This Place of Wonder (26)

“He was a big personality,” Meadow comments. She drops a handful of thinly sliced red peppers into a pan and they sizzle.

It smells great and my stomach growls in anticipation, but I also feel a weird tenseness in my neck. Still. I wish, very badly, to be completely alone. Rehab was such a crush of people, all the time.

To be honest, I am also a little afraid of myself, of what I might find—do—if I’m alone. At least Meadow means well, and just wants to take care of me. I should let her. “What are you making?”

“Herbed biscuits and scrambled eggs with chives and parsley.”

My stomach growls so vividly in approval that Meadow laughs. “I’ll make you a fresh cup of coffee.”

Her cooking is a tsunami of love. I give in to it, sinking into a chair at the island to watch her cook. She’s plump now, an hourglass sort of plumpness that is perfect for two little granddaughters to curl into. The kettle has been held at a simmering temperature, and she pours hot water into a french press. “These are some beans from the Brewed Bean,” she says.

“I learned a bit about the various kinds of beans yesterday,” I offer. “It’s fascinating, honestly—how the different beans from different places have particular flavors. And did you know that every single bean has to be picked by hand?”

“I did not know that,” she says, but I get the feeling she did and is humoring me. Which is aggravating in a way, but would I rather she acted like a know-it-all, which is her usual fallback?

I take in a breath, let it go. Stick with the moment. “Which beans are these?”

“Uncommon Sumatra.”

“Smells so good.”

“Are you working today?”

“Yes, same time. One o’clock.”

She sprinkles chopped chives into a bowl of eggs that she beats gently. “Good. A J-O-B, right?”

“What’s that?”

“An AA thing I picked up somewhere, I don’t know.”

It irks me. “Don’t do that, okay?”

“Do what?”

“Spout platitudes about AA and my program and all that. It’s not your program. It’s mine.”

A slight flush burns up her pale white cheeks. “Sorry. I’m just—I don’t know. Sorry.”

Now I feel like a shit. “No, I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

“It isn’t. You can tell me the truth. I’m not some delicate flower.”

I pause, taking her in. Really look at her. The threads of gray curling through the red of her hair, the wrinkles around her mouth from smoking long ago, the age spots on the backs of her hands and up her arms from spending so much time in the California sun. A nugget of truth surfaces. “I think you’re more delicate than you give yourself credit for. Especially right now.”

Quick tears spring to her eyes, and she looks down to hide them. A ripple of compassion moves through the stiffness in my lungs, giving me space to breathe. To love her as she is. “Am I? I don’t feel like I am.”

“Your daughter just chopped down her life like a big tree, and the man you loved for a long time has just died. That would make anyone vulnerable.”

“Maybe,” she says, and clears her throat, busying her hands with breakfast.

My mind returns to dinner the night before. “Did you know that Rory hasn’t told the girls that Dad died?”

She takes a breath. “Yes.”

“And you think this is okay?”

“No.” She rests her wrists on the counter. Looks at me. “But I’m not their mother, and I have to let Rory do what she thinks is right, at least for a little while.”

I narrow my eyes. “Uh, it’s not like they’re not going to notice.” Like all the children in the world, they worshipped him.

She stirs the eggs again, turns around to pull the pan off the burner. “Look, she’s handling his death differently than you are.”

“Obviously. She’s been close to him all along.”

“Let’s just allow her a few days to figure it out, okay? Give her some space?”

It irritates me for no reason I can name. I think of the girls waiting for their grandpa and him never coming again, and a little crack works its way down my armor. A memory of myself waiting for my father to reappear surfaces, pinging me uncomfortably. “It just seems so sad.”

“That he died?”

I sigh. “No. I mean, yes, obviously. He was too young and all that. But . . .” I can’t find the words to articulate what I’m feeling, and a hard, intense desire for wine bursts through me. “She’s lying to them!”

“Well . . . I mean, not really.”

My emotions swell, fill my throat, enormous and overwhelming. I don’t know what to do with them. Speak up, says a little voice, and I’m so pissed off that my eyes are filling with tears, but I say, “Yes, really. It is an actual lie. They think he’s still alive, and he’s dead. That is a lie.”

“Maya,” she says, ever so gently. “She’s grieving. People grieve in many different ways.”

Fury burns along my skin, in the crooks of my elbows, along my shoulder blades, and I feel like I might explode, like I might pick up an axe.

I stand up. “Meadow, this isn’t going to work.”