Page 75 of Before We Say Goodbye
Otis let go of his mother’s hand and stood. “I think you’re grieving, Mom, and seeing things in an uglier way than they were.”
Eloise locked eyes with her son. “He let whatever it was that was hanging over his head defeat him. He didn’t like himself. He was never happy or satisfied. It was always on to the next thing. It was never ever enough. He died lonely and sad ... his fingers on his typewriter, halfway through an article about how Interstate 90 needed repairs. I asked him to take me out to lunch; he said he was too under the gun with a deadline. Now I’m left wondering the point of all those words he left. That’s all he talked about, his words and his deadlines.”
Otis stared into the middle space, lost in thought.
“His only interactions with you were his desperate attempts to steer you toward the success he never realized for himself.”
Otis sifted through her meaning, a miner looking for flakes of gold.
“All the while,” she continued, “he was getting it wrong.”
Otis pulled back the curtains of the window and looked out over the ranch. Cattle grazed in high grass. Snowcapped mountains shot up with jagged edges on the horizon.
“What do I know, Otis? I try not to give you advice. Your father had enough for both of us, but I don’t want you thinking of him as your hero any longer. I don’t need Rebecca to tell me how hard you’ve been going.”
“He’s not my hero. Hasn’t been in a long time.”
“I don’t want you to end up like him. That’s all.”
On the plane back, Otis sat between the two boys. Bec had the seat across the aisle. Mike wore headphones, and Otis had asked him to turn down the music several times. Whatever it was, it was heavy. Metallica or something like that. Otis and Rebecca had talked endlessly about letting him listen to such intense music, and after multiple conversations with Mike, they’d realized it seemed to pacify his mind. How could they take that away?
In the last year or so, he’d been quite down about himself and his lack of friends. Whenever Otis spoke to Rebecca on the phone from the road, Mike was the first topic she’d bring up. She’d say while sobbing that Mike was exhibiting a lot of the same behavior Jed had as a kid. “I’m worried about him,” she’d say. “He’s not happy.” When Otis was back home, he would try to talk to him, but Mike was too closed off to share his feelings.
Otis sipped on a virgin Bloody Mary and was making conversation with Cam, who was pretty good about connecting with his dad for a teenager. He wouldn’t let his parents hug him in public, but he seemed to understand that he needed to try because Otis was trying. In that way, they were able to have some often-lovely chats about life.
“Dad, can I tell you something?”
“Oh, boy. Don’t tell me you’re getting married.”
“Worse.” He pushed up the drink tray and locked it in place. Then he peered over at his dad. “I don’t want to go into the wine business. I don’t want to take over the farm.”
Otis nearly spilled his drink, but he collected himself quickly. “That’s ... you don’t need to make that decision now.”
Camden lowered the tray back down. “I know it’s what you want. That it’s your dream for Mike and me to take over the farm. It’s not my thing, though.”
It took everything Otis had to hide his sadness. He recalled Cam’s enthusiasm as they worked together to build his own little winery on their property in Sonoma. Where had Otis gone wrong? Had he pushed too hard?
“I understand,” Otis finally said, but inside, maybe he didn’t understand. He could only hope that Camden would have a change of heart. He still had a long way to go before he had to commit to a profession.
The winter of 1987 to ’88 was a blur. Addison’s death and Eloise’s words on the day of the funeral hung over Otis. He buried himself in work and was short with Bec and the boys, and even the workers. Any attempted apologies fell flat.
“I know I’m being awful,” he told Bec during the first week of the new year. “Please know that I’m trying.”
“You know I have all the patience in the world,” she said in a weary tone, “but it’s wearing thin. You’re allowed to grieve, but you still have to love the ones you’re with. Though you were physically here, you weren’t actually here during the holidays. How many more Christmases do we have with the boys? And I don’t know, maybe you should allow yourself to grieve more, as opposed to distracting yourself, running around like everything is on fire.”
A burn flared up in his chest. “My father just died, Bec. Cut me some slack.” He knew better than anyone that all she’d ever done was cut him slack. That’s what she did with everyone. For some ungodly reason, she surrounded herself with broken people and then fed them slack like she was helping a climber rappel down a rock face.
Bec wisely ignored his defensiveness, which only made Otis angrier—at himself, more than at anyone else. “Let’s not forget all this money pouring in, the success we’re having. Do you know how many wineries out there would kill for it?” He fired his index finger into the air. “That doesn’t happen if I’m sitting around stewing in my grief.” Every word that escaped his mouth fueled his self-loathing.
It was true, though; they’d become unstoppable.
His growing friendship with Joe Montana didn’t hurt their momentum. Photos of Joe drinking Lost Souls were as good as marketing could get. Other celebrities began to contact Otis, and all of a sudden, he was experiencing his own celebrity. Especially around San Francisco. He knew every chef in town. None of them would let him pay for a meal. Instead, they’d come out and shave fresh truffles on his pasta or pour him four fingers of Pappy Van Winkle. Otis got that level of respect everywhere he went.
Rebecca wanted nothing to do with it. She told him that she had to take care of the boys and the farm and that she wasn’t interested in going out on the road and schmoozing.
Otis bought a convertible BMW 325i and slapped aZinmanlicense plate on the back. He’d don a silk scarf, crisp white button-down, khakis, and loafers and drive his new car fast up and down the coast. Not even a couple of speeding tickets slowed him down. He’d splash into San Francisco, catch up with some of the big retailers, and take them out on the town, thanking them for all the hard work.
He knew he had to stay away from his family till he got it together. He didn’t want to poison them with the pain he felt inside. What his mother had said about his father’s failures stuck to him like flypaper. Had she been confused?
