If You Were Here

me sick, the whole business. How did I want this for so long?”

The sun is the perfect shade of pink-gold in the sky. Movie people call this the magic hour, and they spend scads of money to film at this time of day. So I guess I learned something valuable, albeit esoteric, while I was in LA.

“The one bright spot is that Kara was there for me immediately when I called her. She admitted she was initially avoiding me after her outing, but then she got involved in other stuff and lost track of everything, so we’re totally cool now. Maybe even stronger than before, having weathered our first friend fight. She lent me her new car to drive up here this afternoon. Funny story, after she had it out with her parents, she realized her problem is that she needed to grow up. She figured the easiest way to start would be to buy a new car so she didn’t have to rely on her parents when her old one broke down.

“The car salesman was cute and Indian, they hit it off immediately, and they’ve spent every second together since they met. Kara’s all mad at herself because she says she’s become one of those girls who forgets her friends when she gets a boyfriend. But I think we’re all giving her a pass on that. Plus, her family loves the guy — he’s working at CarMax only while he gets his PhD — and everyone’s happy. Folks love a happy ending.”

I bite at a cuticle and stare off in the direction of the lake. “I’m glad it worked out for her. As for me? Everything’s a shit show right now. I keep letting studio calls go to voice mail, same with my agents, and the one person I want to talk to isn’t picking up.

“I need to go home, but I don’t want to. I’m terrified to see the place, because I haven’t a clue what to expect. I’m so scared that if I get there and Mac hasn’t made any effort in getting things together that it’s the symbolic end of us. I feel like that stupid house is a euphemism for our entire marriage right now. I’m desperate to find out where we stand, but I’m afraid to get a definitive answer. What’s that line that Allison Reynolds says in The Breakfast Club? You want to but you can’t and then you do and you wish you hadn’t? That’s how I feel about going home.

“Why is life so hard to navigate now? It wasn’t always so hard. I got through my teenage years without a lot of problems, in many ways because of your guidance. You taught an entire generation how to deal with every problem we faced — insecurity and first love and bullies and mean girls and pressure. Personally, you helped me figure out how to forge bonds across socioeconomic classes and how to navigate cliques by showing me that, deep down, we were all going through the same stuff. You gave me the confidence to go forth and be my best self.

“But I’m all grown-up now and you’re gone, and I don’t think I know how to be an adult without your guidance. You didn’t leave a trail of bread crumbs for us to follow. The greatest tragedy is that we lost you before you had a chance to teach my generation what to do next.”

I stare at the unmarked headstone for a long time. As the light changes, I’m aware that it’s time to do something, but what? I’m not sure.

I get off the bench and kneel in the grass. “Sir, if you’re out there, if there’s any part of you that still exists — and there has to be, because you left a little piece of yourself with an entire generation — please give me a little nudge. Point me in the right direction. I’m begging you for a sign, one small clue as to how to take the first step in the rest of my life. Please. Something.”

But nothing happens.

I wait for it and I wait for it, but nothing happens.

I am truly on my own.

And that breaks my heart.

So I stay where I am, on my knees in the dying light of late afternoon. I need to get up and do something, go somewhere, but I just feel paralyzed.

I stay there for what feels like hours, bent over with my face in my hands, trying to figure out where to go once I finally muster the strength to stand.

“… go home.”

And then I almost jump right out of my skin.

I stare down at the headstone. Did. . did John Hughes just say something to me? Is that possible?

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re closing the gates shortly. Visiting hours are over and it’s time to go home.”

That’s when I realize I’m being addressed by a groundskeeper standing at the edge of the grass, and not a voice from the great beyond.

But damn it, a sign’s a sign.

Thank you, sir.

You’ve still got my back.

I live only a couple of miles from the cemetery, but the ride home takes forever. When I finally reach my street, Lululemon — I mean, Amanda—is out for a jog, propelling two happy toddlers in the stroller in front of her. When she sees me, I get the briefest flash of a smile and a barely perceptible wave, yet that greeting smacks of what Admiral Dewey must have felt when he returned to New York from the Pacific.

When I slowly pull down my driveway, I look for anything that might give me a clue as to what’s been happening inside.

The first thing I notice is that the Dumpster is gone and that someone must have power-washed the area underneath it, because my drive is clean and clear for the first time since Mac ripped down the first sheet of drywall.

The next thing I notice is the windows, as in, we have actual windows in each and every frame and not just half a dozen strategically placed boards. Plus, my perennials seem healthy and strong, and someone even removed the stump from the tree I executed.

All of these are positive omens, but I’m not really going to have a grasp on where things stand until I see Mac.

The front door opens and I run to throw myself into Mac’s arms when I realize that Mac is suddenly taller.

And burlier.

And blonder.

And dressed kind of like the construction guy from the Village People.

What the. .?

“Hey, there, ya must be Mia. Heard ya may be comin’ home today. We’d hoped to be finished, but you’re a little early and we’re still cleanin’ up.”

Wait. I know that voice. It’s all confident and businesslike and vaguely Canadian.

“The name’s Mike Holmes. Glad to meet ya.” He holds out a meaty palm and gives my hand a firm shake.

I’m speechless.

“Speechless, eh? Let’s give ya a little tour and show ya what we’ve done.” Numbly I walk in the front door, and I’m in such a state of shock that for a moment I don’t even realize my dogs are jumping on me.

I snap out of it. “Hi, guys, Mummy’s home. Yes! That’s right! Mummy is home!” I let them romp and bark and kiss me for a couple of minutes, because that’s happening whether I want them to or not.

Greeting the dogs has given me time to collect my thoughts. “So, you’re here. How are you here? And where’s Mac? And are there cameras — is this for a show? I’m sorry; I’m a little lost.”

“Nope, not filmin’, just helping ya out, doin’ the right thing. I gotta tell ya, this place was a mess when we got here. I can’t believe ya were livin’ like that. We almost thought ya were pullin’ a prank when we got your husband’s call.”

“Mac called you?”

“Oh, he’s been callin’ the production office for a while, couple of months at least. We had your house on the list for potential sites to scout, but we’re not filmin’ the new season yet.”

As Mike talks, I start to look around my house. In the foyer, the hideous black and white tiles have been replaced with wide-plank dark walnut floors, and they go as far as I can see. When I inspect the walls, I don’t see lath and plaster or drywall;¹⁶⁷ instead I see smooth, even walls painted a light yellowish green. The ceiling not only exists, but it’s a really clean white, and it’s bordered by four inches of glossy crown molding.

I don’t understand. “Then. . how are you here?”