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it—at the Yardhouse, our favorite place since we both loved the ahi dishes. Then we walked home, holdinghands, talking about the wedding and the future and a couple hours later, I had a craving for ice cream, and I ran to the store.
    So why did he do it?
    Why, when it had been a good day? Why make me be the one to discover him in the entry, hanging from our new reproduction Spanish Colonial Revival chandelier, to match our authentic Spanish Colonial Revival dream home?
    Why take one of the best days of my life and make it the worst day?
    Love is supposed to be patient and kind.
    It’s not.

TWO

    T he flight to Oakland ends up being delayed nearly three hours, but it looks like we’re still going to be able to get out tonight.
    I’m sitting by the gate flipping through one of the professional journals I never have time to read when Dad calls. He’s heard about the bomb scare through CNN and he’s phoning me to see if I’ve been blown up. Those are, mind you, his exact words. As a little girl I was baffled by my dad’s dry humor. I’ve finally come to understand it.
    “No, Dad, I’m fine. A lone backpack was blown to bits, but everything else is intact.”
    “That’s it?” He sounds disappointed.
    “That’s it. Well, and my flight’s delayed a couple hours, but all the excitement is over and I’ll still be there in the morning.”
    “Maybe this is a sign that you’re not supposed to come.”
    “Maybe you need to just embrace my visit.”
    “I just think it’s a mistake for you to take time off work because
I
made a mistake and tripped over my own big feet.”
    “Me not coming up would be the mistake. And humor me, Dad. This way I can pretend I’m a dutiful daughter.”
    “So this is really about you.”
    I answer as sweetly as I can. “Did you ever doubt it?”
    He barks a laugh. “Now you sound like your mom.”
    I smile, pleased. He doesn’t laugh often. “She was the one who taught me to kill ’em with kindness.”
    “As long as you don’t kill them in your chair.”
    “That would be bad,” I agree.
    “So what time do you land in Oakland tonight?”
    “Around eleven.”
    “Need a ride from the airport?”
    “You offering to get me?” I retort, knowing he’s given up driving.
    “I could probably do all right.”
    “And whose car would you steal?”
    “Mom’s car is still at the house. Haven’t sold it yet.”
    “What are you hanging on to it for?”
    “It’s a nice new Audi. Why sell it?”
    “Because you don’t need it and it’s just going to go down in value the longer you hang on to it.”
    “So why don’t you take it?”
    “I have a car.”
    “An old one. Your mom’s car is less than two years old—”
    “I can’t . . . drive her car . . .” My voice fades away. I’m suddenly tired. I don’t have words to explain. Dad wasn’t supposed to be in the senior home yet. Not for a couple more years. Mom wasn’t supposed to be gone. She was the young one. “I mean, I will, once I’m there. I’ve got a shuttle reserved to get to the house. Is the key still under the flower pot on the porch?”
    “Yes. And you remember the code for the alarm?”
    “My birth date backwards.”
    “That’s it. There won’t be any food in the house but all theutilities are still on, and things should be clean. I’m paying for a housekeeper each month, so it better be clean.”
    “I’ll let you know.”
    “So I’ll see you at lunch.”
    “Yes.” I hesitate, wanting to say more, but not knowing what to say. There is so much pressure in my chest. It’s heavy and immense. The weight makes it hard to breathe. “I’ve missed you.”
    Silence stretches. I don’t think he’s going to say anything. And then he surprises me. “It’ll be good to see you,” he says gruffly.
    A lump fills my throat. “It’s going to be a treat.”
    “Be safe.”
    We say good-bye, and I hang up feeling better.
    And worse.
    Because I don’t remember what safe feels like anymore.
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