Two years later …
HOLLY
On the morning of my dad’s birthday, Joe and I wake up very early, load Dad’s old kayak onto the roof of Joe’s car, and head down to Newport Harbor.
We launch the kayak as the sun begins to rise.
Neither of us says anything as we row out past the rocks of the jetty and over to the buoy. There is almost no wind, which I have already learned is an important part of the process. (As Joe’s mom pointed out to me from scattering her husband’s ashes, there is nothing more confusing than what to do when a few ashes lightly blow back onto you and cake your lipstick.)
I take a deep breath, then open Dad’s urn. I pull out the bag of ashes and rest the bag on the side of the boat.
“Okay, Dad. It took me awhile, but I’m finally doing it.”
I open the bag and look at the ashes. This is harder than I thought it was going to be. I look up at the sky. “You know, I’d really like a sign that I’m doing the right thing, though. I mean, I know you said you wanted an ocean burial. But maybe in your afterlife you changed your mind. Maybe you want me to get you a nice drawer at the Hollywood Cemetery where I could visit you. Or that place in Westwood where Marilyn Monroe is buried. You liked her.”
I take a small plastic shovel I bought just for this occasion and begin to spread the ashes out over the water. Some of the ashes become airborne and form a whitish-gray cloud over the water. Others, particularly the teeny shards of pulverized bone, sink immediately. I continue to talk to my dad. “Now, I’m sure you’ll think this is morbid, but I took a few of your ashes and turned them into a diamond. And I also sent some ashes to your sister. But, like, a tablespoon’s worth. You won’t even miss them. I hope it wasn’t your penis ashes or anything. That would be weird.”
About half the ashes are already gone, sinking to the bottom of the sea where I can never get to them again. Did I do the right thing? I turn to Joe, who smiles at me supportively.
Then I continue my one-sided conversation with Dad. “So maybe I’ll keep this other half, just for a little while. Until I know for sure you really want an ocean—”
Suddenly a seal bursts out of the water and tries to jump into our kayak. A very heavy seal.
I scream. Joe tries to gently push it off with his oar. The seal (I just remembered, she’s a sea lion—I learned that at the aquarium) starts chatting with us like we’re old friends, “Uhr, uhr, uhr!”
“Go away! Get out of here!” I yell to the seal. “Not the time!” Then I look at Joe and yell in panic, “Oh, God! Don’t sharks hunt sea lions?!”
“You’ve swum with sharks,” Joe points out.
“Not the ones who hunt sea lions! Oh, now I’m hearing Jaws in my head!”
The sea lion dives into the water and disappears.
And all is quiet again.
Joe and I sit in the kayak for a while, looking deep into the water to search for the sea lion and trying to get our bearings. Celia (I’ve decided to call her Celia) pops her head up out of the water but this time just nuzzles the front of the boat.
And I start laughing.
“Are you okay?” Joe asks sympathetically from behind me, rubbing my shoulder. I think he thinks I’m crying.
“I’m fine,” I say, now starting to laugh so hard tears are glistening in my eyes. I yell into the air, “I get it, Dad! I get it!”
I take the bag, put it over the water, and turn it over, dumping the rest of Dad’s ashes into the sea. I pull a few roses out of my bag, give each one a kiss, place them on top of the water, and watch them float. Finally, I blow a kiss into the air. “Thank you for being an amazing person, and an amazing parent, and giving me a great life. I love you more than you will ever know.”
Joe and I spend the next few minutes in silence as I watch the small ash cloud dissipate and the flowers float away. We watch our sea lion dive deep into the water, then pop up with a fish. Celia looks at me, and her eyes look the eyes of the Dalmatian I had as a kid.
I turn to Joe. “Can we keep her?”
“Not sure my pool is big enough.”
I laugh a little—more smiling than laughing. “Okay, let’s head back. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
And we slowly row back into the harbor, Celia following us the whole way. She swims with us all the way to the dock, and as we disembark, I’m sure she’s trying to figure out a way to climb on the dock and go home with us.
There really is a part of me that wants to keep her.
I drop Joe off at home and make it to the bar around noon, having promised Nat that I’d come in early to help decorate for the party tonight.
Three weeks ago, Nat and Chris got married in a small ceremony at the Hotel del Coronado, with just family and friends. Her colors were red and white, and we made many jokes about how she’d be serving wine at the reception in those colors.
They went on a lavish honeymoon, touring much of Europe and hitting all the great museums—and not one vineyard.
Tonight, Jessie and I are throwing a big party for them at the bar, with the help of the staff we’ve been slowly hiring over the last couple years.
That staff has become crucial, because a lot has changed in two years. For one thing, we now own two wine bars: Wine for All and our newest endeavor, Love the Wine You’re With, out in Highland Park. We also have a third place, Hollywood and Wine, opening in Hollywood later this month. So business is booming.
Despite our success, Jessie has not been putting in nearly the amount of hours she used to. And what hours she does work seem to be at home with the business paperwork and marketing plans—she only tends bar two nights a week these days.
I park in my designated spot in the back and walk in to see Nat in jeans, a baby on her hip, pointing to a corner of the bar as she instructs one of our guys, “Just string the lights sparsely. We want twinkling, not glaring.”
“Hey, Mrs. Washington,” I call to her.
Nat turns, smiles brightly at me, and walks over with the baby. “Hey. You’re early.”
“Well, I was up early running errands,” I tell her, then make a silly face for the baby as I ask her in baby talk, “Hello, Isabella, you beautiful girl. Where’s your momma?”
“Jessie went to pick up the cake,” Nat answers. “I said I needed a little snuggle time with my goddaughter.” She gives Isabella a light kiss. “Do I have you for the whole afternoon?” she asks me.
“You do indeed.”
“Awesome. There shouldn’t be too much to do, though. Caterers come at five, and we’re not having seating charts or anything, so it’s mostly decorating.”
“Behind!” I hear Jessie yell from our back door. “And a little help here!”
I trot over to see Jessie trying to balance and lug a two-tiered wedding cake inside by herself. I quickly grab one of the sides, and the two of us sidestep into the great room.
“Wow, that looks amazing!” Nat says, looking at the white buttercream-frosted confection swimming in dark red and white roses. “Do you think we’ll have enough cake, though?”
“The groom’s cake is in the car,” Jessie tells Nat as we practically toss the cake onto a large wooden table. “It’s a dark chocolate cake with raspberry filling, shaped like a giant beer bottle.”
“That’s the one,” Nat says. “Did I mention how many breweries we toured when we were in Germany?” She hands Jessie the baby, then runs out to get the groom’s cake. A minute later, she places the large one-tiered cake on the table next to the wedding cake.
“Well, what do you think?”
“It’s perfect,” Jessie says. “A little tradition, a little whimsy.”
“Sooo … Basically nothing like us,” Nat says.
I furrow my brow. “Did you really just use the word ‘whimsy’?”
As Jessie shrugs, Nat claps her hands once. “Okay, now that you’re both here, I have a surprise.” She makes her way to the bar and walks behind it. “We picked up the most amazing bottle when we were in Champagne.” Nat disappears behind the bar, pulling the bottle from our small wine fridge below, then pops back up. “I dragged it from train to train and flight to flight just so the three of us could toast before the party.”
Nat takes off the cage, puts a cloth over the bottle, and … pop!
“I can only have a glass,” Jessie says. “Still breast-feeding.”
“No problem,” Nat says, pulling down some flutes from the wooden overhang. She yells out to a few of our employees working on lights, “Alejandro, Kate, a little bubbly?”
They both say yes, so Nat pulls down two more flutes.
When she gets to pouring the fifth flute, I instinctively throw my hand over the glass. “Just water for me.”
Nat’s jaw drops and Jessie screams in delight.
I clarify. “It’s nothing. I’m just on some antibiotics.”
Nat mock-chastises, “You are such a liar.” While Jessie simultaneously asks, “Can I throw your baby shower?”
“Wait,” Nat says. “But didn’t you drink at my wedding?”
I smile and shake my head. “Nope. I was pretty stealthy about it. I drank orange juice and soda water.”
Jessie’s face lights up. “Why, you little sneak. So how far along are you?”
I pull out a small black-and-white picture to show two little babies swimming happily. “This far along.”
“Twins?!” Jessie and Nat scream simultaneously while jumping up and down.
And to paraphrase the ending of a story I had to read in an AP English class (though apparently Jessie didn’t):
And they lived happily ever after.
The End