Dad’s waiting for me on the front porch when I get home. He stands up as I pull into the driveway.
“Don’t get out,” he says. “There’s somewhere I’d like to go with you.” I slide back into my seat and unlock the door for him. He gets in on the passenger’s side and fastens his seat belt. I get this weird sensation like I’m back in Driver’s Ed, nervous, because I don’t know what he wants. All this mixed with his own special cocktail of joy.
“Okay, where to?” I ask.
“Let’s go toward town.”
“Okay.” I drive. I don’t know what to say to him. The last time I saw him was at graduation, but he didn’t stick around after. We didn’t get the chance to talk. And before that it was him sitting on Mom’s bed as she died. I have so many things swirling in my brain right now, questions, mostly, but it feels weird to ask.
Like: Is she okay? Where did she go, exactly? Were you with her this whole time? What’s it like, where she is? Does she miss me? Can she hear me, if I try to talk to her? Is she watching over me?
I’m driving too slow. The car behind me honks, swerves to pass me, narrowly missing an oncoming car.
“Crazy California drivers,” I say, gesturing to the guy’s CA license plates before he screeches off. “Always in such a rush.”
When we get to town Dad has me turn off on the road to Grand Teton National Park. It’s a road I’ve been down a million times before with Tucker.
“How much will we need for admission into the park?” Dad asks.
“I’ve got it, Dad. I have a season pass.”
Dad looks pleased, like he’s proud to have produced a kid with a respectful appreciation of nature. We come around a long, curving corner, and suddenly the mountains open up in front of us, washed in red and gold. The sun has just gone down behind them. Soon it will be dark.
“Right here,” he instructs as we approach a scenic turnout. “Pull over.” Obediently I turn in and park. We get out of the car. I follow Dad as he takes a few steps past the paved part of the road, into the tall grass. He stares off at the mountains.
“Beautiful,” he says. “I’ve never seen them from this angle before. It’s quite something, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty, Dad.” But I’m confused. Why would he want to come here?
He turns to me with an arched eyebrow. “Patience is not your strong suit, is it?” Heat rushes to my face. “I guess not. Sorry. I just thought you had plans, or somewhere you wanted me to see. I’ve kind of seen this before.”
“You haven’t seen this,” he says. “We’re not there yet.” Before I have time to process this, he puts a hand on my back, right below the nape of my neck. Something shifts around us, like a quick change in air pressure. My ears pop. I get the sudden sensation of lifting, the kind you feel when an elevator starts to rise, followed by a rush of light-headedness. Then I notice that there’s something different about the color of the grass; it’s greener than it was a second ago. I look up at the mountains, and I notice a difference there too, in the light, where before it was fading, night falling on the land, shadows starting across the plains that stretch to the foothills, now the shadows are receding. The air is growing brighter.
It’s almost like a perpetual daybreak. The sun didn’t just go down. It’s coming up.
I sway dizzily, almost fall, like I just stepped off a merry-go-round. I clutch at Dad’s arm.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “It might be better if you hang on to me until you regain your equilibrium.”
I take a deep breath. The air is almost heavy in its sweetness, like green grass and clover, a hint of something I recognize as the smell of clouds. To say it’s beautiful here, wonderfully, impossibly beautiful, wouldn’t do it justice. I turn to Dad.
“This is heaven,” I say. No question; I know. Maybe the angel part of me recognizes it. I can’t help the giddy feeling that floods me. Heaven.
“The edge of it, yes,” Dad says.
No longer dizzy, I let go of his arm. I try to take a few steps away from him, but there’s something strange about the grass under my feet. It’s too hard. My feet don’t sink into it or crush it down. I stumble and look back at Dad.
“What’s wrong with the grass?”
“It’s not the grass,” he says. “It’s you. You’re not meant to be here yet. You’re still not solid enough for this plain, but if you were to walk in that direction”—he nods toward the growing light in what, on earth, was due west but here seems a different direction entirely—
“you’d grow more solid with every step, until you reached the mountains.”
“What would happen when I reached the mountains?”
“Well, that’s for you to find out when the time comes,” he says mysteriously.
“You mean when I die.”
He doesn’t reply. He looks off toward those mountains and lifts a hand to point. “I brought you here to see.”
I squint toward the light, shielding my eyes with my hand, and then my breath catches. I can make out the figure of a person out there. A woman in a white, calf-length, sleeveless dress.
It looks like the eyelet sundress I wore under my gown at graduation yesterday. She has her back turned to us, walking, almost running, it seems, toward the mountains. Her long auburn hair is flowing free down her back.
“Mom,” I breathe. “Mommy!”
I try to run toward her, but I can’t handle my feet on this stony grass. It hurts, like picking your way across a
