Page 83 of Come Back to Bed
“Don’t call me that,” Bernie mouths, frowning.
“Now, do you have any food allergies or preferences that we should know about? We’re mostly farm-to-table vegetarians around here, but we can head over to the store if you need meat. What about your doggie—does she need anything?”
“I will eat whatever you serve me, and I brought food for Daisy. She just needs water and a place to do her business.”
“Awwww Daisy! I love the name Daisy!”
If Bernadette weren’t sitting right next to me with her mouth sealed shut, I would swear that I was on the phone withherright now.
When Leslie starts to ask what kind of dog Daisy is and why I chose the name Daisy, Bernadette jumps in. “Mom—we should let Matt concentrate on driving, yeah? We’ll see you soon. I’m so glad that Dad’s okay. Love you bye!”
She hangs up and drops her phone into her bag. “And that was just a taste.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“Well, I’m glad you think so, because she’s gonna get all up in your face with her wonderfulness very soon.”
I guess I didn’t really have a mental image of what the farm would look like. Based on the way Bernadette has described her parents, I expected it to be dilapidated in a bohemian sort of way, with a lot of homemade garden art and stoned hippies wandering around. I was right about one thing. There’s a lot of handmade garden art. It’s a working farm and it’s quaint and pretty well-maintained and gorgeous. It’s less than ten acres from the look of it—maybe half of it’s vegetable and flower crops and the rest is pasture and woods.
As we drive up the gravel road to the big farmhouse, I see a few goats and chickens roaming around, and so does Daisy. She makes a noise I’ve never heard her make before. She’s so excited that Bernadette doesn’t even notice her mother and father have come out to greet us. I park and turn off the engine, waiting for Bernadette to get out first.
Again, her parents are not at all what I expected. Leslie is beautiful, but in a very different way from her daughter. Her hair is lighter and curlier. She’s thin and tan and fit, from working outside I suppose, but she does have a bit of a hippie thing going on with her long skirt and crystal pendants hanging everywhere. Steve looks more like a hip professor of art than a farmer/artist, with his round eyeglasses and black jeans. His arm is in a sling, but he looks healthy as a horse to me.
It’s not until they descend upon their daughter that I get a hint of why she’s so hesitant to interface with them. She looks like she’s drowning in hugs and questions and positivity. I hear the words “reconnect” and “plug into nature” and “meditate on what it really means to create” thrown around before I even hear them say “hello” to her. They do an actual group hug. Bernadette is the first to pull away, of course. She turns to me. I’m holding onto Daisy so she doesn’t run off and attack a chicken.
“Guys, this is Matt McGovern and Daisy.”
“Welcome to Good Culture Farm, Matt and Daisy!” Steve says. “I’m Steve.” He holds out his good hand to shake mine and pats Daisy on the head. “Thanks for driving our baby all this way.”
“Dad.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
Leslie’s laughing so hard she doesn’t seem to be able to speak. She holds her stomach. “Oh my God! Bernie! He’s so handsome! It’s just stupid!”
“I know.”
Bernadette’s mother just stands there, head tilted, regarding me. “I mean, how do you even paint this face?”
“I know!”
“You just have to sculpt him, right?”
“I guess,” Bernadette says, “but there’s kind of a softness underneath the sculpted features that demands a nice sharp soft pencil, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” her mother says. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
“Black ink,” Steve says, like that’s a complete sentence and the end of the discussion.
Mother and daughter both stare at me, and it’s not awkward at all.
I’m kidding. It’s totally awkward.
“It’s nice to meet you, Leslie.” I offer my hand to shake.
“Oh, Matt! Look at us, just staring at you. This must happen to you all the time.”
“Not exactly.”
