“Her cats? No. Her family? Possibly.”
We pull onto the bridge and my stomach churns. Not because of the bridge itself, but because of what the bridge means. In less than ten minutes, I’ll be home for the first time since I dropped out of Princeton and moved to Berkeley to be with Smith. It’s our first holiday as an engaged couple, which means today should be an exciting day. There should be a champagne toast before my father carves the turkey, and my mother should have a stack of bridal magazines that she insists I look over with her. Everyone should be happy and excited, and Smith’s family should be joining us too because being engaged is something to be celebrated.
But none of that is happening.
My parents don’t even know that we’re engaged, and even if they did, my parents would rather spend Thanksgiving deworming livestock than with Smith’s parents. I think the only reason they’re OK with Smith stepping foot on our property is because I refused to come home without him. The way my parents see it, the Mackenzies are the reason for my undoing.
I gaze out the window as we hit the midpoint of the bridge. Smith’s Mustang is so low to the ground that if you tilt your head back, all you see is sky. It’s like taking a roller coaster to the clouds. “I wish your parents weren’t out of town. I feel like I haven’t seen your mom in ages.”
“I think they’re really digging the expat life in Thailand,” Smith says. “It might end up being a permanent thing. Even my sister says she likes it there. She says it’s given her an opportunity to completely reinvent herself after the split with Noah.”
“Sometimes I think that’s what I want.”
“To break up with Noah?” Smith squeezes my hand. “I heard he’s kind of a dick when it comes to giving your stuff back.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” My body tenses as the car slowly descends over the bridge and the island comes into view. “We should move to Thailand with your parents. Imagine the kinds of photos you could take there. We could live on their compound to keep our expenses down, and I could write. We’d all be together, and the two of us wouldn’t ever have to deal with my parents except for through postcards and email.”
“I thought you liked our little place in Berkeley. Just last week you said that you couldn’t hear the upstairs neighbors having sex at all hours of the night and the moldy smell in the hallway was distinctly less moldy.”
“Those are all positives, but we also barely see each other. I’m up at the crack of dawn to work at the coffee shop, and then I spend all afternoon at the paper. You work practically every night and weekend. I’m always alone, and sometimes I think it would be nice to have your mom and dad around to talk to. They’re so easy to talk to. You really lucked out with them.”
We pull onto Clementine Street, and my heart starts to beat a little faster. My mouth goes dry, but I don’t risk drinking any more coffee than I’ve already consumed. The last thing my heart rate needs is a jolt of caffeine.
I focus my attention back on Irene Steadman, specifically, the email that her son, Eddie, sent in. Maybe there’s something in here that I’ve missed. Most children prefer to write their deceased parents’ obituaries, which means it’s usually my job to proofread, but occasionally the Eddies of the world submit a few random facts and request that a staff writer create the final rendering.
Dear Ms. Banks,
My mother, Irene Steadman, had six cats. We don’t know when she died because nobody noticed right away. Her neighbor smelled a bad odor and called the cops to investigate on the thirteenth. She was 76, I think. My sister and I would prefer our families not be mentioned in the obituary. Irene wasn’t exactly a good mom.
Thanks.
PS You can add that last line if you want.
PPS We’re not having a memorial or funeral because, honestly, who would come?
I guess I could include the fact that she was a mother.
The car slows, and Smith parks in the driveway of my house. I save Irene’s rough draft and gingerly place my laptop into its musty carrying case. I’d normally leave it in the car since I won’t be doing any work today, but the carrying case has the Berkeley Gazette logo on it, which gives my whole I’m a real paid writer argument a tiny bit of proof. Of course, my parents don’t know that I get paid to write about dead people.
“I’m going to run to my place for a minute and turn the heat on, so I don’t freeze tonight.” Smith leans over and kisses me. “You going to wear your ring, or were you planning on waiting to tell them the big news until after all the knives have been removed from the dinner table?”