The Loose Ends List(77)

“I don’t know, honey. Gloria and Vito said they just knew it was their time. She was in an awful lot of pain, and he could barely breathe. I’m tired and out of it and feeling pretty rotten, but I’ve still got a little bit left in me.” She turns over and moans softly. “Bob and I want to watch the old movies one more time. It sounds trivial, but I can’t enjoy food, so I might as well look at James Dean and Marlon Brando.”

“Do you ever think about going back to New York and living until your body stops?” Janie says.

“No way, Jose. I’m more afraid of wearing a diaper and losing my mind than I am of death. This is the way to go, girlies. Haven’t we had loads of fun? If you really want to get depressed, spend a month in a nursing home. You’ll come out wanting to smother every bastard over eighty with a pillow.”

She gets quiet. Janie and I stay up listening to her irregular, gurgling breaths. “What are we going to do without her?” Janie whispers. I don’t answer because I don’t know.





TWENTY-FIVE


IT TURNS OUT Wes blabbed about the baby to everyone. He told Gloria and Vito before they passed. He told my entire family, then made each of us promise not to tell anyone. So when Uncle Billy gets us together for a “big news brunch” at their cabin, we all act abnormally surprised.

Uncle Billy passes around ultrasound pictures of a baby with a perfectly round head and a button nose.

“She’s an adorable fetus,” Mom says.

“We’re going to name her Tessa Astrid O’Neill Parker,” Uncle Billy announces.

“Can I make a suggestion? A revision, if I may?” Gram says.

“What’s your revision, Assy? There’s always something,” Wes says.

“I adore the name Tessa. But how about Tessa Rose? I have you people, and I’ll surely have buildings named after me. Rose didn’t get to have children. She would have been tickled pink.”

Uncle Billy and Wes exchange looks. “Yes. I love it,” Wes says.

“Me too.” Uncle Billy kisses Gram. “Tessa Rose O’Neill Parker it is.”

“Now we have a question for Bob,” Uncle Billy says.

“Sure, Bill, shoot,” Bob says.

“We would be honored if you would be Tessa’s godfather. We want you to be part of our family officially, forever.”

Bob’s eyes fill with tears. “I’ve been a lot of things in this life,” Bob says, “but I’ve never been a godfather.” Wes and Uncle Billy get up and walk over to Bob, and the three of them embrace.

“I’ve raised good boys,” Gram says.

“You didn’t raise me, Assy,” Wes says.

“Yes, but I taught you everything you know. That dowdy backwoods mother of yours didn’t know a thing about raising a gay. It’s not all musical theater and decorating, Delores,” Gram jokes.

“I love you, Assy.”

“I love you more, Wessy.”

Gram and Bob don’t seem thrilled about me following them to the theater. Gram wants to watch a movie from 1949 because Celia Hobbes has a bit part. I don’t want to leave Gram. I take in every gesture, every smile, every word. I hold them for a second and stuff them into my mental file, already overflowing with Gram memories. I don’t want to miss a single one.

“Go, Maddie. Read a book. Bob and I have a date. No kids allowed.”

“Fine, Gram. Go have your date. I love you.”

“I love you, too, stalker child.”

I wander aimlessly. Mom and Roberta are playing Scrabble in the library, and what’s left of the poker guys are down in the card room. I bang out a few rounds of Whac-A-Mole and go up to the cabin. Janie’s on the balcony bawling her eyes out.

“Janie, talk to me. Is it Gram?” She nods. I slide next to her, hold her head on my lap, and stroke her hair like I did in Charleston after her parents’ divorce.

After a long silence, I ask, “Do you want your worry doll back?”

“No.” She laughs a little. “I still have Maria and Conchita and Claudia and Rigoberta and Missy.”

“All right, then,” I say. “I think you’re good. I’ll keep Esperanza for now.”



Mark wants to have his memorial service before he dies. He doesn’t see the point in not being there to enjoy it. He wants old-school music and a burger bar and an endless stream of Mark’s greatest surfing moments.

I take a shower and put on my funeral sundress and flip-flops and starfish bracelet. I go over to Wes and Uncle Billy’s cabin and lie on their bed while they share a bottle of wine.

“It’s just so unfair,” Uncle Billy says. “It’s bullshit.”

“He told me as soon as he was forced to wear a diaper, it was time to book the ship,” Wes says, polishing off his wine. “There’s no dignity in diapers for a guy like Mark. Come on, peeps. It’s time to let Mark go.”

We enter Malibu Beach circa 1987 and take in the surfboards and strings of hanging paper lanterns and the barbecue smells. Mark’s surfing videos play on the screen to Pink Floyd’s “On the Turning Away.”

Bob tells me he’s worried about the minister, who has been sitting in the old-fashioned car on his balcony and won’t get out. They have to hand-deliver him soup and tea through the car window.