In an Instant(40)

The centerpiece of our backyard is a lemon tree. My parents planted it when they moved in nearly twenty years ago. It was my dad’s idea. He wanted a reminder of how far they’d come. There used to be a garden around it, herbs and tomatoes and carrots and pumpkins, practical plants my mom would use when she cooked. Sometimes I forget that she used to garden and cook. It’s been a long time since she’s done much of anything but work.

Weeds and neglect overtook the garden years ago, but my mom still tends to the lemon tree. Every spring she prunes it, and every month she sprinkles fertilizer around its trunk. Even now, as she and Bob talk quietly and eat their sandwiches, she walks absently around the tree, pulling off dead fruit and breaking off small twigs.

I hate that they are out here talking and my dad is inside alone. I hate that Bob is here at all. He spends too much time here, too much time alone with my mom. I should be grateful he has been so supportive, and if I didn’t hate him so much, maybe I would be. But I do hate him, and so I want him to go home.

He lies to Natalie and Karen about where he goes, tells them he’s off to the golf course or the gym, and then he parks behind the Laundromat on the Coast Highway and sneaks back to our house to console my mom. I’m not sure if he lies because his intentions are impure or if it’s because of the silent feud between my mom and Karen. So far he’s done nothing but be a good friend, and only the naked devotion in his eyes betrays that he feels more.

As my mom tends the tree, she tells him about her cases at work, and he tells her about his patients. He has a funny sense of humor that makes her laugh, which I hate but also love. My mom doesn’t laugh anymore except when she’s with him. He never talks about the accident or me or Oz, and my mom is careful not to talk about Karen.

When their sandwiches are done, Bob gives my mom a lingering hug and tells her to call if she needs anything.

For a few moments after he’s gone, my mom remains alone on the patio, sitting and staring at nothing. Then, with a deep breath, she picks up the trash from their lunch, carries it inside, and goes into the living room to check on my dad. His eyes are glued to the television, focused intently on a flickering commercial for auto insurance as he pretends she’s not there.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer but instead clicks the volume louder.

Every ounce of strength my dad has recovered since he woke from his coma two weeks ago has immediately transformed into anger, most of it targeted toward my mom. It’s hard for me to watch. My dad, the eternal optimist, who has climbed mountains and conquered oceans, diminished to a bitter, defeated man.

“I’m going to the office for a few hours to catch up on some work,” my mom says.

My dad says nothing.





48

I visit Bob, curious to hear the lie he will tell Karen about his absence. He’s not dressed for golf or the gym.

“How are they?” Karen asks when he walks through the door, shocking me that Bob told her the truth.

Karen is one of those immaculate people—her house, her clothes, her car, her daughter. She likes white and can’t stand dirt, dust, or scuffs. She is the queen of Tupperware and closet organizers. It’s why I absolutely hate her house. It’s like one of those model homes where nothing is real, the plants made of plastic, the wood floors laminate, every object freshly removed from its shrink-wrap. Only now that I am dead do I see the manic obsessiveness it takes to maintain it, her days filled with compulsiveness that borders on insanity.

Bob ignores the question as he slips his shoes off just inside the door, then places them on the shoe rack inside the coat closet.

She follows him into the kitchen, twisting an antibacterial sanitizer wipe in her hands. “How’s Chloe? Is she feeling better?”

Bob grabs a beer from the fridge, pops it open, and swallows half its contents in a single chug.

“And Jack?” Karen continues, still wringing the towelette. “How’s his leg?”

Bob wheels on her so quickly she falls back a step. “Why don’t you go over there and see for yourself?” he seethes. “They’re two fucking doors away. Knock and ask all the goddamn questions you want. Ann is your best friend. Go over there and offer to help.”

The wipe in Karen’s hands rips, and she looks down at it, almost surprised to see it. She stares for a moment, then folds it neatly into fours. She picks up Bob’s beer bottle and wipes away the sweat ring. “I’m making ribs for dinner,” she says. “Would you prefer potatoes or rice?”





49

My mom did not go to work like she said she was going to do.

It’s amazing how much people lie and how good they are at it. Everyone. Always. They say one thing and then do something else entirely. My mom lies to my dad. My dad lies to Chloe. Chloe lies to my mom. A complete and total circle of deceit.

My mom is at the mall, wandering aimlessly through the stores. She has taken to going to crowded places where she can pretend she is normal and where no one knows the travesty of her life. She window-shops for an hour, then sits on a bench, sipping coffee and watching the happy people around her—families with children, women like her, teenage girls like me and Chloe—all of them going about their lives completely oblivious to how quickly it can all be snatched away.

When her coffee is done, she wanders some more. Outside the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, she stares at the chocolate-covered marshmallows, and I know she is thinking of Oz. A few minutes later, she stops outside Wetzel’s Pretzels, and I know she is thinking about me.