“I do know enough to do that,” she said.
I looked down at the front of the lawn mower. “It’s probably the spark plug,” I said. I disconnected the spark plug wire and examined it. “The wire hood looks okay. Let me just run back to the house and get a wrench. Come on, Declan.”
“He can hang out here with me,” Allie said. “If he wants. It’s the least I can do if you’re going to be able to get this lawn mower started for me.”
“I wanna stay with Miss Allie!” Declan said.
“Should we go have a slice of this bread?” she asked.
“Okay.” He grinned. “Harper’s mom said it was orange poppy seed bread when she dropped it off.”
I went back over to my house and into the garage and found my spark plug wrench. I was willing to bet it was old and she’d probably need to replace it, but maybe I could get it started by adjusting the gap.
I found myself actually hoping that it would need to be replaced, because then maybe we could all take a trip into town to go to the hardware store, but after I closed the gap a little and reconnected it, it started just fine.
“My hero,” Allie said, a dry note in her voice. She smiled. “Thank you. I really mean that.”
“If you need help with anything else, just ask,” I said. “You know where we live.”
Most Sundays, my parents made the drive west for a visit and to take Declan out for the afternoon. Sometimes I’d go with them, but more often than not, I’d either hang out with Ben or have some time alone, which I had never realized was such a commodity until I became a father.
Declan sat on the front steps, eagerly waiting my parents’ arrival. When their sleek black Range Rover pulled in, he let out a joyous yelp, but waited until the car came to a complete stop before he went caterwauling over to them.
My father, a retired physician, and my mother, who had stayed at home with the kids, stepped out of the vehicle, my mom holding her arms open for Declan to jump into. As she stood up, wrapping her arms around her grandson, I could tell that she was trying to hold back tears. It was early June, normally a time when people in New England rejoice, the brief respite between the unrelenting cold of winter and the brutal heat of summer, but for the Beckers, forever tainted since my little sister Marissa died four years ago, on June 17th. She’d just come back home, and it was supposed to be a happy time. Everyone had been looking forward to it.
We were not a family who was used to having bad things happen.
Sure, life wasn’t perfect growing up, but it was pretty damn close. A large house on a hill, with a spectacular view of the Atlantic, a neighborhood full of friends, vacations to Vail, Paris, Milan, Tokyo. Marissa had liked Tokyo best. I liked them all—the novelty of going somewhere new. I
was vaguely aware how much better off we were than most of my peers, but my parents never acted like it made us better than anyone else, so my sister and I didn’t, either. We went to public school. We didn’t have a housekeeper or personal chef or anything. My mother didn’t carry designer handbags or wear $900 shoes. My father was a popular family physician, who sometimes still made house calls. His one vice was luxury cars, which he’d always had, though he never made a big deal about it.
I visited with my parents for a little while, and then Declan said he was hungry, so they were going to take him out for lunch and then to a playground, giving me a couple hours to myself to do what I pleased.
I put my kit on, found my sunglasses and helmet, and then said bye to my parents and Declan. There would be no 80-mile ride today, but I’d go out for a couple hours, push myself as hard as I could, and come back feeling exhausted and happy.
Later that afternoon, Declan and I both seemed equally exhausted but happy from our earlier activities. He went up for a nap, and I relaxed on the deck with a tall glass of lemonade.
“So how are you doing?” my mother asked. “Declan really seems like he’s thriving.”
“Things are going all right,” I said.
“How is work?”
“It’s good.”
She smiled, though I could tell it was partially forced, and that there was an overarching sadness to her every move. “I met a nice young lady when I was at the bookstore the other day,” she said. “Her name was Melanie. Would you like her phone number?”
“I think I’m all set,” I said.
My parents were eager for me to find someone to be with, that perfect match made in heaven which I knew did not actually exist. They were still hoping for some sort of storybook relationship, but after everything that had happened, I had zero interest in that at all. I would be perfectly happy with casually seeing someone, or a couple someones, when and if I ever had the time to do that sort of thing again.
“I really don’t need you guys to try and set me up on any dates or anything like that,” I said.
“I think it’s just a matter of you meeting the right person,” my mother said. “I know she must be out there somewhere.”
“But I’m not looking for her. And I don’t happen to believe that.”
The problem with my parents was that they met in high school, fell in love, and got married right after they graduated. And all these years later, they were still together. It gave them a warped view of things, at least where love was concerned. It had been so easy for them they assumed it should be just as easy for anyone else, or, if not just as easy, then only a little bit harder. I just didn’t think like that, though. Marissa did, and a lot of good that had done her.