chapter seventeen
IN THE DAYS AFTER his death, Lauren and I argued over whether to hold a service for my father. Other than his lady admirers at the retirement home, he had few friends and no living relatives beyond us. I argued that the most dignified option was to have no memorial at all. In the end, though, Lauren prevailed, and I went along, seeing how the process of planning seemed to help her cope with her grief. We decided on a small funeral service in Fairfax, inviting only close friends and family members. A few of Lauren’s friends from Los Angeles made it down—Marni, Celeste, and an old business school friend I remembered meeting long ago. Larry was there, too, as were one or two members of my department. Rick was scheduled to be in Toronto for a book festival but offered to cancel his engagement to stay with me.
“Don’t bother,” I told him. “You never met my father anyway.”
“But I want to be there with you.”
“I know. I appreciate it. But really—it’s not worth it. Honestly, I didn’t want to have a service at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’d probably be no good anyway,” Rick admitted. “Funerals aren’t my thing—I’ve seen too many people die.” He looked at me earnestly. “At least your father had a long life. He had the opportunity to grow old.”
I smiled at him weakly. Part of me was secretly disappointed Rick hadn’t insisted on staying. It bothered me a little that he traveled so much and that he was usually out of town when I needed him. Then again, I’d told him to go to his book festival, and part of me felt like I wanted to grieve alone.
During the service, I stood up to give a short eulogy about my father. Lauren hadn’t wanted to do it, afraid she might break down. “You’re a teacher—you’re used to talking in front of people,” she told me. I looked out at the sparse gathering of people, all of them looking at me with solemn expectation. I had no lecture notes for the situation, no lesson plan or learning outcome, nothing but a jumble of memories. Most of the people in the audience had never met my father, so I tried to describe him for them. I talked about how our mother had died when we were young and how he’d raised us himself, never remarrying and working, working, working all the time. I described how he used to feed us hot dogs nuked in the microwave and Hormel chili straight from the can. I talked about how hard it must have been for him to raise two moody teenagers, and how he gave us a lot of responsibility at an early age.
“He wasn’t talkative or particularly affectionate, and he had high expectations of us,” I said. “But we knew he loved us, even though he didn’t show it in the way other parents did.” Even though my pet peeve was when people recited poems at weddings and funerals (how many times did I have to listen to the same damn Shakespeare sonnet?), I’d decided to end my own eulogy with a Robert Hayden poem I often taught in my classes. As I recited the lines, I could see Archer and Hayes getting fidgety, and Tate trying to wedge himself under the pew. Lauren was wiping her eyes and sniffling, while Brett tried to restrain them. Glancing to the back of the room, I saw a couple slip in late and take a seat. It was Adam and Bex.
Distracted, I blundered my way to the final, anguished lines of the poem—“What did I know, what did I know / of love’s austere and lonely offices?”—and then sat down in silence, staring at my lap and waiting miserably for the service to be over. Lauren reached over and took my hand in hers. “That was nice,” she said. Her hand was clammy, but I held it tightly in my own.
The service ended with a perfunctory blessing, and we were ushered into a waiting room where well-wishers lined up to offer their condolences. Standing in a makeshift receiving line, I shook hands briefly with Lauren’s friends and then watched them flock to Lauren, enveloping her with hugs and cries of support. Steve had shown up with his wife, and I was suddenly grateful he believed in departmental esprit de corps after all.
“My profound condolences,” Steve said, giving me an awkward pat on the back. “We’re all so sorry for your loss.” His wife, a doughy blonde whom I’d only met once before, impulsively gave me a hug. Larry, who was standing behind her, caught my eye and raised an eyebrow.
“Annie!” Larry said, giving me a tight hug when it was finally his turn. “Are you doing OK? What can I do? I’ll do anything—I swear, I’ll even grade your papers for you.”
“Wow, you must really feel bad for me,” I said, trying to smile. “Check with me in a few days—I may take you up on your offer.” I peeked behind him in line. There were only two people left to greet, both of them friends of Lauren. “Hey—have you see Adam and Bex? I thought I saw them come in.”
“President Martinez? I didn’t even realize he was here,” Larry said, looking around.
“Adam’s here?” Lauren asked. She’d detached herself from her group of friends and now appeared beside me.
“Did you invite him?” she asked, pulling me aside.
“No!” I said. “I thought maybe you had. He was with Bex.”
“Me? No way,” Lauren snorted. “Remember how mean Dad was to him when he visited us in Florida that one time?” She gave a hollow laugh. “Maybe he came to make sure Dad was really dead.”
I excused myself, telling Lauren I needed to use the bathroom. There was no one there, and I did a quick check of myself in the mirror. I looked sallow under the fluorescent lights, my eyes puffy and bloodshot, so I splashed some water on my face, straightened my dress, and left quickly. After doing a quick circuit of the building, I stepped out a side door and into an empty courtyard, a small and shaded oasis with overgrown ferns and a stone bench. As I stood there, breathing in the damp smell of moss and dead leaves, a couple entered the courtyard from the opposite side, the woman picking her way across the uneven brick path in high heels, the man steadying her with his arm. Even before they materialized from the darkness, I knew it was Bex and Adam.
“Anne!” Bex said, seeing me and coming over to give me a gentle hug. In her heels, she was so much taller than me that she had to bend her knees and her waist to reach me. “We were just about to come inside. I hope we’re not imposing— I heard about the service and wanted to come.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here. Lauren will be really happy to see you.”
“Is she inside still?” Bex asked, and I nodded, pointing to the side entrance.
“Are you coming?” she asked Adam, who wasn’t making a move to follow her.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Adam said. “Go on without me.” Bex looked faintly surprised but then smiled amenably and disappeared inside.
As the door closed behind her, I turned to Adam.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,” I started to babble. “I didn’t have your number, and things have been crazy. I’d been meaning to thank you for all of your help—driving me to the hospital and everything. You didn’t have to do that—it was so thoughtful of you, and I didn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate it or that I’d forgotten. I just—I just wanted to say thank you, thank you for being there, and I’m sorry. For not being in touch.”
My throat was burning and I stopped, wondering if anything I’d said made sense. Adam was waiting, giving me the time and space to finish. When I finally petered out, he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he took my hand, guided me to the stone bench, and had me sit down beside him. I was wheezing a little, and he pulled a pack of tissue from his pocket and handed it to me, waiting as I dabbed my eyes and blew my nose.
“Thanks,” I said from behind the wadded-up tissue.
“Take your time,” he said, his hand on my back. Under its steadying pressure, I could feel my breathing become less jagged, evening out. After a few minutes, Adam finally spoke.
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot these last couple weeks,” he murmured. “Wondering how you’re holding up.”
“It’s been rough,” I said, trying to clear my throat. My nose was now completely stuffed, and my voice sounded muffled and gluey. “Everything just happened so quickly. I think Lauren and I are still in shock.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said, shaking his head. “It was so sudden. But you’ve been incredibly strong.”
“I’m not strong,” I snorted. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re selling yourself short. You’re stronger than you realize.”
Adam shifted so he was looking at me. I felt myself melt slightly under his gaze.
“What you said in the car—about it being your fault—you know that’s not true, right? You did nothing wrong.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” I said, looking down. “I keep wishing I could go back in time and change things . . . that maybe everything would have turned out differently if I’d just paid attention more, listened, understood the signs. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do,” Adam said. He looked troubled.
“I don’t know why I do this,” I said, laughing bitterly. “I can’t help myself. I must be a masochist.”
Adam might have nodded in agreement, but I couldn’t be sure. I reached for another tissue, blew my nose, added it to the snowball of used tissues on the bench beside me.
“You can’t blame yourself,” I heard him say. “I know that’s easy for me to say, but it’s true. You did the best you could.”
“Maybe,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it. What did Adam know about failure and guilt, anyway? I thought. He was the perfect son.
“I just feel like I was always a disappointment to him,” I mumbled. “That I could have been a better daughter.”
“Don’t say that. I heard the last part of your speech, and it’s clear your father really loved you.”
“I’m not sure he knew how to show it. He was a pretty tough guy. But I don’t need to tell you that.” I laughed self-consciously.
“Anne,” Adam said, and I looked up reluctantly.
“He was very protective of you,” Adam said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Fiercely so. I didn’t understand it then. I thought he was hard to impress. Demanding. Stubborn. I was intimidated by him. But hearing your eulogy, learning of the sacrifices he made and realizing how much he cared for you . . . it made me see him in a new way. It made me realize I’d read him wrong.”
He hesitated, grasping for the right words. “Your father loved you deeply. You have to know that. It’s a real testament to him that he raised such an accomplished, independent daughter.”
I felt my eyes starting to burn. Don’t cry, I said to myself.
“I should go back inside,” I said thickly, turning away so Adam couldn’t see my tears. I stumbled to my feet and moved toward the chapel, dizzy with emotion and exhaustion. I felt Adam’s arms around me, holding me steady as my body swayed with grief. I hadn’t cried during the service, but now I felt something break inside. My father was gone, and I felt like I was spinning in a void. I was no longer Jerry Corey’s daughter. I was no longer anyone’s daughter. Lauren had her family still, but what did I have? I buried my face in Adam’s chest and sobbed.
*
“WHO’S THIS FROM?” LAUREN asked, inspecting the large bouquet of flowers that was waiting for me on the front porch when we returned from the service. Brett and the kids had left for Los Angeles already, but Lauren was planning to stay a few days longer so we could clean out my father’s room and storage locker.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought we said no flowers.”
“It’s from someone named Rick,” Lauren said, reading the card. “ ‘Dear Anne, Thinking of you during this difficult time. Affectionately, Rick.’ ” She looked at me, her eyes wide. “ ‘Affectionately’?” she asked.
“He’s just a guy I’m dating,” I said.
“A guy you’re dating? Since when?”
“Since I don’t know—October?” I said. “We work together.”
“He’s a professor?” Lauren asked. “Here at Fairfax?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I pulled off my dress and threw it onto my chair. Then I changed into my pajamas, even though it was still the middle of the afternoon.
“Why wasn’t he there today?” Lauren asked, placing the flowers on my kitchen table and fussing with some of the blooms.
“He’s out of town at a conference,” I said, lying on the couch and shading my eyes. My head hurt from all the crying. “He wanted to come, but I told him not to cancel his trip.”
Lauren came and sat next to me on the couch. She was still dressed in her black suit, but she’d taken off her jacket and heels and her face looked drawn.
“Do you like him?” she asked.
I looked at her quizzically. “What kind of question is that?” I asked.
“I just want to know if you like him. Are you serious about him?”
“Yes, I like him,” I said cagily. “And we’re seeing how things go.”
“OK,” Lauren said. I waited for her to interrogate me further, ask me what kind of professor Rick was, what he looked like, how old he was, how much money he made, but she didn’t. She sank back into the couch and put the back of her hand against her forehead.
“I’m glad you’re seeing someone,” she said, closing her eyes. “Maybe I can meet him sometime.”
I looked at her in surprise, but her eyes were still closed. The torrent of sisterly advice I expected never came.
Early the next day, we went to the storage locker where we’d stashed most of my father’s belongings before he moved into the assisted-living facility. I’d hired one of my students to help cart away the heavier things to Goodwill—my dad’s old metal filing cabinet, an ancient ham radio transmitter, a wooden grandfather clock that only chimed at the half hour. Sifting through the detritus of our father’s life, I wondered if it was frugality or fear that compelled him to save so much stuff. Some of the stuff made sense (picture albums, passports), but others made me scratch my head (a broken plant stand, a puzzle missing half its pieces). Lauren and I worked steadily through the morning, stuffing his clothes and shoes into garbage bags, tossing everything else into the dumpster.
We took a break around lunchtime, sitting wearily among the remaining boxes. My arms were covered with dry pink welts and my fingers ached, and I drank greedily from the bottle of water Lauren handed over to me.
“Check this out,” Lauren said, digging through a box that once held bottles of Gatorade. “I can’t believe Dad saved all this stuff,” she said, pulling out a stack of old report cards and notebooks tied together with a disintegrating rubber band. She loosened a Mead notebook from the pile. “What’s this?” she asked, studying the faded purple cover dotted with stickers and doodles.
I tried to grab it from her. “That’s mine!” I said.
“Whoa, wait a second,” she said, pulling the notebook out of reach. She opened the notebook and began reading aloud.
“ ‘The Curse of Castle Montague, by Anastasia Corey.’ Anastasia Corey? Are you serious?”
“I was twelve!”
“ ‘Lavinia Montague had flaming Titian-hued tresses and sparkling emerald-green eyes. She was the youngest daughter of the evil Count Manfred, tyrannical lord of the mysterious land of Vavasour.’ ” Lauren burst out laughing. “There must be ten notebooks filled with this stuff!” she said. “When did you find the time to write all this?”
“While you were on the phone talking to your friends and Dad was in his room avoiding us. I had this whole fantasy world mapped out where I was the spunky heroine with a mean father and an evil stepsister.”
“No way. Was I the evil stepsister? What was my name?”
“Bertha Gorgonzola.”
“I love it! I had no idea you had such a crazy imagination.”
I sighed. “Dad was always telling me to stop making up stories and go do something. It’s too bad he didn’t live long enough to see my book come out. Maybe that would’ve changed his mind.”
“I doubt it,” Lauren said, grinning at me. She held up the rest of the notebooks. “So do you want to keep these or toss them?”
“Keep them!” I yelled. “Give those to me!”
I ended up keeping my notebooks, report cards, and a tarnished letter-opener that my father had used to tear open bills. Lauren kept an album of photographs, some old coins, and my father’s wedding ring, which we found stuffed into a Ziploc bag with some ancient aspirin pills. The rest we threw out or donated.
“I feel like an orphan,” Lauren said.
“We are orphans,” I said.
We’d asked that people make donations to the American Heart Association in lieu of flowers, and in the days following the funeral, Lauren and I sat at my kitchen table and wrote thank-you notes to everyone who had contributed. I was touched by some of the names on the list—a former student, an old neighbor, an acquaintance at the gym. The English department pitched in a sizable donation, as did many of Lauren’s friends.
“Wow, Bex donated five thousand bucks,” Lauren said, glancing down the list. “I can’t believe she made it down to Fairfax for the service. That’s so typical of her—she’s so incredibly generous and sweet. And she’s going through such a tough time herself.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I’d written so many thank-you cards, straining to be personal and original in each one, that my hand and my brain were cramping in unison.
“Oh, you know, all those stupid rumors about Jack. She can barely leave her house without being hounded.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. I’d totally forgotten about the scandal.
“I’m glad she’s got that library project to distract her—from what everyone’s told me, Adam’s been a pillar of support.” Lauren sighed. “She deserves to be with someone who realizes how amazing she is.”
Lauren opened up a card and began to compose a note to Bex, writing smoothly and briskly. Unlike me, she didn’t seem to have trouble finding the right words.
“Oh, look,” I said in surprise, tracing my finger farther down the list. “I think Adam donated, too.” His name appeared toward the bottom of the donor list.
“Must be a gift on behalf of the college,” Lauren said without looking up. “Brett’s firm also made a donation.”
I looked more closely, but Adam’s title and institutional affiliation weren’t listed. “Adam Martinez,” it read. “Gift in Memory of Jerome F. Corey.”
“Can you write him a thank-you card?” Lauren asked. “I’ll sign it when you’re done.”
I nodded. Opening up a fresh card, I hesitated, not knowing quite what to say.
Dear President Martinez,
Thank you very much for your donation to the American Heart Association in memory of our father, Jerome Corey. We have been overwhelmed by the generosity and support of friends like you. Your gift will go toward heart disease and stroke research and education, patient care and outreach, and other life-saving efforts.
I paused. It was boilerplate. I wondered if I dared write something more personal, glancing at Lauren. She hadn’t seen my breakdown at the funeral service. She hadn’t seen Adam comforting me, or getting me another packet of tissues, or helping me stop my runaway hiccups so that I could return to the chapel and continue to accept condolences. Adam had walked me inside but quickly excused himself when the funeral director approached me with some questions. The last I saw him, he was standing next to Bex and one of her friends, listening to Lauren and nodding his head.
“Thank you for being there for me during this difficult time,” I desperately wanted to write. “Thank you for listening to me, and for understanding my complicated relationship with my father, and for letting me cry on your shoulder. I will never forget your steadfast generosity and kindness.” I felt the tears spring to my eyes again, feeling a roiling mix of grief, regret, and longing. Turning away from Lauren, I surreptitiously brushed my face with the sleeve of my sweater.
I’ll write him a separate note later, I decided. The last thing I wanted to do was invite more questions from Lauren.
“Thank you so much for attending the service,” I wrote hastily, signing the card “Anne Corey” and passing it to Lauren, who barely looked up from what she was doing. She glanced at the card, announced that it “looked good,” and signed. I slipped the card into an envelope and addressed it c/o The Office of the President, Fairfax College, Fairfax, CA, adding it to the stack of cards Lauren planned to deposit at the local post office.
Lauren left a short while later, promising to call me soon. “You should spend the summer in LA,” she said as she hugged me good-bye. “You and Rick—is that his name? You and Rick could stay in our guesthouse. It would be good for you to get out of Fairfax.”
I looked at Lauren in surprise. “Only if you want to,” she added, seeing my hesitation.
“No—I really appreciate it,” I said. “I’ll definitely con-sider it.”
“Now that dad’s gone, we should really make more of an effort to, you know, hang out.”
“I’d like that.”
After Lauren left, I slowly climbed the stairs back to my apartment. With my sister gone, the apartment felt lifeless. I tried to tidy up, washing out some glasses and throwing a load of laundry into the washer. The bouquet of flowers Rick had sent me on the day of the funeral had wilted and gone brown. I salvaged the least bedraggled flowers and placed them in a smaller vase. The rest of the arrangement I tossed in the trash, where they scattered bright yellow pollen all over the container and floor. I was cleaning up the mess when my phone started to vibrate. It was Larry.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “My sister literally just left.”
“Have you seen the news today?” he asked urgently.
“Not yet,” I said. “Oh no—is it about Jack? Did they leak more secret footage? Lauren was telling me things are still bad—”
“No, no—it’s not about that,” Larry said. “It’s about Rick.”
“Rick??”
“Check the front page of the New York Times,” he said. “And sit tight. I’m coming over right now.”
I opened up my computer and went to the Times website. What I saw made my jaw drop open in shock.