by Jane Porter
“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.
• • •
The 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.”
• • •
Thirty 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.
• • •
Even 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.
• • •
Sunlight 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.
He wasn’t in college and had no desire to go anywhere for “the holidays.” I was welcome to join him for meals and activities at Napa Estates, but there wasn’t going to be this cozy family Christmas. He had no desire for a family Christmas. Not without Mom.
I cried in secret. I was hurt. And confused.
Dad wasn’t the only one who’d lost Mom. I’d lost her, too. And Andrew. I’d lost two people and now it seemed as if I’d lost Dad as well. He didn’t feel any need to be a family with me. He didn’t want or need the traditions. He didn’t want or need the past. I didn’t like his idea of the future . . . not for us.
I still don’t.
As I park at Napa Estates today, it reminds me all over again of a sprawling, swanky country club in the South. The green lawn flanking the columned main “house” is so perfect I’m tempted to see if it’s real. The building’s glossy white paint and pale cedar shingles contrast nicely with the sparkling large multi-paned windows that show the elegant, gleaming lobby, with its high ceiling and pale, low-pile carpet—suitable for both wheelchairs and walkers.
Mom and Dad had looked at a lot of retirement homes in Sonoma County before choosing Napa Estates as their future home. They liked that the facility had a couple tennis courts and a large swimming pool even though they never played tennis and rarely swam. It was the idea of having the facilities there, just as they liked Napa Estates’ dining room, large gym, library, and movie theater, plus the monthly meetings for Bridge Club and Book Club and Wine Club.
Napa Estates wasn’t just a “place” for seniors, but a community. Their brochure boasts that they create a “microcosm of society that brings successful, mature adults together, recognizing their strengths and gifts.” I think the language of the brochure is a little overwritten but back in December I was impressed with how the retirement home has been designed to cater to all stages of senior living—independent living, assisted living, and memory care—with its focus on healthy living. I admire their goal to keep seniors fit, active, and independent for as long as possible. Of course there’s a financial impetus—healthy seniors’ expenses are less than those of seniors with chronic conditions—but there’s also the quality of life issue. Healthy seniors are happier.
Dad is in the independent wing, with a one-bedroom apartment. He has several friends who have two-bedroom apartments so that guests can stay over. Dad didn’t want that. Said he had no one he’d want to stay. I refused to have hurt feelings. Because I’m not sure I’d want to stay over. Dad is fine in three-or four-hour increments, but beyond that, he gets short and sharp. I love him, but don’t enjoy his company when he gets snappy.
Fortunately, despite Parkinson’s, Dad has been able to stay in the independent living wing, but now that he’s had a fall and needs more help, I’m wondering when the staff will want him to move. Where he is now he gets to live with his own furniture, but apparently that changes in assisted living. I don’t know the specifics. I only know that this morning, in an empty turn-of-the-century farmhouse, I became determined to convince my father that he should move to Arizona to be with me.
• • •
It takes me ten minutes to find Dad after arriving at Napa Estates. It’s a big place and he’s not in his apartment, or the Game Room, or the restaurant. I eventually track him down in the Reading Room where he’s not reading but playing bridge with another gentleman and two ladies. Dad is resting his hand of cards on his splint, using a Scrabble tile holder to keep the card
s from sliding down, and drawing and discarding cards with his good hand.
I knew he’d figure out how to play one-handed. He’s always enjoyed bridge, but he’s become very serious and competitive since arriving here, playing two to three days a week now.
In between deals he introduces me to Edie Stephens, his partner; they are playing against Bob and Rose Dearborn, a married couple.
I’ve barely been introduced before Edie raps the cards against the table. She’s not happy with the interruption. The game isn’t over.
Everyone quickly quiets and focuses on the game as Bob deals the next hand.
I don’t remember any of these people from Christmas, although Edie looks familiar. Or maybe it’s just because she’s very old and has that dour look of older women in early photography. Unsmiling, pursed lips, flat stare.
She glances up from her cards, and her gaze meets mine. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly and her expression makes me feel as if I haven’t quite measured up somehow. I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back. And perhaps it’s impudent, but I just keep smiling. There’s no reason for her to be so unfriendly. It’s my father after all, and I’ve just dropped everything to rush up here and be with him.
But she’s already dismissed me and is focused on her cards.
I get a chair and pull it towards the table, sitting just behind Dad so I can see his cards and follow the game.
Edie shoots me another sharp look as I settle into my seat, her eyes bright blue against her pale, thin skin. Her wispy white hair is twisted back in a severe knot. She must be in her late eighties, but as I soon discover, she plays a mean game of bridge, making calls coolly, crisply, not a hint of a quaver in her voice.
I started to learn bridge years ago when Andrew and I were in dental school so we could play with my parents, giving us a pleasant way to spend time together, but Andrew didn’t enjoy the game—it’s not a game you learn overnight if you want to play well—so we stopped our lessons. But I’d grown up listening to my parents play on weekends with their friends—card tables up in the living room, the clink of ice in cocktail glasses, and the murmur of voices as they made their bids. And even though I don’t know how to really play myself, just sitting in one of the club chairs behind Dad, flipping through a magazine, I am lulled by the sound and rhythm of the game. The dealer, the opener, the responder . . .
