I Liked My Life(37)

“Do you smell something burning?” Dad asks. I sniff. We both look to the patio at the same time—the grill is engulfed in flames. “Call 911,” he says, running to the laundry room for a fire extinguisher. By the time he gets outside the flames have spread to the plants, so the dinky red can doesn’t help much. It’s been a dry summer. It’s definitely a job for professionals.

While we wait, Dad stares at the fire as if they’re in a conversation. I stand there, praying the cigarette butt disintegrates with the flowers and everything else, assuming it won’t. Luck and I haven’t been getting along.

The firefighters arrive and put it out quickly. They then start in with questions. When they realize I was the grill operator, they eye my dad. “But you were home, sir?” the cutest fireman clarifies.

“Yes,” he answers. “Well, no, not when she cooked.”

“Have you ever operated a grill before?” they ask me.

“No.”

They look back at my dad with disgust, which he puts right back on me. “You’ve never used it? How did you know how to turn it on?”

“I’m not an idiot. Mom used to do it herself.”

“Goddamn it, Eve, you are not your mother.”

The words sit in the air between us, stinging more than the smoke. I look at the charred patio and ashy garden and start to cry. The three firemen stand there, attempting to piece together our backstory.

“At least I’m trying, okay, Dad?” I shout through my tears. “I cooked so you’d maybe eat more. And it worked. You were. I mean, who the hell gets takeout every night? We’re turning into freaks.” I move to go inside but one of the firemen reaches for my arm.

“Don’t touch her,” my father says firmly.

Everyone freezes.

“Sir, we need to file a report on this fire, and I don’t have the information I need. Now, I can call the police if you want, for assistance, or the two of you can answer my questions so we can leave you alone to work out whatever”—he waves a hand between us—“is going on here.”

“What questions? It was clearly an accident.”

“I need to know if she turned off the propane tank.”

He nods at me to answer. “No,” I say, biting my lip. “I only turned off the switch. And it’s a really old grill.” I’m taking a dig at my dad with that. Mom wanted a new one. She was always cutting out magazine pictures of custom outdoor kitchens. She claimed the only reason Dad wouldn’t go for it is because he never did the cooking.

“There’s probably a leak in the line somewhere. On a hot day like today, that’s a dangerous mistake.”

“Yeah, got that,” I snap.

“Lose the attitude, Eve,” my dad warns, playing both sides.

The firemen look at the grill for another twenty minutes wearing full protective gear while my father and I watch in silence. Finally, the cute one declares the fire “accidental misuse,” citing that “something combustible must have hit the leak in the gas line.” They don’t mention what the flying combustible might’ve been, and my dad doesn’t ask. I can’t tell if they’re doing me a solid or suck at their job.

After they leave, we stand in the soot, looking at the mess. I ruined our patio. I could’ve burned down our house. Mostly I feel stupid, but there’s a small part of me that finds it funny. Mom would’ve laughed at this scene the way she laughed the day the washing machine hose detached and flooded our entire mudroom. She called it a this-situation-is-so-horrendous-it-is-absolutely-hilarious moment.

My dad looks beyond pissed, so I remove my smile. I guess you have to be my mom to pull that off. And as he so sweetly pointed out, I’m not.

Brady

My shrink looks like a cross between Albert Einstein and Abraham Lincoln. From Albert he inherited thick glasses and electrocuted hair; from Abe he acquired a lanky physique, hanging nose, and the stark impression that he’s usually right.

“Before we dig into a more natural dialogue, I’d like to run through a series of questions relative to your social history and spousal loss that will help me create a picture of your current state.”

I’m glad he takes immediate control. Now that I’m here I have no idea what to say. “Shoot.”

“Have you been sleeping well?”

“Yes,” I say, omitting bourbon’s role.

“Do you wear a seat belt each time you get in a car?”

“Yes.”

He carries on at a steady pace, reviewing my concentration level, work schedule, and eating habits. It runs like a legal deposition. Eve’s right. This is a waste of time. It’s not as if I’m going to tell this random man truths I’m not yet ready to confront myself.

“Has your interest level in other people changed during that time?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I no longer care about anyone except me and my daughter.” Dr. White stops firing off questions and makes a note. I’m pretty sure he writes it down as an exact quotation.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“I used to joke around with colleagues, play squash, go to an occasional Patriots game. Maddy took care of everything at home, so work was my only real responsibility. The rest of our life was hers.”