Matt & Zoe (13 page)

Along the wall on one side were pictures of the evolution of the car. When he bought the car it had no discernible color—it was mostly rust. Both headlights were missing, the three remaining tires were dry rotted and flat, and the fourth wheel rested loose on the tow truck that brought it to the house. The soft top wasn’t just down, it was missing. Significant rust holes marred the body, and a spider web of cracks interrupted the tiny windshield.

I was too young, but I can imagine the conversation that must’ve ensued when the wreck of a vehicle appeared in our yard. Mom was nothing if not a practical woman, and even her hobbies were related in some way or another to her professional life. She never understood how Dad—a literature professor after all—could spend his weekends covered in grease and dirt as he lay on his back underneath that tiny car.

I understood completely. Not that I’m particularly interested in cars, although I know a lot about them thanks to the time I spent in the garage. No… I understand because the garage was quiet. Mother and her horses never intruded. Mom and Dad loved each other deeply, but they were very different in personality—sometimes Dad just needed a break. Over the course of my childhood and into my teenage years, I watched in silence, and sometimes helped, as Dad rebuilt the vehicle from scratch.

The transformation of the car did not proceed the way anyone would expect. Dad’s lack of organization carried into his rebuilding efforts—he tended to jump around from one thing to another depending on what had caught his interest. Not just that, but finding parts for a more than 50-year-old car was sometimes a challenge. He participated in online discussion boards, periodically visited junkyards, and found deals where he could. He learned to do his own body work, and I remember many months sitting in the corner with a book watching him as he welded and shaped sheet metal into new body parts, replacing large swaths of rust and holes.

I was almost 12 when he took the engine out with a chain hoist and began to rebuild it. For the next year, the body of the car stayed in the driveway, carefully secured underneath a protective tarp. In a more organized fashion than I had ever seen, dad meticulously took apart every single piece of the engine, labeling and organizing them across the floor of the garage. There were hundreds of parts in varying degrees of decay. Almost lovingly, he rebuilt it, cylinder by cylinder, valve by valve, as I watched and sometimes helped.

His instructions were usually terse. “Get me the Phillips screwdriver,” he would say. “Come hold this while I retighten the bolts.” Such instructions were normal in the garage, but unlike the Jefferson Welch everyone else knew. Outside the garage, he was talkative, exuberant. Inside the garage, I saw a different man—one who was tightly focused, deeply absorbed in what he was doing. I often imagined this was what he looked like at work when he wasn’t teaching classes. I wondered sometimes if anyone else saw my father the way I did.

That knowledge made me feel privileged to see him in ways that were mine alone. Not even Mom was around him when he worked like this.

I was a freshman in high school before I was allowed in the garage alone.

It had been a particularly tough week...well...that’s not true. It had been a particularly tough few months. In August, Mom had rescued two horses from the feedlots, something that wasn’t supposed to even exist anymore in the United States. Feedlots were large auction houses that would gather hundreds of horses, many of them in varying degrees of health. They would auction them off to the highest bidder—and those they couldn’t sell would be sold in bulk to truckers who ship them to slaughterhouses in Mexico. A large informal network of activists and horse lovers work to try to buy the horses before they are sent to slaughter. Sometimes they’re successful—and sometimes they aren’t.

As always, buying a feedlot horse was a chancy thing, and this time was even more so than usual. Both of the horses were extremely sick, and one died within a week of their arrival. They had to be quarantined from the rest of the horses, and the surviving one required almost 24-hour attention for several weeks. Then that horse died too. Mom was heartbroken—it truly was horrible for her. During that period, I’d had no time to myself at all. I fell behind on homework, and found myself sometimes dozing off in class. Mom never asked me if I wanted to spend 12 hours a day assisting her with taking care of the horses. She just assumed I would. I would get home from school and go straight to the stable.

Two months of this took me to the breaking point, and when my midterm exams arrived I was failing two classes. Up until that point I’d been a straight A and B student—and I went home that day with my report card dreading the outcome. I knew that Dad would be disappointed, and mom angry. I never expected the reaction I got.

“I cannot believe that you’re failing classes,” she shouted. “Jefferson, I insist that she drop her extracurricular activities until she brings her grades back up. If she can’t pass her classes, she doesn’t need to be in cheerleading and sports.” I stared at her in disbelief. How could she possibly say that? I had already dropped out of cheerleading, because she hadn’t allowed me to go to the required four night a week practices. My response was instinctive, and came out without thought or preparation.

“It’s
your
fault! I already dropped out of cheerleading! I’d be passing my classes if I didn’t spend all my time taking care of your damn horses!”

She looked as if I had kicked her in the face. I had, really. Her horses were everything. It wasn’t that she was intentionally forcing me to do anything—it was just that she couldn’t see anything else but her own need to rescue those animals. Her response was instantaneous, outraged denial. “That’s not true. You need to take responsibility for your—“

“Lucy.” Dad’s voice was quiet, but firm.

“What?” She said, giving him an irritated look.

“She’s right. She spends every free second helping you with the horses. You need to let her go. She needs to spend some time on school. And on her own life. She hasn’t even been out with Nicole in weeks.”

Mom’s mouth had closed. Then she sagged and said, “I didn’t realize.” She thought for a moment… then a moment more… then looked at me and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Without a moment’s thought, I rushed forward and wrapped my arms around her. She was my mom. A hero in her world of horses. And no matter how old I was, the love of having her arms around me never left.

That night, my Dad knocked on my door as I was getting ready for bed.

“Come in,” I said.

He opened the door and leaned in. “Hey, Zoe. Listen … I was thinking earlier, about the whole thing with your Mom. I know sometimes she gets … involved, and kind of pulls you in too. If you ever need to just get some space, feel free to go hang out in the garage.”

I blinked in shock. I’d never been allowed in there alone. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I know you’ll leave my things alone. And … just so you know … I’m proud of you. You did good tonight.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” I had whispered.

With that he had ducked out and closed the door.

No right (Zoe)

I lean over the vanity as I finish my mascara. Waterproof. I don’t usually bother with much in the way of makeup, but today is different. Today is my parent’s funeral.

Today is my parents’ funeral.
I have to close my eyes at the thought. I tell myself to get it together. I don’t have time for this, and Jasmine needs me to be stable.

I take a steadying breath and open my eyes.

In the black dress I’m wearing, I look like a zombie. I’ve never had much color in my hair or skin—the most colorful part of my body is my eyes.

It doesn’t matter, really. I walk down the hall to Jasmine’s room.

She’s sitting on the bed, staring into space. She wears a black dress too.

Children her age should never wear black dresses.

I have a hundred things I want to say to her. But I can’t. Instead, I walk into the room and sit on the bed beside her.

She immediately sniffles. “Do you think they’re in heaven?”

I wince. Because she would start out with a question I don’t know about, don’t understand, don’t believe. I don’t know what I believe. I start to just say
yes, of course they are.
Jasmine has a finely-tuned bullshit detector, and I’m not a very good liar.

After a good minute, I say, “I don’t know much about heaven and hell and … all that stuff.”

“Do you believe in God?”

I nod. “I do. I don’t know if anyone knows what happens… you know… after we die. But I think they’re in a good place. I think they’re still watching out for us.”

She sniffles. Then she says, “I miss them. I miss them.”

“I do too.”

She whispers, “I’m scared to go to the funeral.”

“Oh… how come?”

“They’ll be in a box right?”

“An urn,” I say. “They were cremated together, and they’re sharing an urn.”

“That’s good,” she whispered. “They loved each other.”

“Yeah. Yeah, they did.”

I stand and take a breath, then I hold out my hand. She takes it, and we walk downstairs where Nicole is waiting for us. The three of us step out of the house together. It’s a little chilly this afternoon, and a couple of the trees in the yard have begun to transform into a bright yellow color. I shiver. “Are you cold?”

Jasmine nods.

I duck back inside and search in the front closet, retrieving two of Mom’s wraps—one green, the other black.

Jasmine smiles gratefully when I wrap the cloth around her. “Let’s go,” I say.

The wrap smells like Mom’s perfume.

None of us speak as we get into Nicole’s patrol car. I’m not up to driving today. Jasmine rides in her booster seat, which Nicole already moved over. Once again I’m reminded how much I wish Mom were alive. She’d want to see Jasmine grow.

Nicole turns around in our driveway, then pulls out onto College Street. In less than a minute, we’re passing the campus at Mount Holyoke College. We park across the street from the chapel.

Men and women I don’t recognize are streaming across in singles, couples and small groups.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“Yes,” Jasmine says.

I don’t think she is, but there’s nothing we can do. I look over at Nicole. She’s gripping the steering wheel hard. This is tough for her too—my parents often acted as a second set of parents for her.

The three of us walk across College Street, Jasmine holding my hand. People gather in knots in front of the chapel. Most of them go quiet as they see us approaching. We pass by the groups silently, and ascend steps of the chapel.

Like most of the rest of the Mount Holyoke campus, Abbey Chapel is a large building constructed of brownish-red stone. When I was in high school I would sometimes wander around the campus, and occasionally spent time at the library, a Collegiate Gothic building next to the chapel. It’s a beautiful campus… large gothic buildings spaced around wide green spaces.

Inside, the chapel is huge, with towering rows of columns rising sixty feet to pointed arches. Rows of stained glass windows flank both sides, and at the far end a giant blue and purple flower in stained glass. The chapel seats hundreds, and while it isn’t completely packed, it’s far from empty. Most of the attendees are students—current as well as past. I also see a smattering of my mother’s friends from the horse-show circuit. There’s no way my parents knew all of these people. Then I realize—my parents were killed in a bizarre freak accident. A flying commercial oven? It was in the news for days. I bet some of these people are just freaks. Curious freaks, who want to see what’s left after a violent and nonsensical death.

I can hear the sounds of a hymn being played, very faintly.
How lovely is thy dwelling place.

We finally reach the front, and immediately a woman approaches. I’d guess sixty-five, she’s a tiny woman with short cropped gray hair. She wears the somber garb of a priest.

“Zoe? I’m Anne Davies.”

Ahhh… I recognize the name immediately. An Episcopalian priest, she’s the Dean of Religious and Spiritual Life at Mount Holyoke, and was a friend of my parents. We’ve spoken on the phone several times this week as she took care of organizing the memorial.

“I want to express my condolences again. Your parents were well loved and very respected. And your father’s loss is a severe blow to the college.”

I’m at a loss for words, but it doesn’t matter because she starts talking again. Details. How long the service will last. When I go up to speak. I haven’t prepared any remarks. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I agreed to speak. Finally, she steps back, and I see it.

At the front of chapel, where you might normally find the altar or coffins or whatever it is that normally stays at the front of a chapel, there is a table covered in a white cloth, and above that the urn. The
Aristocrat Adult Blue Cremation Urn,
cost $385, discounted to $350. I know that because I had to make that decision, along with many others. A pall covers the urn.

I owe Anne Davies… she’d organized most of this—with Nicole’s help—and I hadn’t even thanked her.

I turn to her and say, “Please forgive me. I haven’t even thanked you for making all this possible. I was lost.”

Her face softens and she moves closer and puts her hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got a lot to shoulder now, Zoe. I’m happy to help—your parents were friends. And if you need to talk to someone at any point, let me know. Please.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t understand why her words make my eyes water.

Jasmine and I walk to the front of the chapel together while Nicole hangs back. I don’t know what to do, but Jasmine seems to, dropping to her knees on the kneeler that faces the urn. I kneel next to her, the green cushion feeling odd against my knees.

She has her hands steepled with elbows propped on the rail, and her eyes are closed. She starts to talk, and I almost fall off the kneeler.

“God,” she says. She speaks the words in a low, urgent tone, spitting them out like machine gun bullets. She knows what she wants to say. “I don’t know you, but Mom said she did. So if you’re there, please watch out for my Mom and Dad and make sure they’re in heaven and happy, and watch out for Zoe. Amen.”