I hadn’t even met Ian’s father, hadn’t wanted to, and here people were comforting me about his death. But they had it wrong. I was crying for Ian’s father, a little, but I was mostly crying for Ian. And part of me knew, I was also crying for myself, and for our relationship. There was no way that Ian would forgive me now.
Before this, I’d mentally told myself that it was over between the two of us...but my heart hadn’t really given up. Not yet.
But now...now it really was over. And I mourned.
The rest of the day passed by in a blur of tears and condolences. By the end of the day, all I could do was stare mindlessly at my laptop background. It was the photo of us from Cassie’s wedding. I still hadn’t changed it. The way that Ian looked at me in the photo, like I was precious and perfect and not broken or fucked up...I’d seen that look on his face countless times during our weeks together. I could almost believe what Cassie had said. Maybe he did love me, once.
I sat up straighter, still staring at his expression. What if he did love me? What if he was suffering, alone with his grief, wishing that I were there with him? What if he needed me?
We’d had a fight, but couples fought all the time. It meant that we were being honest with each other, that we wanted to make things work between us. We’d also had a connection, a bond, one that I knew in my heart was strong. It was wrong of me to give up on us so easily, especially in his time of need.
I suddenly had to see him, to make sure that he was okay. I checked the time—it was 4:37pm. Close enough, and my coworkers would understand. I packed up my things and rushed to Ian’s place, not remembering a single step of the journey. I smoothed my hair out of my face and knocked on the door, once, twice. There was no answer, and he still wasn’t picking up his phone.
I found an old receipt in my purse and wrote him a note on the back of it.
Ian,
Please talk to me. I’m so sorry for everything. I’m here if you need anything at all.
I hesitated, then added,
My heart goes out to you and your mom.
Love,
Anna
I slipped it under his door.
Chapter 20
-Ian-
I was glad that I’d decided to stay for the week. My mom was in terrible shape.
I had to encourage her to get out of bed, to eat, to do anything other than lie there. If I hadn’t been around, I don’t know what would’ve happened. I gently tried to remind her that she had to eat and keep strong, so that I wouldn’t lose her too. But sometimes she’d just look at me and look away, as if that weren’t enough. As if I weren’t enough to keep her around.
Those moments killed me inside.
It helped me to have someone else to care for. I couldn’t wallow in sadness because I had to be strong for the both of us. And while I grieved in private for my father, I could only imagine the pain of losing a partner of 30 years. My brief forays into love were a joke in comparison.
The hardest part of that week was calling our family and loved ones and telling them the news. Most times, my mom broke down and cried before she could get the words out. She couldn’t even say his name. Eventually, she just turned off her phone and went to lie down in her room. I ended up calling my mom’s sister and my dad’s brother and telling them what happened, and I asked them to spread the word for us. We were tired of talking about it, and of needing to make other people feel better as they tried to console us.
We decided to bury him in California with the rest of his family. There was nothing special about Princeton or New York. My parents had only moved out there to be close to me during undergrad and after, as I was their only son, and not for lack of trying. Besides, there were more HVAC jobs on the east coast than in California, and the cost of living was lower, so they’d lived in relative comfort. But ultimately, they belonged in California with their loved ones. Both of them.
I arranged the funeral services and body transport for that week and began contemplating my mother’s situation. She belonged in California, too. I wouldn’t be able to take care of her on my own, and she certainly wouldn’t take care of herself. I was the one who kept her going, who cooked meals for her, who made sure that she actually left the house. Sometimes we’d walk around the neighborhood a little bit, but she was too tired to do much, so we mostly just sat around and watched TV. Her dramas didn’t pull her in or excite her as much as they used to, though, and sometimes she’d just look away and stop watching, or change the channel. She usually switched to the news, even though it was depressing and her English wasn’t that great.
There was good news in terms of her health, though. I took her to the doctor for her last round of chemo, and they told us that she was good to go—her next check-up wasn’t for another three months. I was relieved, so relieved that it was over, but she cried, great big sobs racking her tiny body. I couldn’t tell if they were tears of relief, of sadness...or of disappointment.
◆◆◆
In the evenings, I sorted through my dad’s things. The first night, my mom tried to stop me from touching anything. She said that she wanted it all left alone. I told her that we couldn’t leave it there, that it wasn’t good for
