The end of August brought an unwelcome heatwave to L.A. that wreaked havoc on power grids, fire prevention, peoples’ patience, and anyone like Nate who was in the business of planting things and trying to keep them alive. He and Danny were finishing the job at Charla’s, which had continued to expand thanks to her hair-trigger decision-making and a cash infusion from a “ridiculous” (her word) advance she’d received to write her memoir. (An internet search by Danny early on revealed that Charla was a lot bigger star—in her day and even now—than he and Nate had gathered.)
The way their work schedule had laid out, the guys left the dry creek bed construction for last. So they were stuck pushing through the labor-intensive project on the two hottest days L.A. had seen in years: a Thursday and Friday that both hit 106 degrees. Charla told them to come back when it cooled down. But brand-new partner Danny had lined up a major gig relandscaping an office park in South Pasadena and they were contracted to begin that Monday. Nate and Danny worked their sweaty butts off (they decided to tough it out without extra help), kept as covered and hydrated as possible, and created a wide and winding dry creek bed in a thankfully shady corner of Charla’s backyard. It was even more beautiful, textured, and colorful than the ones they’d built for Amy and the Russos. And, as a humble Danny was quick to point out, “that was saying a ton.”
Charla took selfies of them all posed by Nate and Danny’s handiwork and promised to post the pics on her Instagram page, which, she claimed (honestly, as it turned out) had more than three million followers. As a result, Cronin/Soto Landscape Designs, as it was now called (Danny equitably concluded that, as company founder, Nate’s name should go first) received hundreds of inquiries for estimates. But only six requests were from the L.A. area and Nate learned about the evil of internet bots.
Meanwhile, Alicia had done a bang-up job reconfiguring the new company’s financial structure and came up with an intriguing plan for Nate and Danny to double the company’s income, though it might mean adding another full-time employee. They’d hold off for now—neither guy wanted to take any immediate chances—but Nate could tell Danny had a newfound respect for his wife’s financial acumen. None of it, however, changed Alicia’s mind about trying for a second child, though Danny got her to agree to wait six months before they threw all precaution to the wind.
Nate hadn’t communicated with Amy—despite her several voicemails and text messages—nor with Jennifer—who didn’t answer his several voicemails and texts—since he’d last talked to them both in person. It was going on two weeks and it ate away at Nate every day. Yet, in some ways, he’d begun to feel more sanguine about it all than he might have expected. The whole situation felt like an injury that needed to heal after a car crash or some terrible fall. The thing was: when the broken arm or traumatized knee or herniated disc did mend, would it be good as new or never quite right again? Or would the damage simply prove irrevocable?
Nate didn’t come up with those analogies entirely himself. He’d had help from his twice-weekly therapy sessions with Mira, who was cracking him open like a tough-shelled egg, one section at a time. As hard as that chipping away was on Nate—who really wants to face their demons?—talking through his problems with the incisive therapist began to put the puzzle pieces of his life together in new and enlightening ways. He was starting to see the bigger picture with more depth and logic, while also recognizing some of the fears that had long held him back. Nate could practically feel a small weight lifting off his shoulders by the end of each meeting, yet was unsure if he could put the new kind of openness he was learning to work outside the pale yellow walls of Mira’s peaceful office.
At the end of his fifth therapy session, Nate had a breakthrough of sorts, not that Mira called it that, but the word seemed right. Mira asked if Nate felt that he’d properly mourned the loss of his father. The answer seemed like an easy one—“yes”—but proved anything but as it opened up a kind of emotional trap door. As Nate talked it through, he discovered he hadn’t effectively dealt with Jim’s passing—not to mention the baggage that came with it—and that he was also in mourning for Eileen and her metaphorical death. He also realized that if she was still alive, he had no great interest in finding her.
“I mean, to what end?” he asked Mira.
“Closure, perhaps—or not.” She thought a moment. “But either way you do need to put her aside. Really and truly and entirely. From what you’ve told me, she’s been a force in your life, even if it was beneath the surface. Though I don’t think it was.”
Nate thought about this as he gazed across the room at Mira’s immersive beachscapes. “Okay, but how do I delete someone who was never really there to begin with?”
“In the same way you add someone who was never really there to begin with.”
Wait, what? He took a guess: “You mean Amy?”
“That’s totally up to you. All I’m suggesting is that if you decide that you want Amy in your life in any significant way, then you have to make room for her.”
Sometimes Nate wished Mira would just say what she meant instead of making him dig for it, even though he knew—okay, was learning—that this was sort of the point of psychotherapy.
“By completely eliminating Eileen,” he stated flatly, finally seeing where this circular conversation was leading.
Mira smiled at her good student. “Yes, Eileen. Who was never actually there to begin with.”
And here’s what else he came to understand: By doing this “elimination” thing he would now not only be in mourning for his father, but also for the woman he thought was his mother. Oh, and, in a way, for his own life, one that would never be the same—so get used to it. It was intense shit (his exact words to Mira), but it had a sort of near-mathematical logic that was starting to make sense to him.
Nate would come home so drained after his sessions with Mira that he’d take Cody for a short walk, drink two beers in quick succession, and then conk out on the office couch, usually with an open book in hand. After the joy of reading To Kill a Mockingbird, he’d started to move through other titles from Jim’s collection: first Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, which was trippy and fascinating and not always clear; and, no shocker, The Great Gatsby, because when Mira learned of his dad’s connection to the book, she suggested that reading it again might help Nate’s grieving process. He resisted at first—too painful—but gave in to it and was glad he did. He read it through his father’s eyes as best he could and maybe understood Jim’s passion for the book: Did his father identify, on some level, with the illusive, yet handsome and charming Gatsby?
On the last day of the month, the heatwave broke. While Nate was hosing down his backyard, he noticed how tall and lush the calla lilies he’d planted shortly after Jim’s death had become—despite the recent three-digit temperatures. It was as if the growth had happened overnight, which is so often how it seemed with plants and flowers. It gave Nate a rush of optimism, and he had a thought. About Jennifer. Who loved calla lilies.
Nate clipped an even dozen of the gorgeous and stately yellow flowers, wrapped them in a sheet of red and white polka-dot gift paper he unearthed from the back of the office closet, and pointed his Silverado in the direction of Jennifer’s West Hollywood guest house. Whether she was there or not wouldn’t matter—he knew she often held Saturday afternoon classes so might very well be at work—it was the thought that counted.
Still, as he drove south on the Glendale Freeway, the Killers’ “Just Another Girl” coincidentally playing on his Pandora, Nate wondered if he shouldn’t let her know he was on the way, just in case. He hadn’t done that great “popping in” in the past and, all things considered, this may not be the best moment for a surprise. Nate grabbed his phone and was about to text her when he reconsidered—some might say chickened out—and decided to let the chips fall where they may. His optimism hadn’t waned. Maybe that was the actual surprise.
Whether Nate knew what he was doing was up for grabs but, once he arrived at Jennifer’s, it was irrelevant—she wasn’t there. Or so said her landlady, Ivy, who Nate ran into as he started up the driveway to the guest house.
“You just missed her,” said Ivy, her eyes glued on the mega-bouquet in Nate’s hand.
Nate hated to admit it, but he was relieved. “Oh. Well, I was just going to drop these off.” He lifted the flowers as if they weren’t already obscenely visible.
“Those are absolutely gorgeous,” she said. “We’ve tried to grow them here but they never take.” Ivy slid her eyes back to assess Nate. “Maybe you could help us do some planting someday. Jen says you’re a landscaping genius.”
It struck Nate that he’d never really spoken to Ivy, had maybe seen her and her husband, an exceedingly tall man with a shock of steel-gray hair, twice in all the time he’d been visiting Jennifer. He didn’t know what a film editor was supposed to look like, but her short, wash-and-wear hair, owlish glasses, and pale complexion—like someone who spent most of her days inside and maybe in the dark—seemed about right. He placed her at around fifty.
“I’d say the word ‘genius’ is a little overly generous,” Nate finally answered, remembering he’d just received a compliment.
“And I’d say you’re just being modest.” Ivy shot Nate a puckish look. “Jen’s also said you’re very … I think the word she used was self-effacing.”
Jesus, she might as well have said “boring as shit.” “What else has she told you?” Nate asked, trying to sound light. It certainly didn’t sound self-effacing.
Ivy considered her answer, looked a bit cagey. She smiled and said, “I hope you two work things out.” She nodded at the calla lilies and added, “Who wouldn’t love those?” Ivy pushed her glasses up the bridge of her narrow nose, raised her hand in a flat wave, and moved off down the driveway.
“By the way, I’d be happy to help with your garden,” Nate called after Ivy. “Anytime!” He knew he was trying to compensate for snapping at her, as if it mattered. She was already out of sight. Anyway, did he think if he acted “nice,” she’d tell Jen what a prize he was and that they should get back together? Yeah, probably, Nate admitted to himself as he crossed through the backyard—which was lovely as it was and didn’t need his help—and stopped at Jen’s door. He knocked just because and when there was, of course, no answer, Nate laid the bouquet on her tufted doormat that read “Dance like no one’s watching.” (Strangely, it had already been there when Jennifer moved in.) He realized he should leave a note with the flowers.
He dashed to his truck, found a pen and a blank scrap of paper, and returned to Jennifer’s door. After trying a few greetings in his head he wrote, “From the heart of my garden. Love, Nate,” and slipped the note inside the bouquet wrapping. He didn’t know what the response, if any, would be, but it seemed like the kind of grand (okay, grand for Nate) gesture that might move the needle in his direction. He also understood if it didn’t; he and Jennifer could be done and he just hadn’t accepted what he knew to be the truth.
He then thought of Mira, of what she would say, what she would tell him to expect. They hadn’t discussed Jennifer at length in their sessions, not yet anyway, but enough for Nate to know that he had lots of work to do on himself—mostly in the areas of trust and openness—to be worthy of her. Jennifer didn’t even know he was in therapy (he certainly wasn’t going to leave info like that on a voicemail) but would surely be happy to know he was. Still, would it be anywhere near enough?
Man, optimism could be a fleeting thing.
There was a huge car accident on Fairfax and Santa Monica that blocked the streets in every direction, particularly the ones Nate would need to take him home via the Glendale Freeway. So at Fountain, he hung a sharp U-turn, took Fairfax back up to Hollywood Boulevard, and wound his way to—and through—the Cahuenga Pass. When he reached Barham Boulevard, where he would pick up the 134 Freeway going east, he stopped at a red light and got his bearings. He had a thought and, as if guided by some otherworldly force over which he had no control, Nate found himself driving north on Barham, past the freeway entrance, past the sprawling Warner Bros. Studios, and onto Riverside Drive until he reached Toluca Woods—and Amy’s block.
He slowed as he approached her house, no clue what he was doing there or why, but seemingly unable to turn the Silverado around and make haste for the 134. For the second time that hour, Nate wondered how Mira would interpret his actions and realized he’d turned into one of those people who filtered his every move through the eyes of his shrink. He was becoming a cliché—not that he had any intention of stopping therapy.
Nate slowed at the curb a few houses up from Amy’s, put the truck in Park but kept the motor idling in case a quick getaway was needed. You’d think I was here for a robbery, not a visit, he thought, but knew he was there for neither. This was as close to Amy as he’d gotten since he left her house in a huff twelve days earlier. Mira—yeah, her again—suggested that maybe Nate had been looking for an exit hatch from Amy and the whole graduation photo thing was just his excuse to jump ship. “The mother ship,” Nate joked at the time, though Mira didn’t smile. Whether she was right about that he didn’t know (it kind of sounded like something a therapist might think up in a pinch), but he didn’t dismiss it outright, just stored it for future consideration—and the future, sitting there in his truck, was now. He brushed Mira’s theory out of his mind and decided to go home. Nothing to see here, nothing to say.
Nate stepped on the gas and zipped past Amy’s house—as if he were inconspicuous in his big truck with his name on the side (the company’s new name was going on the doors this week)—and caught a glimpse of her exiting her front door. He kept going, checking his side mirror to see if she’d spotted him, but apparently not. Well, she was still living there, he thought, and wondered if she did decide to move back to Fresno if she’d even tell him. That wasn’t fair: She’d been trying to get in touch with him and he was resisting, choosing a passive-aggressive move like this impromptu—and frankly pointless—drive-by instead. What had he hoped to accomplish? Did he want to be seen? Was it his way of answering her calls and texts without actually answering? More questions for his next therapy session.
Nate aimed his truck toward the 134 and put an end to this wholly unsatisfying afternoon.