The Return of Jonah Gray (25 page)

“Repotting means accepting that the way is forward, not back. It means realizing that we won't again fit into our old shells. But that's not failure. That's living.”

My mother refolded the paper and sat down, patting my father's hand.

“Lemme see that, would you?” Uncle Ed asked her.

“I don't get it,” Eddie said.

“Not exactly a Thanksgiving theme,” Kurt said.

“Well, we're all Gardners here,” my mother said. “Except you, Ed. I thought something from the garden would be fitting.”

“I liked it,” I said. Then again, I had a feeling that I knew who had written it.

“You would,” Kurt said.

“Just hurry up and finish destroying the bird,” I snapped.

“There's the Gardner Thanksgiving spirit,” my father muttered.

 

After dinner, the phone rang. “It's for you,” Blake said, handing it to me. “Again.”

His intonation told me who it was. Jeff preferred multiple short calls to long catch-ups. He had checked in the night before, as we were baking pies. He'd called again on Thursday morning, and now on Thursday evening, as a few of us lounged around the kitchen, digesting.

“Hi Jeff,” I said.

“How are things, baby?”

“About the same as before,” I said.

“Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Okay,” I said. “Say hi to Fresno for me.”

Blake, Kurt and Uncle Ed were staring at me when I hung up.

“What?” I asked. “He's efficient.”

“He calls too much,” Blake said.

“This isn't that guy you were auditing a while back?” Uncle Ed asked.

“No, she works with this one,” Blake told him. “His name is Jeff and he's serious and he doesn't like tattoos.”

“There's more to him than just those things,” I said.

“What happened to the one you were auditing?” Ed asked. “Didn't Kurt say you had a thing for him?”

“Jonah Gray,” Kurt said. “Yeah, Sasha. What happened to him?”

“How should I know? You're the one who lives out there.”

“Isn't that the same guy who wrote the repotting piece Lola read?” Ed asked.

“He wrote that?” Kurt asked. “I should have known.”

“I thought it was nice,” I said.

“Whatever. Don't listen to me,” Kurt sniped.

“Best advice I've heard all day,” I said.

My mother wandered into the kitchen, yawning. “Your father's resting. It took a while to get the pillows adjusted.” My father's proprioception—his sense of where his body was—had begun to falter. It took some time to arrange his pillows in such a way that he wouldn't feel dizzy. Marcus had mastered it, but Marcus was in Florida.

“I wish you'd consider getting that hospital bed,” Ed said.

“I thought that meant moving him into the den,” Kurt said.

Ed nodded. “It would.”

“These meds he's on now. It's been havoc on my sleep schedule,” my mother said.

“Those hospital beds are awful,” Kurt said.

“They're not pretty, but they're functional,” Ed said. “Especially in this sort of situation.”

“He can't sleep in the den,” Kurt said, as if the conversation were over.

“Why is it your decision?” I asked.

“I talk to him. I check in. I probably call more often than you visit.”

“I live here,” Blake chimed in.

“Anyway, Marcus was saying—” I began.

“And if Marcus says it, it's golden?” Kurt asked.

“Not necessarily. But he's Dad's nurse. And we agreed that—”

“
We
didn't agree to anything.
You
agreed. All of you decided to open the door to some guy we know nothing about and now he's in charge and you're passing every decision to him,” Kurt said. “I'm surprised you could even decide what to eat with precious Marcus gone.”

“I like Marcus,” Blake said.

“Don't do this, Kurt.” It was my mother. “Your father's illness has been hard on all of us. You know I've had my misgivings about Marcus. I've talked to you about them. But his being here…” She glanced at Ed before continuing. “I'm grateful to him for coming here. It's hard to admit, but he has made this whole awful experience more bearable.”

I wondered whether she would ever tell Marcus that, but it didn't matter just then. I left the kitchen and went to check on my father, who was watching television in the bedroom.

“You awake?” I asked. I kept reminding myself not to give up on my father. Jonah hadn't. Marcus hadn't. Maybe nothing would come of it, but I would keep trying all the same, because it meant that I wasn't sitting and waiting.

“Come on in, kitten,” he said, patting the side of the bed.

I paused. He hadn't called me
kitten
for about fifteen years.

“Did you get enough to eat? I could fix you a plate of leftovers,” I offered.

“Oh, I'm not too hungry,” he said.

“Were you able to eat anything at dinner?”

He shrugged. “I've eaten a lot of Thanksgiving dinners in my time. I know what stuffing tastes like.”

“That's the spirit.”

“My hearing isn't gone,” he said.

I glanced back toward the kitchen. “Kurt's just worried.”

“I'm sorry for all of this. I know I haven't been the easiest guy to have doddering around the house.”

“You're not doddering.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know that it hasn't been easy for you, either.”

“Actually, it's a lot easier on me. I get a little bored, but I'm not in much pain. That's the one thing modern medicine can do.”

“Marcus promised to do his best.”

“Marcus mentioned how accepting you've been,” my father said. “Of him being here. In the house. It means a lot to me. He
is
family.”

“I just looked at the economics,” I said. “That's what I do. That's who I am.”

“No, kitten,” he said. “You're much more than that. You're the finest daughter a father could hope to have. I'm so proud of all that you do,” he said. “You tell Kurt I want to talk to him, okay? Your mother deserves a good night's rest in her own bed.”

A few days later, a hospital bed was delivered and wheeled into the den. My father spent his remaining nights there.

IN THE FIRST WEEK OF DECEMBER, MARTINA'S COMPANY
held its holiday party. Though early in the season, it coincided with the official launch of the new beef and turkey jerky line, and the marketing department wanted to pack the event with enthusiasts. Martina invited me, Marcus and Jeff to attend with her.

“Think of it as a double date,” she said.

“With the added benefit of dried beef,” I pointed out.

“And turkey.”

“Jeff and Marcus didn't exactly bond when they met before.”

“Jeff was probably nervous, meeting your parents, trying to make a good impression. This will just be us.”

“And everyone from your work.”

Jeff and I got ready at his apartment beforehand. When it was time to go, I grabbed my keys and walked toward the door.

“What are you doing?” he asked me.

“You always drive,” I said. “I can drive.”

“Of course you can drive.”

“I mean, tonight. Why don't we take my car?”

“Oh,” Jeff said. “Okay.”

I realized I couldn't remember driving my car when Jeff was in it. Riding, sure. But not driving. “Have you ever seen me drive?” I asked.

“Sure, I have.”

“When?”

“I know I have,” Jeff said.

“It's settled then. We'll take my car,” I said. I thought I saw him hesitate. “Are you coming?”

The restaurant where the holiday party was being held was only a mile from Jeff's apartment. We climbed into my car.

“You're a fine driver,” Jeff said as we started out.

“I appreciate the support.”

“There's a stop sign up there,” he said, pointing.

“I see it.”

“I thought maybe that you didn't. You weren't slowing down.”

“I was slowing down.”

“Sorry.”

I pulled to a stop and looked both ways. I waited a bit longer than necessary, as if to prove that I wasn't reckless. Long enough that the car behind me honked.

“It's not you I worry about,” Jeff said. “It's all those other drivers.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I would be wrecked if anything happened to you.”

“That's a nice thing to say,” I said, accelerating again. In my peripheral vision, I could see him clench. “What?” I asked.

“Nothing. So Susan said that the restaurant where they're hosting this party has great Italian food. Very clean.”

“Did she?”

“Watch out for that—”

“Car,” I said. “I see it. I was watching it.” I found a space in the restaurant's parking lot. I turned off the ignition and looked at Jeff.

“You're so beautiful,” he said. He leaned in and kissed me softly.

“You can drive on the way home, if you want,” I said. He grinned. What did it matter in the larger scheme of things? I wondered. Here was a guy who wanted to be with me, who worried about me, who noticed things. And it was only a mile.

 

We found Martina and Marcus at a table in the corner. Marcus was as dressed up as I'd ever seen him. He looked uncomfortable and kept fussing with his tie.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“I look like a drone,” he said.

“You look handsome,” Martina said.

“I can tell you don't wear a tie too often,” Jeff said.

Marcus just looked at Jeff for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to respond. Then he shook his head.

“You'll get used to it,” Jeff said.

“I don't really want to,” Marcus said.

“You two don't look alike,” Jeff said, looking from me to Marcus.

Marcus and I stared at each other.

“I think they do,” Martina said. “Sort of.”

“I look more like Sasha than I look like Blake,” Marcus said. Blake didn't seem to have inherited any of my father's features.

“I look a lot like my mother,” Jeff said.

“I take it she's tall and thin?” I asked.

“You'll meet her soon enough,” Jeff said.

“Is she coming up?” Martina asked.

“No. I want Sasha to come to Fresno for Christmas,” Jeff said.

“You do?” That was news to me.

“Of course.”

“I'll have to see,” I said.

“Don't you want to meet my family? I've met your family.”

“My family lives nearby.”

“But it's Christmas. I told them so much about you over Thanksgiving. Everyone's excited to meet you.”

“It's going to be my father's last Christmas,” I said.

“You don't know that for sure,” Jeff said.

“I kind of do,” I said.

“She kind of does,” Marcus agreed.

My father was on a break from the chemotherapy at that point. The interim was meant to allow him to regain a bit of strength. In the past week, though, he didn't seem to have regained anything. Not his appetite. Not his sensory loss. Not the memories and words that overnight seemed to have begun to dissolve.

“Look, it's the Beef Queen!” Martina said. “She was my idea.”

A young woman in a sash and tiara was moving through the party, shaking hands. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Linda Potter, so much that I wondered whether the Beef Queen was another one of the Potter girls. I found myself wondering what Jonah Gray was doing for the holidays. I hoped Ethan was still on the mend. I shook my head to clear it. Why was I still thinking about Jonah Gray? I was on a date, for goodness sake.

Martina jumped up to say hello to the Beef Queen. Marcus smiled, watching her.

“Did you ever imagine you'd be here?” I asked him. “With me and Martina and someone called a Beef Queen?”

He shook his head. “It's funny—say no and you'll stay in the same place. Say yes and who knows where you'll end up.”

“Who's ready for a drink?” Jeff asked. He extracted a thermos from a bag he'd brought in with him. I just looked at him. “What?” he asked.

 

That next Monday, Marcus and my father returned from a doctor's appointment with troubling news. My father's white-cell count had dropped precipitously. The chemotherapy and radiation treatments meant to slow the cancer had damaged his bone marrow, which in turn blunted his immune system. Either that, Dr. Fisher said, or it was simply the way the lymphoma was progressing.

It didn't matter why. The question was what we could do about it. As my father received transfusions in a hospital bed down the hall, my brothers, mother and I gathered in Dr. Fisher's office to talk about the vagaries of bone marrow.

“It's called an allogeneic transplant,” Dr. Fisher said.

“Allo-what?” Blake asked.

“A transplant between two individuals,” Uncle Ed explained.

“Between Dad and one of us?” I asked.

“If one of you is a match,” Dr. Fisher said. “We prefer to ask siblings first, but since your father doesn't have any, that's not an option.”

“I wish your aunt Flor were still alive,” my mother said.

“We've checked the tissue database. We're still hoping to find an unrelated donor, but it's prudent to test offspring. Just in case.”

“So it's just a blood test,” I said.

“If there's a match, there would be more, but we can discuss that if and when the time comes,” Ed said.

“That sounds easy enough,” my mother said.

“Lola, we'd love to get you tested, too, and in the database. Since you're not a relative, though, the chance of you matching Jacob is quite slight,” Dr. Fisher said.

“So me, Sasha, Kurt, and Marcus?” she said.

“And me,” Blake said.

“Are you sure you don't want to sit this one out, dear? Your midterms are coming up. You're already dealing with so much.”

“But it might help Dad,” he said.

“You heard Dr. Fisher. The chances are slim,” she said.

“For you,” Blake said. “You're not related.”

My mother nodded, but looked away. I felt for her. Her husband was dying, and now her children were being asked to open themselves up to the possibility of surgery. Of course she'd be hesitant to let her youngest raise his hand. But he did. We all raised our hands and rolled up our sleeves.

 

“What if,” I said to my mother, after the blood test, as I prepared to leave Dad's hospital room and return to work. “What if I come by this weekend and we go get a Christmas tree?”

My mother looked at my father and sighed.

“What? It's coming up. Didn't you notice the cardboard snowmen up and down the oncology hallway? If you'd rather, I could get a tree and bring it by the house. But I know you always like to pick out the best—”

“I don't want to buy a big, cut Christmas tree,” she interrupted. She looked out the window, down across the parking lot. “I don't like them anymore.”

“You don't?”

My mother had always been an enthusiastic trimmer and demanding about the particular tree she brought home. It had to be tall, dark green, without any bald spots or misshapen areas. It had to have needles neither too long and limp nor too short and sharp.

“I could cover the cost if that's—”

“It's not the money,” she said. “I don't want to deal with another…” She stopped and stared at my father, who had dozed off during his transfusions. She motioned for me to follow her into the hallway. Outside of his room, she spoke more quietly. “I'm sorry, Sasha. I just don't want anything else in my house that I'm going to have to watch die.”

“No tree,” I said. I looked back toward my father's room. I felt as if I should be in there.

“I'd like to start a new tradition,” my mother said.

“I thought a defining aspect of tradition was repetition over time,” I said. Starting a “new tradition” rang to me as false as when people deemed something “first annual.” First annual fall sale. First annual Easter brunch. How do you even know you'll be around in a year's time? How does anybody?

She looked at me, unamused.

“Sorry. What new tradition do you want to start?” I asked, which was the question she had wanted to hear.

“I want to buy a little, live tree, and after Christmas, we can plant it outside. In California, we have the luxury of living in an ecological zone that allows for that.”

That didn't sound like my mother, but I had no energy to argue.

“So should I get a potted tree?” I asked. “I could do it this weekend.”

“That would be lovely.”

Back in my office, I realized that I had no idea what sort of tree to buy. If this were going to be the first year of a new Gardner family tradition, I wanted to get it right. What if I chose a tree that we lovingly planted, then spent the rest of the year watching as it withered? I needed a more auspicious beginning.

Why had I even offered? Sure, I'd been picking up some interesting horticultural tidbits in recent months, but few people knew less about actual gardening than me. I didn't even know where to look. And then it struck me. Of course I knew where to look.

Jonah had redesigned his site in the time since I'd last been there, and he had posted some beautiful pictures. One I recognized as having been taken in the backyard of his house, looking out over the cornfield. One was clearly Ethan. None showed Jonah himself, although one revealed a pair of work boots and another, his shadow. I examined that one closely, trying to discern a detail I could use.

I noticed that he'd recently posted a piece on Christmas trees. I wondered if he had recommended specific kinds.