A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents
Read A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents Online
Authors: Liza Palmer
Tags: #FIC000000, #Fiction, #General
Also by Liza Palmer
Seeing Me Naked
Conversations with the Fat Girl
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Liza Palmer
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
5 Spot
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub
5 Spot is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing.
The 5 Spot name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: December 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-55828-0
Contents
For Alex
I am the proud owner of a very special dog with very special needs. Recently I realized that—not unlike how dog owners start
physically resembling their dogs—I am very similar to Poet in many very special ways.
My epiphany came when I realized that it was the care and feeding I received as a child from a very special mother that made
me the moderately functioning person I am today. Another set of parents and… well, I’d be out in the back biting some wooden
fence in the rain. Looking back on my childhood, I think there should be a Nobel Prize for Parenting.
The people that follow are the village it took to turn me from the idiot who gleefully dwelled within its walls ignorant of
the stories I had to tell.
Thank you to my family: Mom, Don, Alex, Joe, Bonnie and Zoë. Christmas mornings with cowboy breakfasts and television yule
logs are memories I hold near and dear to my heart.
Thank you to Megan Crane, Jane Porter and Paz Stark: the three women who had the unfortunate task of reading the first drafts
of this book. Your dear friendships are something I treasure—until you say my writing sucks, then… we’ll just play it by ear.
Thank you to Kerri Wood-Einertson: my shiny penny of a friend—and to her family—Siena (the milk of human kindness) and Erik
(thank you for the inside dish on corporate America).
Thank you to Christy Fletcher: for talking me off ledges and giving me a reason to buy little pink baby shoes. Thank you also
to the amazing team at Fletcher and Company—a truly class act of an agency.
Thank you to Caryn Karmatz Rudy: the bestest editor a girl could have. I mean—I think she may have a bone to pick with a few
of my English teachers growing up, but… I’m sure it was them and not, you know, my… uh… lack of educational… ahem… okay, I was
a horrible student and now poor Caryn is paying the price. There. I said it.
Thank you to Araminta, Sara and Isobel: another dinner of unexplainable cocktails is definitely in order—followed, of course,
by a trip to Wagamama.
Thank you to Marissa Devins and Howie Sanders at UTA for everything they’ve done… it’s exhilarating just having agents in the
same part of the country.
Thank you to James Newton Howard for writing “The Healing” off the
Lady in the Water
soundtrack—final tally, I listened to your song 460 times during the writing of this novel. Genius.
Thank you to Lyn Nierva at Auntie Momo Web Designs for an awesome website.
Thank you to Kim Resendiz and posse, Lynn and Rich Silton, Bill Gallagher, Juanita Espino, Judy Kelly, Henry Glowa, Norm Freed,
Michelle Rowen, Levi Nuñez, Kristin Harmel, Carrie Cogbill, Larry, Ricca, Matthew and Adam Wolff, Peter Riherd, the Bad Girls’
Bookclub, Marilyn Marino, Phoebe and Dave Einertson, Pauline Callahan, Nita Millstein at the Peach Café (more her Belgian
waffles, but…), Susan and Tim and finally the staff at the Starbucks for putting up with me hour after hour after hour after
hour after hour…
And my mom wants me to thank her dogs—Lulu, Leo and Roxy—because “when they read the book their feelings will be hurt if they’re
not mentioned.”
“I’m fractured from the fall, and I want to go home.”
—Ryan Adams from
Two
Once upon a time we were a family.
A
aaand to the left,” Tim instructs, bending over his outstretched leg. His salt-and-pepper curls, now soaked from the torrent
of rain, dribble down over his forehead. I pull my hood tightly around my head and can’t help fearing I resemble a giant sperm.
Just the professional message I want to send. I look at all the members of Tim’s team following his every move. This Fun Run
was optional—the brownie points, however, were too good an opportunity to pass up. Tim Barnes is a name partner at Marovish,
Marino and Barnes and, in their eyes, not a man to disappoint. To me, he’s the man I’ve been dating for several months and
am confident have already disappointed on a far more personal level. Tim leads his entire group of sodden money managers down
into the deep stretch.
Something about being ordered to bend left makes me want to bend to the right. I let out a sigh as I envision the chaos that
could result from such a rebellion. Tim shoots me a look of deep concern. Apparently, I’m not taking this “stretching circle”
as seriously as he’d hoped. It’s a
5K
, honey, we’re not carrying the Olympic torch. I press out a smile and lean
slightly
to the left. Tim softens, smiling to himself as we all are finally able to bend to the right.
With my head to my right knee, I feel the vibration of my BlackBerry in my pocket. I’m surprised the damn thing still works,
considering how sopping wet my entire body is. I let it go to voice mail as our group is allowed to return to a standing position.
We all start walking toward the now deflated red-green-and-white balloon arch that stretches languidly across Santa Monica’s
Ocean Avenue, marking the beginning of the star-crossed Fun Run.
“Are you one hundred percent,
Grace
?” Tim asks as we approach the starting line. Even after several months of dating, far beyond the time we could credibly keep
the relationship a secret from our coworkers, his voice still drops when he says my name.
“I’m just not awake yet,” I say, grabbing my ankle behind me and stretching one leg and then the other, like this will somehow
show a higher level of commitment. My BlackBerry vibrates again. I let it go to voice mail, shaking it off… get your head in
the game, Grace. The rain and the wind are now whipping sideways. No hood in the world can stop them from stinging every inch
of my face. That and I feel suddenly compelled to run toward some giant ovum I know is waiting for me at the end of this race.
Resigned, I pull the hood off and let the rain fall.
As the crowd settles in behind the melancholy, sagging balloon arch, I pull my BlackBerry out of my pocket, trying to shield
it from the rain, and listen to the messages.
“Grace, it’s Abigail. Dad’s had a stroke. It’s time to grow up and join the family again. I’m serious. Call me back.”
No. This cannot be. My stomach drops. My legs feel numb, my fingers waggle around the keypad, fumbling with threes and ones,
unable to stop atom bomb number two from playing.
“Grace—Abigail again. I
will
keep calling. And I won’t stop like I did when Mom died. Like we
all
did before. Not going to happen. We need you. This family needs you. Call me back. Talk to you in another ten minutes wh—”
I finally control my digits enough to successfully stop the message from continuing. This is
not
possible. I simply can’t let it be.
I turn my face back to the group as the announcer cuts in, “Welcome to the Winter Fun Run!” Tim motions for me to fall in
with the rest of the crowd. I oblige, but can’t focus. The messages. I’m not surprised it’s Abigail who’s urgently summoning
me now—about
Dad
, of all things. It’s been—well, since Mom died, so, almost five years since I’ve spoken to her or either of my brothers.
When I pictured reconnecting, it wasn’t over a man who was no father to us when he was healthy and certainly doesn’t deserve
that distinction now.
The announcer continues, “Runners! Phase One! Phase One are the runners who will finish the 5K in eight minutes or less! Please
approach the starting gate! Phase One! Runners who will finish in eight minutes or less!” I get as far away from Phase One
as is humanly possible. Tim and two of his hangers-on leap forward.
“Is this your first?” asks an older woman holding an umbrella. Could her umbrella possibly be aerodynamic?
“Oh… yeah,” I answer, hopping up and down trying to keep warm. Concentrate. All I can picture is Tim and his cadre of ass-kissers
getting trampled by the legitimate Phase Oners when the starting gun sounds.
“Me and my husband are getting ready for the LA Marathon in March. He’s running the half-marathon today, but I’m not there
yet,” she adds, motioning to the steadily approaching herd of runners who are waiting their turn. Wait… twenty-six miles?
“The LA
Marathon
?” I ask as the announcer tells Phase Two to approach the starting gate. Phase Two are the people who will be finishing the
5K in twelve minutes or less. I take yet another step back.
“I walked it. Took eight hours, but I finished,” the woman exalts.
“That’s awesome,” I say, absently.
“The rain’s nice,” the woman adds. My normally straight blonde hair is hanging in spaghetti-like tendrils around my shoulders
and I’m sure my face has the pallor of a long-term shut-in’s. Is this woman retarded?
“Phase Three! Runners who will finish the 5K… well, runners who just plan on finishing! Phase Three!” I wave at the umbrella-ed
marathon machine with a forced “Good luck!” and approach the starting gate shaking my frozen legs out one at a time. Get my
head in the game. I can’t… I still can’t focus. The vibrating reminder on my BlackBerry indicating I have yet another message
is driving me slowly insane. It hasn’t even been ten minutes.
“On your mark! Get set! Go!!!!” My mind clears. My legs start moving. My breathing steadies.
The rain
is
nice.
Thirty-two minutes, twenty-seven seconds and six messages from Abigail later, the drenched volunteer cuts the time chip from
my shoelaces. I find the group after being presented with my little medal and a complimentary bottle of water.
“I pulled a groin muscle,” Tim announces to all who will listen. No medal. No complimentary water.
“You gave it your best,” a particularly buxom money manager oozes.
“Thanks, Laura,” Tim replies politely.
As I down my complimentary water, I can’t help but marvel at the hardest-working sports bra in the Los Angeles area. That
Fun Run couldn’t have been easy on it. Laura takes this opportunity to shoot me a particularly pointed look. I wipe my mouth
with my sleeve and sigh—taking Tim’s hand in the process. He pulls me close. Laura crosses, or at least
attempts
to cross, her arms across her chest. As one of the lowly mathematicians at the firm, I’m technically not even supposed to
be here. This Fun Run was for money managers, not for us quants who formulate the models and earnings reports for the money
they manage. It’s because of my relationship with Tim that I’m here. And everyone knows it. Laura looks away.
I’ve grown accustomed to Tim’s iconic heartthrob status with the women at the firm. Our relationship seems to have zero impact
on this phenomenon. Suits me fine. The few times I’ve sat among Tim’s harem in the break room, I’ve been tempted to stick
stale donuts in my ears just to make their cloying voices stop.
“You’re going to have to share that medal,” Tim jokes, as we walk to his car later.
“Absolutely,” I answer, reaching up to his sopping wet face and smoothing a rogue salt-and-pepper curl down with the rest.
He smiles and walks back to the trunk of his car. He pulls two large towels out, passes me one and folds into the driver’s
side. I take the towel and can’t help pulling my BlackBerry out of my pocket. Six missed calls. All Abigail. Delete. Delete.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. I shove the phone back in my pocket and look up, letting the rain sting my face. I pull my
hoodie tight, set the towel down on Tim’s leather interior and climb into the passenger side. We follow the caravan of luxury
sedans to the predetermined Noah’s Bagels right next to the freeway on-ramp in nearby Westwood.