“We’ll have to chop some logs, clean up the yard. My father can’t do any of that anymore. Obviously. I don’t know why they don’t hire a gardener.”
“That would be admitting defeat,” I say.
We hear Jake’s mom say this often: “I know I can’t drive, but selling the Camry is admitting defeat” and “Buying those damn nutrition shakes is admitting defeat. I can eat real food.” Though she can’t. She’s ninety pounds.
“I was thinking the other day about how I don’t know a single thing to say for his eulogy,” Jake says.
It’s like him—to plan ahead like this, to already be thinking about his speech at the funeral. Ever since I’ve known him, he’s been calendar obsessed, scheduling weekend camping trips and day hikes months in advance, like he’s desperate for something to look forward to.
“You have time. You’ll think of something,” I say. “Maybe this trip will help.”
The cabin is at the end of a road so narrow that we have to reverse into a shallow ditch to allow a pickup truck to pass. Ever since we turned off the freeway, Jake’s needed GPS to find his way. I wonder how strange it would be to need GPS to find my dad.
“This is it,” Jake says, making a quick right up a steep driveway.
The cabin is grander than I expected. I thought it would be a tiny, run-down A-frame. But no. It’s a large log-sided house with expansive windows and two stone pillars framing a front door so tall a ten-foot man could walk right through.
“It’s huge,” I say.
“Deb has money,” Jake says, clarifying what he’s told me before—that his father never has.
We park at the end of the driveway, triggering the motion sensor lights. A dog barks—first far away, then closer, before appearing at my door. He’s a giant black Labrador. I get out, and he sniffs and circles me, tail wagging.
“Hi, puppy,” I say, though this dog is old. The hair around his snout is graying. His eyes are foggy. I’m grateful for the presence of an animal—a distraction, an icebreaker, an excuse to go outside for a short walk.
“That’s Bruno,” someone shouts.
I look up to see a woman who must be Deb. She’s walking from the front door toward us. She has hips people call childbearing, though Jake’s said she never had kids. Her hair is cut to her shoulders. It’s dark—almost black—with strands of gray that seem to be left there for artistic reasons. She has a long nose and small brown eyes.
“And I’m Deb,” she says to me. I expect a handshake, but she gives me a hug.
“Deb, this is Alexis,” Jake says. He always introduces me to people with my full name, though everyone calls me Alex.
“She’s gorgeous,” Deb says, hugging Jake. Even after she releases, she leaves her hand on his lower back, like they are close, like they’ve shared many meals and memories. Jake crosses his arms over his chest and gives me his tight-lipped smile, the one he forces when he’s uncomfortable.
“Come, let’s go inside,” Deb says. We follow her. Jake takes my hand, holds it tight, as if he’s scared or presumes I am.
The moment we cross the threshold, a surge of warmth hits us. A fire burns in a stove in the living room, next to huge windows overlooking the forest behind the house. He—Jake’s father—is in his wheelchair a few feet from the fire. It’s one of those high-powered wheelchairs with the fancy controls. He pushes a button and rolls to us. There’s a Ferrari sticker on his headrest.
“Jake,” he says, “I’m so happy you guys are here.”
“We’re glad we could make it,” Jake says, as if all the years they didn’t see each other were due to logistical problems, snafus, busy schedules.
“You must be Alex,” his father says to me, voice booming. “I’m Marco. It’s so good to meet you.”
“You too,” I say.
I come closer, unsure how to approach someone in a wheelchair. He reaches his arms out with the intention of a hug, and I lean down to him, letting him pat my back.
“Sit, sit,” Deb says, motioning toward the couch. We obey. “Let me get you two some wine. I have the best pinot noir.”
“None for Alex, thanks,” Jake says. He does this often—speaks for me, protects me from having to decline. He knows I hate to seem rude.
“So, Alex, what do you do?” Deb asks when she returns with the wine and a bottle of water for me.
“I work at a library,” I say.
“Well, doesn’t that sound fun,” she says, as if I’ve just told her I make balloon animals.
While Deb and I discuss our favorite books (we have none in common), Jake talks to his father about football standings, the stock market, the carpenter bees making a home in the awning outside—things men discuss to simulate a bond. Jake doesn’t look just like him. He, the giver of Jake’s last name—Mancini—is Italian, through and through: dark hair, dark-brown eyes, olive-toned skin. Jake’s sister looks more like him than Jake does. Jake has the dark hair and olive-toned skin, but his mom’s Western European ancestry fought for prominence in his eyes. Her blue is mixed in there, giving Jake the emerald green. “He has cat eyes,” my sister said once.
“I hear you’re a vegetarian,” Deb says to me. “I made chicken cacciatore, but I have some pasta with meatless sauce. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. You really don’t have to go to any trouble.”
She waves me off. “Don’t be silly. It’s the Jew in me.” A laugh comes from deep in her chest—loud and generous. She’s one of those people comedians love to have at shows.
“Can I help you with anything?” I ask, out of polite obligation.
“No, no. Sit. Rest. You’ve had a long drive.”
Bruno jumps up on the couch next to me. I pet him, focus intently on that, because I’m not sure what else to do.
“Watch this,” Jake’s father says. He takes a tennis ball from the cup holder of his wheelchair and tosses it down the hallway. His arms are thin, weak; he’s not able to throw it that far. Bruno humors him anyway, jumping up excitedly to retrieve it. He brings it back, dropping it at his owner’s feet.
“Oh, Bruno! You know that’s not right,” Jake’s father says, noticeably agitated. He can’t reach the ball from his seat. “Remember how I taught you to bring it to my hand?” The dog just looks on, sad and confused, because he’s just a dog.
“Jake, bring me the ball,” he says. Jake obliges. His father throws the ball again, and Bruno runs down the hallway. When he comes back, Jake’s father puts out his hand, desperate, grasping. Bruno drops the ball into his palm.
“Good boy, good boy,” Jake’s father says. I wonder if this is what consumes his days. I wonder how often he cries.
“So, what have you two been up to?” he asks us. I don’t know if he means in the last several years or the last week or two. Jake looks at me and I look at him, our eyes wide and unsure.
“We’ve been hiking quite a bit. We did Mount Baldy a couple months ago. Mount Whitney before that. And Half Dome, out in Yosemite.”