Chapter Forty-Two
I try to properly grieve. Whatever that means. Hold my mom’s hand? Reminisce about my father? Contemplate my life? But no one gives me a chance. My sister heads home less than twenty-four hours after the funeral. And my mom packs her suitcase the following morning.
“Uh, where are you going?” I ask, standing in the doorway to their bedroom—her bedroom.
Dad hated the white quilt with cherry blossoms. The gray fabric headboard.
The bougie chandelier that replaced his practical ceiling fan.
And the pink velvet bench at the end of the bed that he said made him feel emasculated every morning when he sat on it to put on his socks.
“After the funeral, Regina invited me to visit her in Vermont. So I bought a train ticket,” Mom says.
“Now? You’re leaving now?”
“Yes, William,” she says, folding a sweater like she’s mad at it.
I scrub my hands over my face. “Don’t you think you need to take a minute before packing your things and leaving?”
“A minute to what?” She faces me, holding out her hands. “Cry? Miss him? Stare at everything in this house and think about him?”
“Well, yes. Isn’t that why they say grieving is a process?”
“Who are they, and why should I care what they say? There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Leah will find her way. I’ll find mine.
And you’ll find yours. No judgment. It’s not a race.
It can take a day or a lifetime. It can be a moment or a process.
But Regina lost her mom last year, and she’s my oldest friend, so I feel like spending time with her will help me move on.
Staying here will feel like a roadblock because he’s .
. .” She looks around, tears filling her eyes.
“Everywhere,” she whispers. “And yet, somehow gone.”
I drop my head and rub the tension from my neck.
“But if you need me, I won’t go. Not now. You’re my boy, and I choose you and your sister over everything else. Always.”
“I know,” I murmur.
“I thought you’d go to Baltimore.”
If only it were that easy. I shake my head. “She deserves more than my grief.”
“Then give her what she needs. And in the process, you might discover it’s what you need too.”
I find a half grin. “That seems to be the popular answer.”
“What do you mean?” She turns and continues to pack.
“Nothing. If you want to go, then I think you should go. I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re not going to Baltimore, are you staying here or moving back to Missoula?”
“I don’t know.”
She glances over her shoulder and smiles. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
The day after my mom gets on a train, I go through my dad’s camping gear and pack everything I need for a long road trip. Then I hit the road.
Sometimes, I glance over at the passenger seat and see him grinning while looking at the passing landscape of frosted valleys and snow-covered mountains.
It’s like he’s seeing it for the first time.
He never took for granted the power of outdoor therapy.
When I was younger, I used to watch him stare at the sunset for what felt like an eternity.
“Aren’t you tired of staring at the same thing?” I asked, drawing tic-tac-toe grids in the dirt with a stick.
“Nope,” he said. “I’m not just staring at it. I’m experiencing it.”
“Experiencing what?”
He laughed. “Someday you’ll understand.”
“I doubt it,” I mumbled, sighing while wishing the sun would hurry and set so we could lie next to each other and stare at the stars. I swore my dad knew every constellation.
As I gaze at the sunset from Dante’s View, Death Valley, I smile.
It’s an experience indeed. Everything changes in what feels like a blink as the sun slips behind the mountains, igniting the salt flats in its warm glow.
It’s a reminder that time never slows, and every sunset is a gift. Every moment is a gift.
When the shadows fade, and the mountains vanish in the darkness, I settle on a blanket, bundled in my jacket and hat, using my backpack as a pillow.
I feel him next to me on the blanket, pointing out constellations in the star-covered sky while rapid-firing questions.
Every astronomy lesson he ever taught me replays in my mind.
I don’t want to grieve him. That means he’s gone. And I’m not ready for him to be gone. Maybe I’ll keep him right here with me forever.
Over the next two months, I visit all the parks I never visited with my dad since we rarely hiked in the winter.
Saguaro.
Joshua Tree.
Big Bend.
I occasionally check my phone when I have a good cell signal, looking for messages from my mom or sister.
Mom shares a few photos of Vermont as if to let me know she’s okay.
Maren and Jamie send occasional texts, just to tell me they’re thinking of me.
And a part of me holds a spark of hope that I’ll see something from Everleigh, but I never do.
The more lost I get, the more found I feel.
The silence is nice. I practice tai chi every morning and meditate under the stars every night.
Sometimes I play tic-tac-toe in the dirt (I always win), and other times I find a magnificent view and perch on a rock with a good book.
It makes me think of Everleigh. I have a lot of reading to do to catch up with her. I might need a few more lifetimes.
Christmas comes and goes with texts from friends and family. Not once does my mom mention getting together. I have to believe she’s finding exactly what she needs. And Leah has the family she made.
Maren, Ozzy, and Lola.
Jamie and Fitz.
Everyone has someone. I have strangers in small towns offering me cordial holiday greetings. Bell ringers. Lights. But no snow.
Everything is different this year, and that’s okay. Without my father, I’m different.
By February, I find myself back in Missoula, staring at the half-finished barndominium next to the Airstream.
After trudging through the fresh layer of snow to the barndo, I cup my hands next to my face and peer through the window.
It doesn’t look much different from the last time I saw it.
There’s a Jeep next to the camper, so I knock on the door.
“Hi,” a young woman with short blond hair beneath a pink beanie says.
“Hey. I’m looking for Everleigh Reichart.”
“Oh, she’s not here. Who are you?”
“I’m a friend. Is she in Baltimore?”
The woman shakes her head. “She’s in Key West.”
“Vacationing?”
“Not exactly. I mean. Maybe. Sort of.”
This woman is no help, so I frown.
She wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “We swapped houses for a year. But it’s only been two months.”
“What?” I shake my head. She’s mistaken. “Dr. Reichart? Are we talking about the same person?”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think she’s a doctor. That would be weird. Come inside. It’s cold out.”
I bang the snow off my boots and step onto the mat. My gaze immediately goes to the bed that I spent time in with Everleigh. I can still see the defeated look on her face as she took off her clothes, probably despite her better judgment.
“Why do you think I’m talking about a different Everleigh? And why do you think she’s a doctor? Do you mean a PhD?” the woman asks.
“I mean psychiatrist.”
She shakes her head. “That doesn’t track.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s like in her twenties and working at a café.”
Is this girl high? “She’s working at a café?”
“Well, not just any café. They sell key lime pies. It’s a big deal. They’ve been listed in national publications and have won all sorts of awards too. They have more than just pies. Candies. Jellies. Breakfast and lunch.”
I tune her out somewhere between awards and candies.
“What does Everleigh do there?”
She shrugs. “Works behind the counter.”
I’m nauseated. Did I do this? Why isn’t she at Hopkins? Why isn’t she practicing psychiatry? It makes no sense.
“Would you give me her new home address?”
She shakes her head. “Sorry. I don’t know you. I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but . . .”
“It’s fine. I appreciate the information. Sorry to have bothered you.” I open the door, desperate to figure out what’s going on.
“No bother. Bye.” She closes the door as soon as I step outside.
I stare at the barndominium. “What are you doing, Everleigh?” I mumble.