Chapter 25
Chapter 25
I stop and bend down to smell a bouquet of plastic flowers. They’re everywhere at Forest Lawn. The practical side of me says, why not ? They keep forever. And it would be a relief not to have to worry about clearing dead ones away. Or in my case, hiring someone to do it.
“Stop that. A dog probably peed on them.” Lolly tugs my arm.
“At a cemetery?” I don’t think dogs are allowed in cemeteries. But who knows? They seem to be allowed everywhere these days. Restaurants, grocery stores, hospitals. “But they’re so pretty.”
“They’re disgusting and tacky.” Lolly is done hearing me extol the virtues of plastic roses.
It’s just the two of us, as Uncle Sylvester thought we needed to do this alone. We’re walking down the rows of headstones, following a map given to us by a prim-looking man who punched our parents’ names into a computer and within minutes could tell us the general location of their burial sites.
The last time I was here was for the funeral, a surreal event where no one spoke the unspeakable. Just a lot of eulogies about how my father was a cop’s cop, a hero, and my mother, a friend to all. A young, beautiful couple that loved their family who were taken from us too early.
Lolly and I wore matching navy-blue dresses and sat in the first row as they lowered Mom and Dad’s caskets into empty holes. Dad’s brother, Jeb, sat next to us, drinking from a brown paper bag, mumbling expletives under his breath. Everyone pretended not to notice.
Grandma Josephine, my mother’s mother, was there, too. I remember pushing one of the handles on her wheelchair while Lolly pushed the other. She died a year after my parents.
“According to this, it’s the next row over.” Lolly is holding the map, examining the red circle the man drew.
We veer off the trail, and our heels get caught in the wet grass.
“I should’ve wore flats,” Lolly says.
It’s one of those perfect Southern California days, if you like Santa Ana winds blowing in warm air. Everyone on the maintenance crew is wearing shorts. I, on the other hand, am in a sweater dress, the same one I wore on Christmas. It’s all I brought that’s appropriate for a graveyard visit, but I can’t wait to get it off me. It’s sticking to my skin.
“I think it’s in this vicinity. Start looking for names,” Lolly says.
It feels a little voyeuristic reading the names on the headstones, like we’re invading a stranger’s private nap. We walk in circles but can’t find Christopher and Nancy Knight.
“I don’t see it,” I call to Lolly, who has skipped ahead. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“I can read a map, Chelsea. It’s here somewhere. Keep looking.”
I catch up to her and snatch the map out of her hand to study it. “It’s three rows up.”
“How do you get that?”
I start to show her, but she’s already crossing the lawn, leaving divots in the sod with her stilettos. At least my heels are only two inches high. Besides a pair of tennis shoes, they are all I brought.
“Over here.” She waves to me.
I quicken my pace and join her in a leafy spot under a mature oak tree. One of the few in this part of the cemetery. I suspect Uncle Sylvester greased some palms. My mother loved trees. There was a beautiful jacaranda tree in our backyard in Porter Ranch. Mom used to say that she always knew when winter was over, because the tree would bloom in a halo of glorious purple flowers, a stunning contrast against springtime’s dreary gray skies.
I read Dad’s headstone first. “Christopher Jacob Knight, 1957 to 1999. In Loving Memory.” Then Mom’s. “Nancy Gay Knight, 1958 to 1999. Loving wife, mother, daughter, sister, adored by all.”
The contrast between the two is not lost on either of us.
“You know the ‘in loving memory’ part had to have killed Uncle Sylvester.”
“I’m sure he did it for us.” I trace the carved marble with my finger. “Besides, he did love Dad.”
“We all did. I guess that’s why it’s so hard to understand.” Lolly whispers the last part, even though there’s no one around. The cemetery is eerily empty. “What do we do now?”
“Let them go.” For me, that’s forgiving my father and cease holding him accountable for everything bad that’s ever happened to me since he took his own life.
Lolly surprises me by sitting down in the soggy grass at the foot of their headstones. She pats the space next to her, and I get down there with her.
“I’ll go first,” she says, and lays her hands on the cold marble. “Mom, Dad, we’re here. I know it took us a while, but we’re here now. Chelsea says we have to let you go. But I don’t want to let you go. I want to remember you the way you were, the way Dad was when he taught me how to write my name one letter at a time. The way Mom always had a tissue rolled up in her sleeve to wipe our runny noses. That’s what I want to remember. The rest . . . well, I’m going to blame that on Dad having a bad day.”
I pierce her with a look. A bad day?
Okay, if it’s her way of making peace, then so be it. And for the record, I know what she’s doing. Her glib attitude doesn’t fool me. I can see the tears behind her words. I can feel the hurt.
“It’s your turn now, Chelsea.”
I don’t say anything at first. I underestimated how difficult this would be. Initially, I thought twenty-four years of pent-up anger, confusion, and heartache would tumble out of me like a storm, and the words would never stop. And somewhere between my pain and my love, I would find forgiveness.
“I don’t know where to start,” I say. “I guess anger is a good place. I don’t know if I can ever stop being angry with you, Dad, for what you did. It was . . . it is . . . unforgivable. It’s safe to say, and I say it with authority because I’m a psychologist now, that you’re the reason for all of Lolly’s and my abandonment issues. It’s also safe to say that we don’t know how we’re supposed to feel about you. If we love you, we feel a deep abiding guilt, a betrayal of Mom and of ourselves. And if we hate you, we also feel a deep abiding guilt. It’s a lose-lose situation. And frankly, it’s exhausting.
“But like Lolly, I also can’t stop remembering all the good. I know you loved us, which only makes it harder to understand why you did what you did. Having said that, the bad can’t erase the good. And ultimately, all this anger and sadness isn’t helping anyone. It’s like a bag of weights dragging us to the bottom of an endless well. So, again, like Lolly, I’m letting the bad go and only embracing the positive. I love you, Daddy. I love you, Mom.” I get to my feet and wrap my arms around both headstones. “Rest in peace.”
Lolly and I are both crying our eyes out. Ugly, racking sobs. When I try to hug her, she walks away. I go back to the car by myself. Then wait, because she’s driven and has the keys. When she shows up ten minutes later, she acts like nothing has happened and everything is fine.
“What’s going on with you?” I ask as she noses out of the parking lot.
“I need to clean the house before the kids get home tomorrow.”
Since when does she clean? I don’t say it, though, not even as a joke, because I’m back to walking on eggshells with her again. “Too bad. I thought we could go to lunch, just the two of us.”
“No can do.”
“Okay. It’s too bad, though, I was looking forward to catching up.”
Her response is to turn the radio on. It’s talk radio, and they’re playing a clip from one of my TED Talks. It’s my lecture on visualization and how, if you train your mind to focus on something you want, the more likely it is to come true.
I reach forward and turn it off.
“Hey, I was listening to that.”
“You don’t have to listen to me on the radio, because I’m right here.” My voice is raised, and I’m tired of holding back. “What the hell crawled up your ass?”
“What! It’s been a very emotional day.”
I can’t disagree with that. I expected weightlessness to come from letting go, like my whole body would be purged of darkness and I would emerge into the light. Cleansed. Free. I feel all those things. But I also feel like there’s a piece missing, like maybe Knox and Misty and Sadie and even Officer Toomey were trying to tell me something, something that could change the entire direction of my life.
Lolly pulls off PCH into a rutted dirt parking lot.
“What are you doing?” My voice is warbly from bouncing up and down. Either the suspension on Lolly’s car is shot, or it’s about to be.
“You said you wanted lunch.” She spreads her arms in front of her. “Come on.” She’s out and walking before I can say a word.
The restaurant is a cross between a dive bar and a hideaway for wayward surfers. Dick Dale’s “Miserlou” is playing at an unhealthy volume. And fish netting, glass ball floats, and pictures of surfers covered in a thick layer of dust is the sole décor. While it may be kitschy enough, it’s too clichéd to be cool—or even vintage surf culture. Even in Malibu. Which is all fine by me. But it’s the last place I would expect Lolly to frequent, and judging by the friendly waves and shouts of “Hey, Lols” from the staff, she comes here a lot.
A guy with shaggy blond hair seats us by a window with a view of the beach. The tables are of the wooden picnic variety. To doll them up, someone pasted whimsical maps of the best surfing spots in America on the surface, then covered the top with clear resin. The blond-headed guy hands us two greasy menus and disappears.
“How’d you find this place?”
She pushes her menu to the edge of the table. “It’s right off the road.”
I don’t remember seeing any signage, just a nondescript beach shack that could’ve just as easily been a bait shop. It seems like a strange place to break bread after the heaviness of the cemetery, especially because Lolly is always bragging on social media about the trendy, albeit expensive, restaurants she patronizes. But I don’t say anything, just happy that she’s changed her mind about having lunch.
“Do you come here often?”
“A few times a week.”
I store this new revelation about my sister away for the moment, realizing that she has this whole life that I know nothing about. A whole life that isn’t carefully curated for her public persona.
I flip open the menu and peruse the burger section, which is as tired as the décor. But hey, who doesn’t love a good patty melt?
“What do you like here?” I ask her.
“The tuna salad sandwich and the potato salad.”
My reaction is visceral. All at once, I’m back at our kitchen in Porter Ranch. My mother’s favorite dishes (Franciscan Desert Rose) are on the table, scooped high with my father’s homemade potato salad and a tuna salad sandwich that he cut into the shape of a fish. He made it specially for us.
“Don’t,” she says.
“I’m not.” But I’m wiping my eyes with one of the restaurant’s thin paper napkins. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
She waves to get Shaggy Hair’s attention and holds up two fingers.
“You’re leaving tomorrow.” She says it as an accusation rather than a statement of fact.
“I’ve put off work long enough. I had to cancel quite a few speaking engagements because of the accident. All of them need to be rescheduled. It’s daunting, really.”
“Don’t you have people for that?”
“Just Ronnie, my assistant.” I’ve always run a tight ship.
“So all that stuff you said about me finding happiness and you helping me was a load of crap.”
“No, it wasn’t. But it’s not like I can stay here forever. I’ve got to work, Lolly. Unlike you, I have bills to pay.”
“Unlike me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re just looking for ways to start a fight, aren’t you? Let me point out that you’re not exactly the sister of the year, either. You left me lying in a hospital bed without so much as a goodbye or even a get well soon.”
“I came, which is more than I can say for you.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you during your divorce. I’m deeply ashamed for that, Lolly. Can we please put this behind us and move forward?”
She doesn’t commit one way or another, but I see cracks in her tough exterior. And that gives me hope.
“Would you and the kids like to come and stay with me at the lake cabin? It’s in this great town called Ghost. You guys would get such a kick out of it.”
Our food comes, giving her a temporary reprieve.
She points at my plate. “Taste it.”
The sandwich is not cut in the shape of a fish, but it’s made with the same kind of bread my father used to use. Thick slices of white. There’s a pickle spear on the side of the plate that reminds me of the jarred dills Dad would slice in half to garnish our sandwiches.
I take a bite, my eyes close, and I’m instantly a child again.
Lolly smiles. “Now the potato salad.”
I lift a forkful to my mouth, and I’m home again, with all the familiar sounds and smells of my childhood house. It’s resonance. The phenomenon where something as simple as the taste of a tuna sandwich and a bite of potato salad triggers a memory that’s been stored in the brain from the original experience, i.e. the first time Dad made us this meal. In other words, my neural pathways are going nuts.
Lolly won’t say it, but I’ve already deduced that this is where she comes for comfort. This is where she comes to remember our parents. The good stuff, only the good stuff.
“I figured out the significance of that cop in your dream, the one Dad and Big Al worked with at LAPD,” Lolly announces.
“Yeah? What’s his significance?”
“He wasn’t telling you to say hi to Dad for him because you were at death’s door. He told you to say hi to him as a message.”
“What’s the message, then?”
“That you should go to Dad, that you should talk to him and find whatever forgiveness you can muster. He was sending you to him. He was telling you to say goodbye and to extend an olive branch. To finish it, Chelsea, so you . . . we . . . could move on.”
I take in what she’s said, because it makes sense. “Like we did today?”
“Like we did today. I think subconsciously you knew that, and that’s why the visit to their graves was so important to you, why you needed to do it.”
“What about you?” I ask her. “Did it help?”
She nods. “I think so. It was this ugly thing that never went away. But maybe now we can just concentrate on the beauty. Because before Dad did what he did, we had a beautiful life.”
“Yep.” I reach for her hand. “And we’re going to make it beautiful again. I promise.”
We eat, our hearts full. And the lightness fills me again. For all its difficulty, today was a good day.
“What’s going on with you and Austin?” Lolly breaks the silence.
“He wants to move in next year. January.”
“Are you going to let him?”
She and I haven’t discussed Austin since he left me—or anything, for that matter. But I assume she’s gotten all the gory details from Uncle Sylvester.
I nod. “He loves me.” But I know I’m saying it more for myself than I am for Lolly.
“He left you.”
“Yes, he did. Brent left you. But if he wanted to come back, you would let him, wouldn’t you?”
“First of all, it’s different for me than it is for you,” she says. “Brent and I have kids together. I have to think about my children. But even still, I wouldn’t take him back. You know why? Because I’m sick the fuck of people always leaving.”
I can’t argue with that. Because I’m sick the fuck of it, too.
“So are you saying I shouldn’t take Austin back?”
“I’m not saying anything of the sort. I’m saying you do you.”
“That’s helpful.”
“You’re the fancy, famous marriage expert. You figure it out.”
“I already have. But thanks for your input, such as it is.”
We finish lunch and drive to her house, where I’ve left my car. I still don’t know where I stand with her. She’s so unpredictable. But I get the sense that we’ve made inroads. Going to Forest Lawn together was a huge step. A small piece of closure.
Before I leave, I pull her in for a hug. She tries to pull away, but I won’t let her.
“I love you, Lolly.”
She doesn’t say it back, and it hurts. It’s like losing a part of yourself. It’s like losing everything.
“Bye, bitch.” She pulls away and starts walking to the house, then calls over her shoulder. “See ya in Ghost. Shitty name for a town, by the way.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me alone with a smile blooming in my chest.