe my thoughts drift to Dad. I have his shoes in my suitcase. I hope he’ll like them. I hope I got the right size. I’m pretty confident he’s a size eleven. Or a ten and a half. Maybe he’s a ten
and a half, and in that case the elevens would be too big, particularly with his balance issues.

In the past I could have texted my mom and she’d text me back right away, giving me his size. She was good about getting back to me right away. Always. Mom was a former teacher turned principal. She died five months after Andrew. Had an aneurysm in August. It happened in her sleep. So glad she didn’t suffer. But nobody saw that one coming, either.

To lose both Mom and Andrew in less than six months . . . Still trying to wrap my head around life. How it happens. How it ends.

I don’t even feel as if I’m grieving. I’m not sure what grieving is supposed to feel like. I’ve no one to talk to about this. Certainly can’t discuss it with Dad and I don’t have friends who have lost anyone other than a grandparent yet, and now I’ve lost my fiancé and my mom in short order.

Maybe the fact that I am just here, present, but not able to feel a damn thing is grief.

If that’s the case, I’m good with it. I don’t want to feel more pain. And being numb has actually allowed me to be a very good dentist.

God knows patients are nervous enough coming in as it is. They don’t need me weeping as I drill and fill their teeth.

• • •

T
he airport is cordoned off when I arrive. The shuttle can’t even get close to the terminal entrance. I pay and grab my bags and join the crowd outside. Police empty the terminal and everyone mills about the parking area while a bomb squad goes through an abandoned backpack found inside.

A businessman next to me said all flights will be delayed hours, if they even go out tonight. No flight has been allowed to land for the past hour.

I take this in without comment, watching the swarming police and SWAT team, but not seeing the SWAT team. Rather I see Andrew. I’m back there on that last day.

I’d gone to the store to get ice cream.

That’s where I was when he did it.

The police, his parents, his sisters, his friends, they all wanted to know what had happened that week, that day, in the hours leading up to Andrew’s death.

Everyone had the same question—had there been a fight? Were you two quarreling?

No.

And then immediately the other questions:
Was he unhappy? Had he expressed concerns about the wedding? Were there money problems?

No, no, and there is always debt and bills after college and dental school, and we had just bought our first home so things were really tight, but not the kind of tight finances that make one want to die, the kind of tight that means one must work, and save, and plan.

For the record, Andrew and I never fought. You had to know Andrew to understand. He wasn’t argumentative. There wasn’t a mean or petty bone in his body. He was kind and thoughtful. Sweet.
Funny.

He’d be goofy just to make me laugh.

He loved to make me laugh. I loved it when he did.

We were good together. We fit. His mom used to say we were two halves of a whole, and I agreed.

So why would the love of my life take his own life?

And just weeks before our wedding?

I don’t know.

I’ve spent the past year analyzing the last year we had. I’ve pulled the months apart, examined each week, each day, and I’m
still no closer to an answer. What went wrong? And when did it go wrong? And why did I—of all people—not know?

I would have done anything for him. I would have been there—

Hell. I
was
there.

We lived together. We worked together. We drove to work together. We trained together. Worked out together. We were together pretty much twenty-four seven.

And it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough . . . not to keep him here, anchored to earth, to life.

He would have rather died than be with me.

A muffled boom comes from across the street.

The bomb squad has blown up the backpack. False alarm. There was nothing inside.

People around me cheer.

I’ve been told it’s wrong—selfish, narcissistic—to make Andrew’s death about me, but what else could I do? I was his partner, his lover, his best friend. I was going to be his wife and the mother of his children. If he was so unhappy, why couldn’t he tell me? Why wouldn’t he?

Why couldn’t he give me a chance to help him? I would have.

Now all I’m left with is that last day.

It had been a perfect day.

We’d just recently moved into our new house. We’d gone for a long run that morning, waking early to beat the desert heat. It was a good run, seven miles, which was a lot for me, but nothing for Andrew, since he was already running marathons. I’d agreed to run my first marathon after our honeymoon so we’d been training together, getting me used to the distance.

After running we worked on the house, and then walked to Fashion Square where we ate a late lunch—or early dinner, depending on how you’d call it—at the Yardhouse, our favorite place since we both loved the ahi dishes. Then we walked home, holding
hands, talking about the wedding and the future and a couple hours later, I had a craving for ice cream, and I ran to the store.

So why did he do it?

Why, when it had been a good day? Why make me be the one to discover him in the entry, hanging from our new reproduction Spanish Colonial Revival chandelier, to match our authentic Spanish Colonial Revival dream home?

Why take one of the best days of my life and make it the worst day?

Love is supposed to be patient and kind.

It’s not.

T
he flight to Oakland ends up being delayed nearly three hours, but it looks like we’re still going to be able to get out tonight.

I’m sitting by the gate flipping through one of the professional journals I never have time to read when Dad calls. He’s heard about the bomb scare through CNN and he’s phoning me to see if I’ve been blown up. Those are, mind you, his exact words. As a little girl I was baffled by my dad’s dry humor. I’ve finally come to understand it.

“No, Dad, I’m fine. A lone backpack was blown to bits, but everything else is intact.”

“That’s it?” He sounds disappointed.

“That’s it. Well, and my flight’s delayed a couple hours, but all the excitement is over and I’ll still be there in the morning.”

“Maybe this is a sign that you’re not supposed to come.”

“Maybe you need to just embrace my visit.”

“I just think it’s a mistake for you to take time off work because
I
made a mistake and tripped over my own big feet.”

“Me not coming up would be the mistake. And humor me, Dad. This way I can pretend I’m a dutiful daughter.”

“So this is really about you.”

I answer as sweetly as I can. “Did you ever doubt it?”

He barks a laugh. “Now you sound like your mom.”

I smile, pleased. He doesn’t laugh often. “She was the one who taught me to kill ’em with kindness.”

“As long as you don’t kill them in your chair.”

“That would be bad,” I agree.

“So what time do you land in Oakland tonight?”

“Around eleven.”

“Need a ride from the airport?”

“You offering to get me?” I retort, knowing he’s given up driving.

“I could probably do all right.”

“And whose car would you steal?”

“Mom’s car is still at the house. Haven’t sold it yet.”

“What are you hanging on to it for?”

“It’s a nice new Audi. Why sell it?”

“Because you don’t need it and it’s just going to go down in value the longer you hang on to it.”

“So why don’t you take it?”

“I have a car.”

“An old one. Your mom’s car is less than two years old—”

“I can’t . . . drive her car . . .” My voice fades away. I’m suddenly tired. I don’t have words to explain. Dad wasn’t supposed to be in the senior home yet. Not for a couple more years. Mom wasn’t supposed to be gone. She was the young one. “I mean, I will, once I’m there. I’ve got a shuttle reserved to get to the house. Is the key still under the flower pot on the porch?”

“Yes. And you remember the code for the alarm?”

“My birth date backwards.”

“That’s it. There won’t be any food in the house but all the
utilities are still on, and things should be clean. I’m paying for a housekeeper each month, so it better be clean.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“So I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Yes.” I hesitate, wanting to say more, but not knowing what to say. There is so much pressure in my chest. It’s heavy and immense. The weight makes it hard to breathe. “I’ve missed you.”

Silence stretches. I don’t think he’s going to say anything. And then he surprises me. “It’ll be good to see you,” he says gruffly.

A lump fills my throat. “It’s going to be a treat.”

“Be safe.”

We say good-bye, and I hang up feeling better.

And worse.

Because I don’t remember what safe feels like anymore.

• • •

T
he woman seated next to me on the plane has two very large carry-on bags that are bursting at the seams. She struggles to make both fit—one above us and one beneath the seat in front of her. I pretend not to notice as she repeatedly shoves her platform sandal into the top and side of the carry-on at her feet to make it fit beneath the seat. It takes quite a few kicks and jabs before it’s under.

“There,” she says, exhaling and sitting back.

She looks to be about my age. She has dark curly hair, brown eyes, and tons of freckles. She also has very straight white teeth. I always notice teeth.

For the first hour of the flight we don’t speak, but then during the beverage service somehow the handoff of the plastic cup between flight attendant and the woman to my right doesn’t go well, and the diet Sprite spills on me. The flight attendant hands over napkins and pours another drink while my seatmate apologizes profusely and dabs at my tray and leg. I tell her I’m fine, but
she keeps dabbing and apologizing and in the end, we start talking, sharing about where we are each going and why.

Her name is Diana and she’s a florist, heading back to Napa after a weekend home in Phoenix to see her mom for a belated Mother’s Day visit. “I couldn’t make it for Mother’s Day,” she says. “Way too much work. I’d been warned that it’s one of the busiest weekends of the year but wasn’t prepared.”

It turns out she’s still in her first year owning her own business, taking over the small florist shop in downtown Napa last fall. She does everything, but specializes in weddings and special events.

“How did you decide to become a florist?” I ask. “Did you study it in school?”

“Nope. I always thought I was going to go into medicine and then during college decided dentistry would be a good fit. I’d even taken the DAT and had applied to dental schools—got into two, too—but at the last moment, I couldn’t do it. I was sick of school and couldn’t imagine being stuck inside all day.”

I drain my water and look at her. “I’m a dentist.”

“Do you like it?”

I nod. “I think I’m good at it.”

“That’s so cool. Where did you go to dental school?”

“University of Washington.”

Her eyes light. “I went there as an undergrad. Go Huskies!”

“What did you study?”

“Psych.” She laughs. “And boy it comes in handy when working with brides, moms, and wedding planners. People really do go crazy when it comes to planning a wedding.” She glances at my left hand, checking for rings. “Are you married?”

I stopped wearing Andrew’s ring on the one year anniversary of his death. Every now and then I put it on, but it doesn’t feel right anymore. “No. You?”

“Men are too much work.” Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “But I could change my mind if I met the right one.”

We end up talking the rest of the flight to Oakland, and as the plane touches down and taxis to the gate, Diana struggles to get her bag out from beneath the seat and then riffles through it for her wallet. She hands me her card just as we reach the gate. Diana Martin.
A Napa Bouquet.

“Wait,” she says, taking it back and scribbling her cell number across the top. “That way you can call me direct.”

I pocket her card and give Diana mine. She studies my name and the address of Dr. Morris’ office. “That’s a nice area. Is it a new practice?”

“No. It’s been around for about thirty years.”

“That’s awesome. Good for you.”

We gather our things as the seat belt light goes off. Everyone bolts to their feet but there is nowhere to go yet. We stand in the aisle making small talk after Diana frees her second bag from the overhead.

“So how long will you be up in Napa?” she asks.

“A couple of weeks,” I answer.

“Well, if you get bored or want to head out one night, give me a shout. My shop’s in downtown Napa. I’d be happy to meet up for a drink or dinner.”

“Sounds good.”

• • •

T
hirty minutes later I’ve got my bags. I’m the only one tonight in the back of the big passenger van. The driver is quiet, and I check my phone for messages—there are none. My life for the last year has been work and work. It’ll be good to use these next few weeks in Napa to relax and rest and figure out how to be a little more social again.

I did enjoy talking to Diana on the plane. Chatting with her made the flight pass quickly, and I liked her. She was fun. Effervescent. I’d forgotten what positive girl energy feels like.

Need more of that. Didn’t really have that in dental school, either. There was so much pressure. That first year, especially . . .

But I don’t want to think about dental school. Don’t want to think about Dr. Morris. Don’t want to think about anything at all.

Staring out the van window, I gaze up into the sky. The young moon is three quarters full. Waxing gibbous.

I only know this because Andrew loved the moon. He loved the stars and the night sky and owned a telescope from an early age. In the desert you can see the stars better than you can in a city. The sky is bigger, and the stars are brighter. Andrew loved the sky. He, my independent Aquarius, wanted to make the world a better place. He was full of ideas and change. He had such a good heart, and even better intentions.

I don’t understand how he could just go . . . just . . .
leave
.

I don’t—

I rub my eyes with my fist. Can’t do this now. Not sure I should do this anytime. Can’t keep going to these places in my head and heart. But I don’t know where to go if I don’t go there. Don’t want to lose him. Don’t want to forget him. So afraid that if I let go too much he’ll disappear completely.

And yet he was too good to be forgotten.

Too kind to become nothing.

There must be another way to love. To remember love.

I’m in the hills of Sonoma County now, hills rolling, rising, moonlight whispering to me in slivers and sighs.

I know why Mom and Dad wanted to retire here. It’s beautiful. But it’s too quiet for me tonight. I need a city. I need urgency and energy.

Or at the very least, I need something to do.

• • •

E
ven though no one lives in the 1910 farmhouse on Poppy Lane, the house isn’t dark when the shuttle pulls up.

It’s almost one thirty but the front porch light is on and two more glow inside, soft yellow lining the edges of the living room curtains. The lights are on timers and every week the housekeeper, who sweeps the front porch and collects the free local community newspaper that lands in the driveway Wednesday afternoons, adjusts the timer so that different lamps turn on and off.

I pay the driver and shoulder my bags and head for the house. It takes me a moment to locate the key and get the alarm off, and then I enter the house, say good night to the moon, and Andrew. I like to think of him happy, there in the sky and stars, and once inside the house I say hello to my mom. I wait to feel her presence but she’s not here. This house never had time to truly become her home, and my footsteps echo on the hardwood floors, the interior hollow and empty.

I walk around, turning on and off lights, chasing away the shadows that linger in a house devoid of people. I take in the furniture that is still new and unlived in, furniture bought for the home that was supposed to be a dream house and never came to anything. I open the refrigerator. It’s cold and empty, save for an open box of baking soda on the top shelf.

Dad should sell the house. And Mom’s car. He should move down to Scottsdale with me and we should become a family again.

I pass through the house a second time, now turning out lights, ending in the master bedroom with the new king bed and new big highboy dresser. The old set with the full bed had been demoted to the guest room, but when Mom died and Dad went to Napa Estates, he took the old master bedroom set with him. It was familiar and he said it felt like Mom.

Mom died so suddenly there were no good-byes.

And Andrew . . . he did say good-bye. He’d kissed me, so very sweetly, before I drove off to get the ice cream.

Damn him.

He didn’t even give me a chance to fight for him.

I had no idea that such a kind man could be so cruel.

• • •

S
unlight pours through the windows waking me. I hadn’t drawn the curtains last night, and I open my eyes, bemused. Everything is foreign. The windows, the light, the pale grass green walls.

And then I remember.

Mom and Dad’s.

Well, Dad’s.

I’ve only just woken up but I suddenly want to cry. I want Mom.

And then I can’t do it, can’t bear being sad, thinking thoughts like this. I’m almost thirty. It has to change.

I toss back the Pottery Barn duvet cover with its green-and-white botanical fern print fabric. There are matching towels in the master bath. Dad didn’t take any of them to his new apartment at Napa Estates. He took the old sheets and towels, the ones that he’d shared all those years with Mom. Dad might keep me at arm’s length but I’ve never doubted his loyalty to Mom.

I shower and search the kitchen for coffee. There is none. There is no food in the house at all. Even the Tupperware containers of flour and sugar and salt are gone. The house is ready to be sold. I have no idea why Dad is hanging on to it.

• • •

I
haven’t been to Napa Estates Senior Living since December when I flew up to spend the holidays with Dad. Last December I’d made all these plans for us and our first Christmas without Mom. I’d imagined that Dad would come “home” to the house on Poppy
Lane, and we’d have a small, intimate Christmas, the two of us. I’d gone and done a big shop and had even purchased a small tree and decorated it. But when I went to the retirement home I was dismayed by his reaction.