“Oh my God, oh my God.”
She kept saying it over and over, crumpled on the floor, her jeans soaking up the tea she was sitting in.
I always thought of that moment as when my dad died, but it was actually the day before. He’d been dead for hours, lying in the woods alone while my mom and I had eaten dinner, said good night, gone about whatever our routine had been when I was thirteen and she was thirty-five. He’d broken one of his cardinal rules and hunted alone. Not like him, she always said. Not like any experienced, responsible hunter. Years later it struck me odd that he’d been gone overnight and we hadn’t worried. But I’d pieced together enough of what had been going on with my parents around then that I hadn’t asked. It probably hadn’t been the first time my dad had disappeared like that.
I guess visiting his grave on a dreary day like this was only fitting. Then again, maybe I’d think of him differently if it were a blue-sky summer morning, remember the happy times rather than the depressing memories this trip always stirred up. I wish we could just pack it in, but my mom thought it was important to remember and respect. Every year there was less and less I remembered, grainy and nonsequential, like screen shots of an old and kind of sad movie.
My dad tinkering with wires and tools at his workbench, letting me watch by the side as long as I was quiet and didn’t fidget.
Him bringing home the retriever puppy we had to give up for adoption six months later when he lost his job.
The time we drove to Maine with Trip’s family and I got a hole in one at mini-golf. My dad boosted me onto his shoulders, paraded me around the course. We got ice cream later, and mine fell out of the cone onto the parking lot, but I didn’t care, still flying high from my golf triumph.
I mentioned that to my mom once. “You did so care,” she countered. “You cried and whined for ten minutes for a new one.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You most certainly did. And your dad got it for you too,” she said, ruffling my hair.
I spent most of the ride today thinking not about my dad but about Trip. Feeling both better about how I’d been handling the thing with Sarah and terrible that there was anything to handle in the first place. And what of the things yet to come? Me and her in bed. It wouldn’t happen, I vowed. Couldn’t.
My mom passed through the iron gates and wove down the roughly paved lanes, the worn and tilted grave markers turning gradually to newer, tidier ones until we got to my dad’s section near the back. She pulled to the side, not that anyone else would need to pass. In our years of visiting, I don’t think I’d seen another soul there.
“Ready?” I asked after a minute.
She took a breath and nodded. But didn’t move.
“Mom?” I asked. “You okay?”
“I was just realizing how long it’s really been, Riley,” she said. “You were thirteen. Eighth grade, right?”
I nodded. I’d been mortified when old Miss Bussey had hugged me right in front of the whole class when I’d gone back to school, pressing me against her scratchy, mothbally sweater. I’d had to hold my breath and count to five so I wouldn’t scream or wiggle away. I’d had practice by then. Lots of people had wanted to pat or hug or touch me at the funeral and after. I’d just wanted them all to go away.
“You’ve grown up without a dad,” she said softly.
“I remember the things he taught me,” I said. “About circuits and baseball and . . . other stuff. And you’ve filled in the rest just fine.”
She looked over, smiling through teary eyes, and I knew it had been the right thing to say, even if it wasn’t all true.
We got out then, tramped through the muddy grass, our boots squishing in the muck, leaving soft tracks to his marker.
“Hey, Wes,” she said softly. My mom stood stiffly by the gray stone. It was too hard for her to squat down anymore, and wet besides. “It’s been a busy year,” she said, talking like she always did, as if he were just down there waiting all this time for his annual update. She covered work: fine (a lie). The house: still standing, needs some work we hope to get to this year (if we win the lottery). Me.
“He’s so tall now, Wes,” she said, glancing back at me with a smile. “A full head above me. What was he when you saw him last? Up to your chest? You wouldn’t even recognize him. Except he’s got your blue eyes.” She paused. “He’s taking the SATs this year, maybe heading off to college . . .” I heard my mom take a breath, her voice catching for a second. “I wish you could see what a great kid he’s become. So smart and caring and hardworking.” Her voice cracked gently. “You’d be so proud.”
I wanted to run. Right then. Take off as fast as I could through row after row of stones. Out of here, away from the way this hurt, fast enough to turn today to yesterday and back to the night when we didn’t think to call and find out where he was and why he wasn’t home. Sarah had been right. I’d do anything to have him back. My chest burned with it, hot and tight, and I had to bite my lip, hard enough to draw blood, so I could stay there, steady for my mom, and not leave or cry or scream the way everything in me needed to just then.
“Riley?” I looked over at my mom, who’d stepped back and was beside me now. “Your turn.” She gestured toward the gravestone.
I took a few hesitant steps forward. “Hi, Dad,” I said, wishing my mom weren’t standing there listening to every word I said. “Mom already filled you in on pretty much everything. So I . . . uh . . .” I fidgeted, then stopped, remembering how he’d look at me, his rough face softening, in the light and shadow by his basement workbench. “I miss you,” I said, adding quietly, “a lot.”
I stepped back, my left boot making a disgusting squelchy noise. My mom patted my back, leaning forward to put a wrapped cigar onto the headstone. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em,” she said softly like she did every year. Then we walked silently back to the car.
***
The other thing we always did on his anniversary was make tacos. His favorite meal.
As much as I dreaded the day, this part felt warm and safe. I had run the gauntlet, completed another year’s worth of rituals and trials. Now I could relax.
“When’s the test?” she asked, handing me the grater and cheese.
“What test?”
She gave me a funny smile. “The SAT?”
Oh. That one. “Two weeks.” I was still uncomfortable talking about it, but it was easier now that the house was warm again.