Chapter 3 - REBECCA’S LAST TRIPRebecca died eight months before the flight.
Breast cancer.
Then liver.
Then bone.
Then the kind of conversations married people imagine other couples have.
Hospice.
Do-not-resuscitate forms.
What Maya should be told.
What Rebecca wanted done with her clothes.
Whether I should remarry someday.
I refused to discuss the last one.
She called me an idiot.
Even dying, she could still win arguments.
The trip had been her idea.
Pacific Northwest.
Three days near the coast.
Then inland to a small lake where her parents had taken her every summer as a child.
She wanted some of her ashes scattered there.
Not all.
“Don’t dump me in one place like yard waste.”
I told her that was an appalling phrase.
She laughed until coughing stopped her.
Then:
“Take Maya.”
“I will.”
“Take the nice seats.”
“I’ll downgrade them.”
“Marcus.”
“Rebecca.”
“Your leg swells like a grapefruit after a two-hour movie.”
“That has never happened.”
“Fine. A small melon.”
She booked first class.
Months later, after the funeral, I almost canceled the entire trip.
Maya changed my mind.
“Mom said we’re going to the lake.”
Seven-year-olds understand promises differently.
May you like
Dead people can still make them.
So we went.
Related Stories
