Page 7 of Red Hot Roaster

I had to catch Jen before she finished for the day. She and her team from Movers&Shakers were helping me clean out all Mom’s and Dad’s clothing and other accumulated “stuff.” And byhelping me,I meant taking the lead to save me the time—and heartache—of doing it myself.

But first things first. I veered off down the driveway and peered over the backyard gate.

Pirate was lying on the brick patio, his big, blocky Lab head resting in his empty kibble bowl. With eyes closed, ears drooping and tongue lagging, he could be sleeping…or passed out from hunger.

After all, I was fifteen minutes late with his dinner.

“Hey, Pi-Pi,” I called softly. “Are you a hungry boy?”

The moment he heard my voice, he sprang to his feet and went all wiggle-butt. I hit the latch, walked through and pushed the gate closed. By this time, Pirate was running in circles around his dish. Then he took off to do his zoomies around the perimeter of the fenced-in backyard.

I had time to toss the sack with Rafe’s clothes over to the sliding glass door and snag the food dish before Pirate arrived back on the patio. After he ate and had a big slurp of water, he crowded me to see who could get in the back door first. News flash, he won, the command to “wait” long since ignored. A walk down to Dogwood Park to play ball before it got too dark was on the agenda, and Pirate knew the routine.

But first, I untied my Chocolate Lab apron, put it, along with Rafe’s dirty-slash-bloody shirts, in the laundry room, and went upstairs to find Jen.

My girl was a miracle worker.

In the five weeks since Mom had died, Jen and her team had gone through the entire house, attic to basement, plus the apartment converted from our old garage. They sorted clothing, furniture, décor items and other accumulated “stuff” from close to eighty years into mountainous piles—what to keep, donate, recycle or dump.

The clean-out would free up the apartment to be rented again as an extra source of income to support café growth and college costs.

We had moved Mom to the ground-level apartment in the last months of her colon cancer...and surrounded her with the things, people and dogs she loved most—namely family photos and Elvis memorabilia, friends and neighbors, and Pirate. This love, coupled with me sleeping on her couch and the daily visits of outpatient hospice, made her wish to die at home come true.

I found Jen in the main bedroom upstairs, moving the last of my things over, and threw my arms around her for a massive hug. We were big huggers in my family, so she was braced for it and hugged me right back.

We separated and stood grinning at each other for a moment.

“Well, girlfriend,” she demanded, “are you ready to let loose this weekend?!”

We were putting on a party for Mom at the Chocolate Lab Saturday night. Not a memorial service, not a wake, not a celebration of life—but a party. It’d be like she was there but had stepped out for a moment. There’d be plenty of food and drink, plenty of laughter and storytelling, plenty of music and singing.

And we, the four of us, were getting the party started early. Jen, Mica, Lauren and I were gathering at Fay’s Bar tomorrow night for burgers and Manhattan toasts to Mom. My bestie, Lauren, was staying with me this time, rather than in a hotel like in the past with her soon-to-be-ex. She’d bunk in my old bedroom since I’d moved to my parents’ bedroom…or, I guess,mybedroom now.

Jen grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into the attached bathroom. She placed me in front of the mirror and said, “Ta-da,” motioning wide with both arms.

Arranged in orderly fashion all over the double mirror, my personal Post-it Notes celebrated their escape from the smaller mirror in the hall bathroom. Jen had left a little oval in the middle clear so I could wash my face, brush my teeth, do my hair, put on my makeup—or even powder my nose.

At that last thought, I smiled and pulled in Jen for another, this time “thank you,” hug. She knew I’d be lost without my Post-its making order out of the chaos in my head.

“Rose, I gotta get going,” she said. “The girls are coming home soon from soccer practice, and it’s taco night. Those puppies aren’t gonna make themselves.”

Jen lived in the neighborhood with her twin middle schoolers, the center of her life. With her corgi, Pants, being a close second…or was it third?

“Everything’s good to go in the apartment,” she added. “All spick-and-span for a new renter. I locked up and left the key on your kitchen counter.”

Oh, shih tzu—I needed to addsearch for a tenantto my Post-its on the laundry room mirror, or maybe the front entry one.

We said our goodbyes and promised to meet up Friday night. I turned back to the little clear spot on my bathroom mirror. Staring back at me was a bedraggled creature—untamed hair, shadowed eyes, and face without a speck of makeup.

What did Rafe think when he met me today? Wait. Why on earth would I care?

It had started to pour when I got downstairs. Pirate was jumping back and forth at the front door, collar jingling. I grabbed his leash, his Frisbee and my rain hoodie—Dad had always claimed umbrellas were for amateurs in Oregon—or Ireland, for that matter.

We headed out the door and down the sidewalk toward Dogwood Park. Once we got there, I threw the Frisbee for the first of a bazillion times on the big soccer pitch. Pirate took off to snag it before it hit the ground, and I pulled back the hood of my jacket to gaze directly up into the rain.

And cry in perfect privacy, except for one oblivious dog.

Chapter 6

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