Second Dance (The Parent App #1)

Chapter 1

ALEX

On the second anniversary of my wife's death, the sun rose in the east as it always did and the birds chirped as they were born to do.

Our teenage children slept late. The world continued.

Even though it had seemed impossible that sunny June morning we'd laid her to rest, it was true.

We'd continued forward without her, making a new sort of life.

That's perhaps the cruelest lesson about loss.

Shattering grief does not allow one to give up or give in, even when sadness suffocates all sense of hope. One keeps on regardless.

This was a day I'd been dreading for weeks. It was silly in a way, since she was gone every day, not just today. But there was something about anniversaries that played with a man's mind, conjuring images and memories that were easier to suppress on dates that weren't tattooed onto a human heart.

I heard footsteps from upstairs. Bella, probably heading to the bathroom.

Bella moved through the house the same way her mother had—quiet and efficient, never wanting to wake anyone.

Sometimes I forgot which one of them I was hearing.

Those were the worst moments. That split second before remembering.

For a moment, I closed my eyes, asking God to help me through the day.

When the children were small, chocolate chip pancakes almost always cured whatever ailed them.

Now they were fourteen and sixteen, and not even a homemade breakfast could change the heaviness of today.

But I made stacks of pancakes anyway and fried up a package of bacon and scrambled a dozen eggs as the sun climbed above the horizon, turning the ocean beyond our windows from pewter to brilliant blue.

The exposed beams overhead caught the early light, casting familiar shadows across the white marble island.

The house felt too big this morning—all the soaring ceilings and endless views, that I'd imagined would help the kids and me move on, seemed to mock me.

As if material things could mend your broken heart.

Through the wall of windows, I could see the infinity pool reflecting the sky, the stone walls that reminded me of the old New England houses of my youth. The ones my mother had cleaned.

Movement had proven to be my friend in this ongoing lesson on grief, so I kept my hands busy—flipping pancakes, adjusting the pendant light that always hung slightly crooked, rearranging the bowl of lemons on the counter that caught the morning sun.

Peter arrived downstairs first, his dark, wavy hair disheveled, eyes puffy. Had he cried himself to sleep?

“Hey, bud,” I said.

“Dad, what is this?” Peter's brown eyes scanned the island lined with breakfast items. “Where's Sonya?”

“She'll be here later. Her grandson fell and broke open his chin, so they had to go to the emergency room.”

“Richie or Brian?” Peter asked.

“Richie.”

“That kid's totally accident prone,” Peter said. “He's six and has already broken his arm twice.”

My heart ached with love for my boy. A sixteen-year-old kid who knew this detail about our housekeeper's grandchildren was surely rare?

Then again, he spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Sonya.

I could often hear them chatting in Spanish when I was getting dressed in the mornings.

I'd been raised in a household that spoke mostly Spanish, so it had been important to me that the kids were bilingual.

From the time I'd married their mom, I'd insisted on Spanish lessons.

Being young, they'd both picked it up quickly.

Their mother had not. I smiled, thinking of how irritated she would be with the three of us when we talked in Spanish, mostly about how we could sneak ice cream out of the freezer without her knowing.

“Why did you make all this food?” Peter asked.

“Since Sonya wasn't here, I thought I'd make us a hearty breakfast.” I shrugged, as if it were something I did often.

Which I did not. Since we'd lost Mattie, we'd relied on Sonya to cook for us.

We were well fed because of it. “I used to cook some when you were small. Do you remember? When your mom and I first got married? I always cooked us Sunday breakfast so your mom could sleep in.”

“Yeah, I remember.” He answered without any emotion reflected in his voice and sat at the island, grabbing a culled strawberry from the bowl I'd prepared earlier. “Is that why for real?”

The implication of that question was obvious. He wanted to know if it was a way to cope with the anniversary.

“I'm trying to keep busy, I guess,” I said.

“It's just another day. Same as all the others. No big deal.”

I could tell by the dullness in his eyes that he didn't believe that for one instant.

But I kept my mouth shut. Raising teenagers felt a lot like one of those video games with minefields.

No matter how carefully I tried to tread, sooner or later something I said or did would set off an explosion I never saw coming.

“Do you want me to fix you a plate?” I asked, almost cringing at the hopeful tone in my voice.

“Yeah, sure.”

“What're you up to today?” I asked.

“I'm meeting some of the guys down at the beach for our surf lesson.”

I'd been pleased when he'd asked if I'd pay for surf lessons down at Grady's Surf Shack.

To me it was reassurance that he was meeting friends and fitting into the beach community we found ourselves in.

Back when we lived in the city, our lives had been much more metropolitan.

Living in Pacific Heights, the kids had grown up taking public transit and enjoying all that San Francisco had to offer.

Now we were in a sleepy beach community that seemed to exist under the spell of the ebb and flow of the ocean.

Instead of fighting against the tide, they existed within it.

Frankly, I'd found it hard to get used to.

Waking to hear waves crashing to shore was different from the sounds of traffic and city noise.

“Great. Sounds fun,” I said.

“Dad, don't sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“All lonely and stuff,” Peter said.

“Oh, sorry about that. I'm not. Just curious how you planned to spend the day.”

Peter brushed his too-long hair off his forehead, having ignored my reminder that he needed a haircut.

I'd been asking for weeks, but he just kept blowing me off.

His thick hair was a lot like mine, as was his complexion, which often made people forget I hadn't been there from the very beginning.

Bella's dark hair and warm skin tone mirrored mine too.

Mattie, though, had been fair, with light brown hair and a quick smile.

She'd told me a little about their father, enough for me to know he was of Italian descent.

She used to tease that she had a “type.” Whatever their heritage, they were my kids.

Their father had left all three of them and never looked back. I'd found them and never looked back.

Bella came in next, her long hair pulled into a ponytail, shorts paired with a cropped top that showed more midriff than I'd like.

I didn't get the half-shirt trend, but I kept quiet.

She already felt different from her friends, and I wouldn't make it worse by nitpicking about her clothes.

Losing her mom had hit her hard—maybe harder than it hit Peter or me.

Though grief isn't a competition anyone wants to win.

“Dad, what's all this?” Bella asked.

“Breakfast,” I said. “You hungry?”

“I don't think I can eat that.” She pointed to the stack of pancakes.

“Why? They're your favorite,” I said.

“No, they're not.” She leaned against the side of the island as she pulled a balm from her pocket and dabbed at her bottom lip.

They had been. But again, I bit my tongue. The minefield and all that.

“How about some eggs and strawberries then?” I asked.

“Yeah, I guess.” She sat next to her brother at the island.

“How about you, Peter?” I asked, just then realizing I had neglected to do so after asking him before.

“I can make my own plate.” Peter got up to fill a plate with a little of everything while I made one for Bella and then myself.

“You guys want to sit at the table?” I asked.

They both looked at me as if I'd suggested standing on our heads while eating our breakfast.

“Or here at the island?” I asked quickly.

“Island, Dad. What's gotten into you?” Bella squinted, gazing at me.

“Mom. The anniversary,” Peter said bluntly, sitting back at his favorite spot at the corner of the island.

Bella tugged at her ponytail but didn't say anything. Had she remembered and was pretending not to? Or had she forgotten? I couldn't decide which was worse.

“It's just another day,” Bella said. “Without her.” This was said under her breath, but I caught it. So did Peter, because he glanced over at me with a pained expression. But only for an instant. Then he returned his attention to his plate of food.

“I didn't think you'd even remember,” Bella said to me.

“Why would you say that?” That was a sucker punch if there ever was one.

She shrugged. “I don't know. You don't seem to think about much but baseball.”

Of course that wasn't true, but I let it go.

“What're you doing today, Dad?” Peter asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Not sure. I wanted to see how you two were feeling before deciding anything,” I said.

“It's not like we can visit her grave or anything,” Bella said.

That caught me off guard. I wasn't sure what she meant. Mattie had asked to be cremated and have her ashes spread in Shakespeare Garden at Golden Gate Park where we'd had our first date.

“You don't need a grave to remember her,” Peter said, not unkindly but with a slight edge. He was a peacemaker, like me, but even Peter could be triggered by his sister.

“She'd love that you're learning to surf,” I said.

Peter brightened. “Do you think so? Because she always told me how afraid of the ocean she was.”