Follow the Dotted Line (8 page)

The moment did not come until the day Lil was scheduled to leave. Samantha and Harley were at the dining room table playing Go Fish (because the future reverend believed that Andy’s deck of Bicycle cards had been inspired by pagans), while Lil helped Andy hang a new mirror in the downstairs bathroom.

“Hope you weren’t expecting time to just laze in the southern California sun and do nothing,” Andy told her daughter, as she put the last screw in the wallboard over the basin.

“I’d rather do this anyway,” Lil said. “What a great frame. It’ll look super in here.”

“Thanks for helping me pick it out. Okay, let’s hoist it.”

The two women hung the mirror and stepped back to take a look. Lil wrapped her long arms around Andy’s shoulders, as they enjoyed their reflection.

“See, Mom? Makes both you and the house look less dated.”

“Gee, thanks, Lil,” Andy grumbled. “Did you and Sam get enough time to catch up on things?”

“Never enough time,” said Lil. “But it’s amazing how much more we can cover when the kids aren’t around. We stayed up until three this morning.”

“Ouch. That’s gonna hurt when you get home to the boys.”

“I know.”

“You two okay about your dad?”

Lil shrugged, an uncharacteristically apathetic response from Andy’s most opinionated child.

“Pretty good. He’s been AWOL for so long it doesn’t make much difference. We realized he’s never actually seen any of his grandkids—except for Berkeley.” Berkeley was Mitch’s daughter from a relationship he had 14 years ago. Mitch and Berkeley’s mother, Christine, hadn’t married but remained good friends, even though they lived in different states. “Hard to know what to feel: sad, angry or just indifferent. I think Sam and I are both settling into the latter.”

Indifference had its virtues, Andy agreed, preferable to anger or regret in so many ways. “Let’s get something to drink,” she suggested.

As the Go Fish tournament inside continued, Andy and Lil took glasses of white sangria out to the patio.

“So did Sam tell you about her lecture at UCLA?”

A leading question, if ever Lilly had heard one. She took a leisurely sip of her wine and reclined in her lounge chair.

“You think it would make a great movie, right?” she asked, evenly.

Andy knew that Lil knew what she wanted. “I do. And you?”

Lil smiled an unreadable smile. “So do I.”

“Oh, my god, Lil! Do you think we could—”

“Mom,” Lil interrupted. “It is a fabulous story. But I want you to think about what you’re asking. You know how impossible it is for me to do anything other than make it across the finish line every day with the kids still breathing.”

“I know. But—”

“I can hardly find my way to the bedroom at night.”
“I know, honey. But . . .”

Lil was about to interrupt again, when the doorbell beat her to it. This time there was no mistaking the meaning of Lil’s satisfied grin.

“Don’t say it,” Andy sniped.

“Don’t say what?”

“Saved by the bell.” And with that, she got up to answer the door.

Harley, however, was already on his way.

“You expecting someone, Mom?” Sam asked, as Andy passed through the dining room.

“I don’t think so,” Andy answered.

“FedEx,” Harley called from the entry.

Lil stepped in from the patio, a drink in both hands. “What’d you order?”

Andy couldn’t remember and was too embarrassed to admit it.

The three women waited for Harley to return. He did, cradling a small package in his palms. He eyed his aunt, as if she should tell him what to do next.

“What is it?” Andy asked, without thinking. But she remembered the minute he opened his mouth.

“It’s the DNA,” he said.

She glanced at her daughters, who were not about to skip the question begged by Harley’s unexpected answer. Talk about bad timing.

“DNA?” Sam asked, the first to beg.

Andy tried shrugging it off. “DNA,” she repeated, without explanation.

Lil turned immediately to Harley, who would be far easier prey. “DNA?”

Still caught in the powerful orbit of his older cousin, he caved without even bothering to look at his aunt.

“Uncle Mark’s ashes,” he whispered. “We had them tested.”

“You had them
tested
?” Lil exploded.

“Um. Yeah,” he whimpered. “At one of those places, you know?”

But it was already obvious they didn’t know, so he ducked for cover. “I just assumed Aunt Andy told you.”

Well played, she thought, as the girls turned their focus on her.

“No,” said Sam, deliberately. “She did not. But I think that little discussion just arrived at the top of her to-do list.”

Simultaneously, the sisters crossed their arms and waited. Not for the first time, Andy felt the parent-child relationship, right along with the sands of time, shifting beneath her.

“I would like another margarita,” she declared, just to remind them she was still old enough to drink. “Then, and only then, will I tell you about the cremains.”

Cremains of the Day

“What the hell are cremains?” asked Lilly.

“It’s the industry term for ashes,” Andy said, after she got up and refilled the margarita glass herself. “Cremated remains. Cre-mains. Get it?” She waited, but the girls weren’t going to be sidetracked. “Okay. Okay. Here’s what happened. I just wanted to get some basic information. The cause of death. Did your dad have a will? Stuff like that. But getting that information is harder than you think without knowing just where and when he died and without, you know, technically being related to him anymore.”

“Oh, my god,” said an alarmed Lil, “you didn’t try calling Tilda, did you?”

“Me? Call Tilda? Absolutely not.” Andy shot optic daggers at Harley, who had no doubt about keeping his mouth shut this time. “All I had were the ashes, so I just went from there.”

“From there—to where, Mom?” Sam asked.

“Well, to at least confirming that he’s dead,” said Andy. “And that is what’s in the box. The DNA results from the cremains.”

All eyes now returned to Harley, who was still holding the FedEx package.

“They can get DNA from ashes?” Lil asked, skeptically.

“No,” Sam informed them. “It’s almost impossible to get DNA after cremation. Don’t you people know anything about science?”

“But this company we found online said they could test for DNA,” said Harley. “And we had to fill out a Cremains Acknowledgement Form and everything. And they promised we’d get most of the ashes back. For burial. Or whatever.”

“To be accurate, they said there was a 50/50 chance they could get DNA from their testing,” said Andy, trying not to look as ridiculous as she was feeling. “I thought it was worth a try.”

“We’ll that sounds like a scam, Mother. So I’m not even going to ask you what you paid,” said Sam. “Your bad. Now open the package.”

Harley tried to hand the box to Andy, but she waved him off. You do it, genius, she thought to herself, then said, “Would you mind?”

He dutifully slit the clear plastic wrap covering the cardboard with his fingernail and took out the paper envelope addressed to Andy. She waved her hand again, and he opened the letter.

“Read it,” she said, draining her glass.

“Dear Ms. Bravos,” Harley read. “Please find enclosed the laboratory results for the cremains testing performed by our company on the samples you sent us recently.”

“Wait a minute,” Sam interrupted. “Didn’t you have to send them a sample of Dad’s DNA for comparison?”

“Yeah,” was all Andy felt compelled to answer.

“So how did you get Dad’s DNA?”

“I, ah, had some,” Andy replied. “From a while ago.”

“You had some? Really? From a while ago? Care to enlighten us?” said Sam.

“Not really. But if I do, there will be no laughter, is that clear?” She could see Sam biting her lip in anticipation. “I mean it.” Both girls nodded agreement. “I have a lock of your father’s hair,” Andy said. “From when we were dating.”

Sam couldn’t help herself. A guffaw, if ever Andy heard one! She scowled back.

Lil put her hand on her mother’s and smiled affectionately. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Shut up,” said Andy. “Let’s get this over with.”

Harley continued. “The specifics of the test results are contained on page two of this letter. However, a summary of our findings indicates the following. Number one, the sample cremains were not suitable to extract for a DNA profile.”

“Bingo!” Sam said.

Having slipped from defensive to defeated in record time, Andy sighed audibly. “Would you mind, Sam? Let’s not make me feel like a bigger fool than necessary.”

Sam relented immediately. “Right. I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Want me to read number two?” Harley asked.

“Number two?” said Andy.

“Of the summary. Number two says, ‘The sample cremains show no signs of organic material and therefore do not, in all likelihood, include human tissue.’” Harley looked up, awaiting further instruction.

“Let me see the letter,” Sam said, taking the paper from Harley. She looked first at page one and then at page two. “It means the ashes are probably fake,” she said.

“Probably?” Lil wanted to know.

Sam grabbed the invoice. “The test cost $99, Lil. I doubt these folks can tell the difference between a corpse and cat litter.”

“But if there’s no organic material present,” Andy reiterated, reading the results for herself, “that means Tilda sent us dust.”

It took a few moments for the implications to sink in. And the one that sank in fastest was the bizarre behavior of the widow-in-chief.

“Why on earth would Tilda send fake ashes?” asked Sam.

“Maybe she just wanted to keep his real ashes for herself,” Lilly theorized. “We all agree she’s weird.”

“Or maybe it’s her way of flipping us off,” Sam offered.

“Or maybe he’s not dead,” said Andy, trying to squeeze herself back into the conversation. It worked.

“Why would she
pretend
he’s dead?” asked Sam, genuinely confused.

“Who knows?” mused Andy. “She hated it every time Mitch tried to call your dad. She was jealous. Some women are like that. Especially women who marry a guy with children and don’t have any of their own. So she decided to tell us he was dead to get us out of their, you know, busy and satisfying lives,” Andy concluded, with what she thought was just the perfect touch of contempt.

“And you think a fake cremation would be okay with Dad?” Lil wanted to know.

Andy considered this and said, “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

“Well,” Sam pointed out, “Dad still could be dead. These just aren’t his ashes. Whatever’s going on, this test doesn’t actually get us anywhere, Mom.”

The kid holding the faux remains raised his hand slightly, as if he were waiting to be called on before he spoke.

“What is it, Harley?” Andy asked.

“Why don’t you just call Uncle Mark? You know. On his cell. See if he picks up.”

Out of the mouth of boobs, Andy thought.

Sam picked up her phone and dialed.

“Hi, Samantha,” boomed the voice on the other end of the line. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Mitch. Sorry to call in the middle of work.”

“No problem.”

“Listen, I want you to call Dad.”

“Call him? How do I do that?”

“You have his cell number, right?”

“Yeah. But he’s dead, Sam. Remember?”

“I know. Just call the number.”

“Call the number? I don’t want to call the number.”

“Just do it, will you?”

“Why?”

“Mom had the ashes tested. They’re questionable. We want to know if he’s still taking calls.”

“Those weren’t his ashes?!”

“It turns out there’s room for doubt.”

“Well, that certainly creeps me out, Samantha. Why have I been nominated to make the call?”

“Because you’re a big boy, Mitch. Just do it.”

A long beat, as Mitch considered his responsibilities. “Okay. Hold on.” He clicked off, and the little review committee waited in silence. He was back on the line a minute later.

“Sam?”

“Did you get him?”

“No. The number’s no longer in service,” Mitch told her. “What does that mean?”

“Damned if I know,” said Sam. “I’ll get back to you.” And she hung up.

The possibility that Tilda Trivette might have been screwing with Mark Kornacky’s remains seemed to jettison his children into action in a way that the man’s reported death had not. In the two hours before Lilly had to leave for the airport to catch her plane back to Idaho, Team Kornacky came together in a rare show of unity.

With remarkably little prompting from their mother, the siblings decided that inquires had to be made in Texas to determine if their father was deceased or not. And if he was, determine how and when he died. All of this needed to be accomplished as delicately as possible, preferably without any personal contact with Tilda. As the phone calls flew back and forth between Mitch and Sam and Lilly and Ian, Andy paced the patio trying to stay out of the way. It was another occasion, among an increasing number of occasions, when she felt slightly irrelevant.

The sun, along with Andy’s patience, began sinking slowly in the west, as all four children continued to caucus via speakerphone in the dining room. She fantasized marching in and volunteering for duty, but they had already made it clear that this was their business, not hers.

“Mom?” Sam was at the screen door, motioning to her.

As Andy stepped inside, Lilly pointed to the handset on the table. “Both the boys are on. We’ve talked all this out, and Mitch wants to say something.”

Her ducklings had a pecking order, Andy knew, that evidenced itself whenever there was a crisis. Ian was on the bottom because he hated asserting himself in any situation where he might hurt someone’s feelings. Sam was perfectly capable of hurting someone’s feelings but only when absolutely necessary. Lil figured everybody was responsible for his or her own feelings, so she never hesitated to speak her mind. But Mitch was almost always the one who did the talking because he usually forgot other people
had
feelings or, for that matter, ideas. And, besides, the rest of them couldn’t shut him up.