A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents Read Online Free PDF Page A

again, I’ll
be the better for it.
    “I’m not being weird and moody, I swear. I just want to take a hot shower, maybe grab a yoga class.” Maybe I’ll change my
name to Starla Nightbody, move to an art colony in Taos, New Mexico, and take up glassblowing or turquoise jewelry making.
Could be anybody’s guess how far I’m going to take this.
    “Are you sure?” Tim asks, looking over. Imploring. Trying his hardest to understand.
    “I’m sure,” I say, resting my hand on his leg.
    “Do you want to meet for dinner?” Tim offers, getting on the 405 freeway.
    “We’ll talk about it later,” I answer.
    Tim finally pulls onto my street. A street so tree-lined and idyllic it all but bullied me into buying seasonal wreaths and
happy-go-lucky welcome mats. After scrimping and saving, I took the plunge and bought my first home last year while the market
was down. It was a stretch, but the house had been in foreclosure and was a great deal. I bought the worst house in the best
neighborhood… and then spent a small fortune renovating it. I never thought I’d buy a home of my own. We always rented growing
up and never called one place home long enough for me to see the importance of it. But as I climb out of Tim’s car, with the
morning’s events weighing heavily on my mind, having a home to come home to makes me want to wrap my arms around its little
two-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath heart.
    I walk around my now ornament-stripped, browning Christmas tree that’s awaiting trash pickup at the curb and unlock the outer
gate. I still firmly believe it’s bad luck for a Christmas tree to see the new year. I have just two days to get this dark
harbinger of doom off my curb or else I’m taking it to the dump myself; I certainly don’t need any more bad luck. I push the
gate open to the inner courtyard as I wave goodbye to Tim, smiling maniacally as proof that I’m fine. I must look like a demented
pageant queen.
    As I close the gate behind me, I immediately calm down. I’m relieved that it’s stopped raining long enough to allow me to
get inside—the dark clouds above signal there’s another storm coming. The fountain gurgles as I walk past it, my fingers grazing
the thriving lavender. I bend down to pull a burgeoning weed from between the wet pavers—the beginnings of heat from the hesitant
sun feel good on the back of my neck. My street is always so quiet. Too quiet.
    I unlock the large glass kitchen door and turn off the alarm. The several large windows that frame the front of the house
are still dappled with raindrops. I set my purse down on the kitchen counter and take in the blooming courtyard.
    Forgoing the name change and move to Taos, I decide on a hot shower instead. I promise myself I’ll think about everything
later—just let me take a hot shower and get out of these wet clothes. I put the kettle on and tell myself that a cup of Tension
Tamer tea will be the ideal remedy for all my problems. It’s on the box. It’d be false advertising if my tension wasn’t tamed
right after the first sip, right? I look down at the phone.
    Another message. Huston.
    “Dad’s in the ICU at St. Joseph’s in Ojai. I’m on my way up now. I should be up there in about two hours, depending on how
the 101 looks through Ventura.” Huston takes a long pause. I’ve been within minutes of my brothers and sister for five years
and yet still so far away. I press my ear closer to the phone. He breathes deeply and continues, “It’s time to be a family
again.” My whole body deflates and I set the phone down on the kitchen counter. A wave of nausea overtakes me. I jolt up and
barely make it to the kitchen sink in time. Retching into the colander I keep in the sink to wash fresh blueberries for my
morning protein shakes. Oh, God. Now, that’s disgusting. I turn on the water, rinse the colander and the sink clean, then
pool the water in my hand and bring it to my mouth. Slurping up the cold