Do I Know You?(70)

I reassure myself I would have noticed Helen and Conrad Cutler on the nature hike or during yoga. With the full foot of height difference between my swaggering Germanic father and prim, petite mom, not to mention the former’s lively tendency to speak two ticks on the volume knob louder than normal, they’re not easy to miss.

Dad throws his arm around my mom. “We booked the room for you, didn’t we?” he exclaims. “Your mom and I have stayed in this specific suite on several occasions.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” my mom chimes in. She shares the same inability to stay silent as my dad. “We just had to get it for you. Where’s Eliza?” She peers around me into the messy room. I fight the instinct to step in front of her gaze, knowing if I did, she would realize something was up.

I plaster on the fake confidence I’ve gotten so good at. “She’s on a hike. Are you staying here?” The question flies out of me with the speed of dreading one particular answer. Running into them while I’m desperately working to figure everything out with Eliza is an unpleasant prospect.

“Oh, goodness, no,” my mom replies. “We don’t want to crowd you. We’re on a little trip to Carmel, but we had to come by for your big day. We were thinking celebratory brunch?”

My relief over them not staying here is short-lived. Instead, I have to hide my displeasure. Brunch? I know my case for frustration isn’t very strong—this trip is very generous, and in general, my parents are supportive. But they do things like this, too. They’re pushy, overly present, insistent on shaping everything into their view of what’s ideal. It registers with me now how unsurprising it is that the room they booked us is one they’ve enjoyed before. Brunch is just one more step toward designing our day for us.

“We already have brunch plans,” I say. “I really wish you would’ve called, then we could have scheduled something.”

My mom’s expression doesn’t change. Only her son would recognize the subtle shifts, the way her stare fixes, the sharpening of her features, like fire lit inside a ceramic vase. “Graham, we paid for this entire vacation of yours,” she reminds me with cutesy incredulity that poorly conceals sternness. “Can’t you reschedule whatever your plans are? When does Eliza get back from this . . . hike?”

I hear the suspicion hiding in her words. She makes like she’s going to walk into my room, which I can’t let her do. If I did, she’d see none of my wife’s clothes or luggage, not even her phone charger on one of the nightstands.

I move quickly. Like I think she only means to bring the flowers inside, I take them out of her hands, deflecting her entry. It’s weaponized politeness. I wonder if my mom recognizes the instinct—she should.

Still, it was close. I remember what I’ve been taught on hostile witnesses, on regaining control of the conversation. I need to de-escalate. “Of course, Mom,” I say. “We can reschedule. Brunch would be . . .” With the beginnings of panic, I realize, to pull this off, I’m going to have to figure out where Eliza really is instead of on her nonexistent hike. “Brunch would be great,” I finish.

My dad grins. “Perfect! Well, you look like you’re heading to the gym,” he says, removing his arm from my mom to clap me on the shoulder. “We don’t want to completely derail your day. How about you do your workout, and Eliza doesn’t have to cut her hike short? Your mother and I will book treatments at the spa. It’s a fantastic facility. Then we can convene for brunch at, say, one?”

I nod, recognizing my dad is providing me with the smallest window of flexibility. It’s how he is—while he’s enthusiastic enough to indulge my mom’s every suggestion, even the overly involved ones, his good nature makes him diplomatic and solution-minded in ways my mother is not.

Still, his cheerful suggestion ultimately does nothing for my problem. My wife is—still—not on the hike I’m pretending she is. Faced with my mom’s mandate, I have a little over an hour to find Eliza and convince her into surprise brunch with her in-laws.

“We’ll see you then,” I say stiffly.

My mom’s smile practically glows. “Wonderful,” she says. “I can’t wait to hear everything about your stay.”





43


    Eliza


I COULDN’T KEEP waiting in my room, the pale imitation of where I woke up this morning with Graham. I just couldn’t. Instead, I decided I needed to get outside. It’s what vacationing in dazzling Northern California is for, after all.

Carrying my book, I headed down to the pool. Perhaps expectedly, I couldn’t concentrate on the words, not while my phone lay next to me on the lounge chair, conspicuously vacant from calls from Graham. He’s hanging out with David. He’s not going to call me. Finally, knowing I needed to just ignore the damn thing, I closed my book. Enjoying the gentle warmth of the noon sun on my skin, I walked into the water.

The temperature is perfect. Immersing myself fully in the pool, I push off from the wall to do laps. With each reaching stroke, I focus on the cool water rushing over my face. Sensory details keep my mind from wandering to Graham, or to my sister’s painful brush-off. I just need to keep from dwelling on the hurt for a day longer, just one more day, so I can fully enjoy what’s left of my vacation.