Chapter 1
Tristan
One Year Later
My father loves to garden. When I was younger, I spent many summer mornings in the garden with him, pulling weeds, pruning bushes, replanting flowers.
I learned a lot from him in those humid, dirt-stained days. I learned the difference between perennials and annuals. I learned how and when to water different types of plants, how to prune something that was dying so that it would grow back better than ever.
And I learned that sometimes, the best way to save a plant is to uproot it and find new soil.
These thoughts cross my mind as I drive along US-101 in my restored 1990 Jeep Wrangler, taking Cesar Chavez Street exit towards Bernal Heights.
I spent the last ten years of my life in Los Angeles, and it’s time for new soil. This isn’t where I thought I’d be at twenty-eight. Moving back in with my father and stepmother was never part of my five-year plan.
Then again, I didn’t plan for my fiancé to die, either. I would say that it’s funny how life works, isn’t it, but I don’t think it’s funny at all.
I grew up in Bernal Heights; slipping back into my old neighborhood is like sliding into a cold pool. Shocking at first, but I quickly grow numb.
After spending ten years in Los Angeles, I sometimes forget how hilly San Francisco can be.
Here, the hills are steep and uneven. Cars fight against their natural inclination to roll down hills by parking themselves at angles by the curbs.
The cramped Victorian houses and narrow townhomes sit low near the street, with uneven concrete stairs meandering up from the sidewalks.
People huff and puff as they walk their dogs, fighting the elevation gain of each residential block.
I pause at a stoplight in a strip of commercial buildings, a little café with foggy windows that was once a local mom-and-pop place, but is now a chain; a hole in the wall bar with a simple neon sign and ancient posters of old bands and events, pasted to the windows and turning to pulp; the skeleton of a farmer’s market, which will spring to life on Saturdays.
This isn’t my first time home since moving to Los Angeles for nursing school, but it’s the first time I’ve been home with the intent to make this place home.
I see everything familiar through a different lens now and see how much it has changed.
The light turns green, and I take a left onto Folsom, headed towards Angel’s Light Assemblies of God Church, a large Pentecostal monstrosity squatting angrily on the corner of Folsom and Precita.
My father and stepmother live a few streets past the church, and have been loyal members of Angel’s Light for as long as I can remember.
It’s a constant point of contention between us, but I’ve learned to pick my battles.
I take Folsom to Bessie, and then shove my Jeep into a shady spot in front of a large townhome with a pale azure exterior and crisp white trim.
Slam the car into park.
Take three deep breaths.
Try not to cry—especially when I see that my father is in the garden, kneeling in the dirt, trowel in hand.
He stands when he sees me, brushing clods of mud from his knees with gloved hands.
“There he is,” he says with a grin. I’ve always favored my father in looks.
“Conventionally cute,” Warren once called me, which I think was just a nice way of saying that I’m average.
Average brown hair, average brown eyes, features that are an average amount of attractiveness.
Average physique that I maintained with an average amount of time in the gym.
I’ve put on a little bit of muscle in the last year, but no one would ever say that I’ve “bulked up.”
“Dad!” I force a smile. Smiling hasn’t come naturally much in the last year.
“Good to see you, soon.”
Over the last few days and weeks, I’ve played out this reunion in my head many times.
Tried to imagine what it would be like. Would my father seem like himself?
Would I be able to tell the difference in his behavior?
Will the invisible disease that’s ravaging his mind have already stolen his memories from him, and would he not recognize me?
But he seems normal.
He holds out his arms for a hug and pulls me into a classic Cameron Cavanagh embrace. My father has always been a man of few words—he showed his affection through actions. A soft touch on the shoulder, an embrace, a meal cooked, or a garden perfectly cultivated.
It feels good to be in his arms again.
“How was the drive?”
“Long.”
“Come on, Bobbie made sandwiches. Did you hit a lot of traffic on your way in?”
“The usual. Coulda been worse.”
He nods, holds the front door open. The house smells like it always did. Cleaning supplies and cooking.
“Hi Bobbie!” I call into the house.
My stepmother is in the kitchen, humming to herself. She and my father have been together since I was nineteen, and married since I was twenty-two. I never thought I’d see my father remarry, but Bobbie has been good to him. I’m even more thankful for her now that my father is sick.
“Hi, baby!” Bobbie comes from the kitchen and wraps her arms around me. “Welcome home.”
The words shouldn’t make my stomach twist, but they do, because Bobbie’s right—this is my home now. I’m not just moving back to San Francisco, I’m moving in with Cameron and Bobbie.
“I made sandwiches,” Bobbie says brightly.
We sit down for a family lunch of Reubens and Coca-Cola.
It feels almost normal, and it feels too much like I’m a kid again.
We’re all trying to pretend this is fine, like the reason I moved home wasn’t because of my father.
My father talks too loudly, like he’s trying to convince both of us he’s fine. Bobbie’s emotions are hard to read.
“When do you start work?” Bobbie asks eventually, because that’s the easiest topic of conversation.
“Next week.”
My father mutters something about my safety, and I ignore him. I know my new job is less safe than my last job as an ER nurse at the Ronald Reagan Emergency Department at UCLA Hospital, but it’s what I want to do. What I feel I need to do.
“That’s good,” Bobbie says. “Gives you some time to settle in.”
“Do you have any plans?” my father asks. He and Bobbie exchange a glance, and I sense a trap being laid.
“What are you plotting?”
“Nothing,” Bobbie says.
“Do you remember Bertie Lewandowski?” my father asks mildly.
There’s the trap.
I play along. “Yes.”
“He’s back,” Bobbie says. “We ran into his parents at church the other day.”
“Mmhmm.”
“He’s single again,” my father adds. He’s never been subtle.
“Good for him,” I say.
“Now, honey,” Bobbie says.
“I’m not going out with Bertie Lewandowski,” I say.
“He’s such a nice man,” says my father.
Too nice a man, if I remember correctly. Far too nice for me. I’ve gone down the “nice guy” route before, and it’s not what I’m looking for. Not anymore. Not since Warren.
Bertie Lewandowski and I were childhood friends, playing together on the streets and in the park. We discovered our queerness around the same time, and were two of the only out gay kids in high school.
My parents had already divorced by then, and Dad was making a big show of trying to be supportive of me.
He arranged “play dates” between Bertie and me up until we were old enough to drive, and he would curiously disappear whenever Bertie was around.
I knew exactly what he was doing and never played along.
I wasn’t interested in Bertie Lewandowski then, and I’m not interested in Bertie Lewandowski now.
“Dad, Bobbie, it’s too soon,” I say as firmly as I can.
Bobbie pats Dad’s hand and nods at me. I appreciate her tact. Bobbie was a widow when she and Dad met. She knows what it’s like to lose someone you love. She’s been one of my greatest supports in the last year.
“It couldn’t hurt to get coffee,” Dad says. “You moved back here for a fresh start. You shouldn’t be lonely.”
I didn’t really move back here for a fresh start. I moved back here for him. He knows that—we all know that—and we’re doing a good job of pretending it’s not the case.
To get them off my back, I say, “I won’t be lonely. I’m getting coffee with a friend tomorrow, actually.”
Bobbie instantly brightens. “Really? Who?”
My mind goes immediately blank. Do I know anyone in San Francisco anymore? Of course I do. But I don’t really want to see anyone from high school.
What about college friends?
Dad and Bobbie are looking at me expectantly.
“Um, Chasten,” I say. “Chasten Huang. Remember him?”
Dad looks confused, but Bobbie smiles immediately. “Yes! You went to nursing school with him, right?”
“That’s right. He works here now.” I think. I hope. I saw on social media that he moved to San Francisco a few years back, but I don’t know if he’s stuck around. “We’re getting coffee tomorrow.”
God, I hope that Chasten lives in San Francisco, and that he’s free for coffee tomorrow. I hope I still have his number.
“That’s lovely,” Bobbie says.
“I’ll clear the table,” I say, because I don’t want to be interrogated anymore.
I gather the plates and take them to the butter-yellow kitchen.
Dad and Bobbie talk in low voices, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.
I rinse the plates and stick them in the dishwasher, then go back to the dining room.
“I’m going to get some stuff from my car,” I say, “and maybe take a nap. I’m exhausted after the drive.”
Confusion flickers over Dad’s face. “Tristan!” he says. “You made it!”
I feel a lead weight drop in my stomach. Memory slips are common, the doctors told us, and I know plenty about Alzheimer’s from my time in nursing school. They’ve just become more frequent, and this is the first time I’ve seen it happen to Dad in person.
Bobbie takes Dad’s hand and squeezes. “He got here an hour ago, Cam. You remember, right?”
Dad’s dark eyebrows furrow, and then he nods. “Right,” he says. “Right, of course.” He shakes his head. “I’m going to check on the garden.”
“He’s gardening more and more each day,” Bobbie whispers when Dad is outside. “I check on it sometimes. He’s overwatered the beds three times, now. Some of his plants are dead, and then he doesn’t remember how they died.”
I put an arm around her. I’m terrified for Dad, but I’ll be strong for Bobbie and for him. There’s no other option. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “I’m here. I’ll help you take care of him.”
She rests her head on my shoulder. “I know you will, Tris. I know.”