Page 39 of Yield to Me

My mother took over the master bedroom, and I slept in the next room. I kept the blinds pulled open and cracked open the glass, watched the faint twinkle of stars through the window. If I concentrated, I could hear the faint crash of waves over the bustle of the city.

My phone rang. Owen. It was only eight p.m. on the West Coast. I thought momentarily of ignoring the call, but I told myself I shouldn’t, not when I was staying at his place. Which was exactly why I hated taking favors and help from others. And if I was honest with myself, I would’ve wanted to take his phone call regardless. It would’ve hurt not to. But it didn’t mean I had to be nice.

“What?” I said.

“How are you?” he asked. His voice was cool and reserved. The silence told me he was holding back, not saying what he wanted to, but I wasn’t going to beg him to talk to me.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “I can be there tomorrow morning.”

The last words were whispered, as if he didn’t want to admit to them. Was he reluctant, wanting to hide the fact that he could help me? Was it his obligatory niceties to make sure that I didn’t tarnish his reputation? Or was he hesitant to admit that he wanted to help me? I shoved the thoughts from my mind. It didn’t matter what his reasons were.

“I will let you know if I do,” I said.

I could hear him breathing and shifting on the other end. I wondered where he was calling from, if he was in his house, in the library at Surrender, if he was somewhere else entirely. Neither of us said any final words to end the call. We listened, hanging on to each other’s silence.

A bouquet of white roses and lilies with fresh blue delphinium sat on the kitchen counter. Without asking, I knew Owen had sent them and made a note to thank him by text. A small card was attached to the ribbon along the vase, and it was from Owen, but addressed to Regina. My condolences, it said. It surprised me that he sent them to my mother, and I wasn’t sure if it made the gesture more honest, or more backhanded. But Regina was the one who was grieving, not me, so I shook away the thoughts. Regina was making coffee, a half-eaten bagel sitting on a plate on the counter.

“Where’d you get the food?” I asked. Regina nodded at one of the cupboards. I laughed. I was glad that my mother felt comfortable digging into a stranger’s kitchen. And though I hated accepting Owen’s help, I was glad that the trip was turning out to be less of a hassle than I thought it would be.. Perhaps this kind of help was okay to accept. As long as the person wasn’t condescending about it, I guessed.

At the funeral, the church was completely full. I didn’t recognize anybody and wondered if my mother knew anyone. Neither of us, even though I was Grayson’s child, were mentioned throughout the service, and no one spoke to us either. I didn’t mind; in fact, I liked it better that way. I wouldn’t have been able to think of something nice to say about Grayson. The best I could think of was, He made my mother happy once. That was, of course, before he broke her heart into a million pieces and left us.

Each group of people took turns standing next to the open casket, and when it was our turn, I wondered if I should let my mother go by herself. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see Grayson, but my mother grabbed my hand, dragging me along with her. He looked older than I remembered, his hair completely gray, the skin wrinkled around his mouth, his skin dark and weather-beaten by the Miami sun. We learned he had died from lung cancer, even though he was otherwise in the image of perfect physical health and hadn’t smoked since his teenage years. It had taken everyone by surprise. Regina kissed his forehead, a tear falling onto his cold, hardened skin, and I put my arm around my mother’s back.

As the continued through the mass, Grayson’s wife’s sobs echoed down to the back pews. A woman with white hair next to her stroked her back. Regina’s tears never stopped, but she never made a sound louder than a sniffle.

On the way out of the church, the white-haired woman stopped Regina and thanked her for the flowers. My mother nodded, and while they talked, I stared at another bouquet of flowers with blue delphiniums in it, knowing they must’ve been from Owen. The woman smiled at me, a sadness behind her eyes. She squeezed my forearm.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

I nodded, and the two of them, the white-haired woman and his wife, headed to the cemetery with the driver. “That was your grandmother,” Regina said. A quick wave of heat flushed through my body and disappeared quickly. I had suspected it, but it still came as a shock. I had never met my grandmother on Grayson’s side. “He left you an inheritance,” Regina said. “According to your grandmother, anyway.” I looked back at my grandmother, confused, and Regina tugged on my arm, dragging me along again. “Even after all of this, you were his only child.”

The words echoed in my mind as we walked across the cemetery. His plot was set on a small hill overlooking the rest of the gravestones. His wife stated loudly that she had purchased the empty plot next to it, so they could be together in the afterlife. Internally, I snorted, finding it hard to believe that Grayson would want to be with anyone for that long, even in hell. But I briefly wondered if he had changed since leaving us, if he was a new man or whatever, but I dismissed the thought quickly. It didn’t matter if he had changed. He hadn’t tried to make amends since he left, and now he was gone.

After his widowed wife, his father, and his mother had dumped full shovels over his coffin, his mother, or my grandmother, ushered for me and Regina to draw closer, inviting us to do the same. My mother quickly shoveled some dirt. I shook my head and mouthed my thanks, but my mother pulled my arm. “Please do it,” she whispered. I drew closer. The shovel’s wooden handle was smooth in my hands. I stared at the coffin covered in dirt, wondering if I was glad that he had died. I didn’t know why a man who had abandoned his family had chosen to leave his daughter an inheritance, and it felt like he was mocking me from beyond the grave. Was it a joke, as if to remind me that I needed his money, that I couldn’t make it on my artistic merits alone? That he didn’t believe in me? Or was it supposed to be repentance, to make up for years of neglect? But more importantly, I wondered if my mother would keep hurting for Grayson after this. I was doing this for her, I told myself. I lifted the shovel, the dirt felt heavy in it, like all of the hatred I had for him. The soil crashed onto the coffin, and I stepped away. I didn’t know why, but I felt numb.

The flight home was over sixteen hours of delays, layovers, and flights. By the time we reached San Francisco, Regina had slept most of the way, but I hadn’t shut my eyes once. I was agitated, antsy, like something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t figure out what.

As we drove onto the freeway, an email dinged on my phone. Since I was driving, I asked my mother to read it.

“Dear Riley Glass, we are pleased to offer you an early acceptance into Foundations For the Arts program!” she read. “Oh, Riles, that’s amazing! All of your hard work has paid off!”

I was in shock. I didn’t feel relief or excitement. I didn’t feel anything at all.

No, that wasn’t right. I felt uneasy, like it was a trap. Another joke.

“Maybe it was a mistake,” I said. “Sometimes that happens, you know.”

“I highly doubt it, honey,” Regina said. “They’re not going to mess up something like—”

I rolled my eyes. “I mean applying,” I lied.

“Why would you say that?” she asked. I shook my head and focused on the road, though my mind raced over the past week. “You’ve wanted this for years.”

At the house, I helped unload the car, then turned back towards the front door. “I’ve gotta go,” I said.

“Where are you going?”

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