The Golden State

“I’m glad she’s made a friend,” the woman on the other end of the phone says. “We’re just really worried—she hasn’t traveled far off her property in the fifteen years we’ve known her and then she wanted to drive ALONE to the other end of the country at her age. It’s concerning to say the least.”

“I can imagine,” I say. I hate it when people say “concerning.” This is not the direction the verb goes. In Turkish you could make it go that way, in Turkish you can make a verb be causative by adding a few letters but English does not have this feature built in and “concerning” just seems wrong in that regard.

“Well, what would be helpful now? I’m not actually sure how long she’s planning to stay at the camp but she mentioned maybe one of you flying out to meet her and get her car? I’m on a little bit of a hiatus from work so I’d be happy to stick around if that’s what makes sense.” I look at Alice and she has the sourest expression on her face and no wonder when she’s sitting there while two mere children decide how to transport her like she’s a piece of valuable furniture.

“I’m not even sure where you are. We had talked about her just going out to Colorado so this is already a big change. Could you let me know some of the nearest towns so I can talk about it with my husband? And what your number is?” I rattle off Bend Medford even Reno and my number. “To be honest you’re looking at a big drive no matter where you fly. Maybe I could drive her down to San Francisco and you could fly in there.” This would be a good way to solve my problems, I think—just let Alice bring us back home like a rising tide. I decide to lobby for this course. “Yes, actually—that really makes sense. You’ll have a lot of flight options that way and you won’t have to drive.”

“But what about her car,” says Yarrow. “How would we get the car back?”

“You’re right,” I say. “I don’t know if Alice is up to the long drive” and Alice cuts me off and says “Just tell her to do that. I can make the drive.”

“Alice is saying that the drive will be okay. And we can caravan and stop every so often on the way down.”

“I mean getting the car back here,” she says and I’ve got nothing.

“Tell her we’ll call her back tomorrow,” says Alice.

“Yarrow, Alice is wondering whether we can all confer and then talk again tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she says, obviously not okay. “But look, I don’t know how much she’s told you about herself.”

“Not too much,” I say, looking sidelong at Alice and angling my body away from her.

“She’s had a really hard time,” says Yarrow.

“I have heard some of this, I think” I say, feeling very awkward with Alice watching me from against the bureau. I go toward the bathroom and poke my head in and see Honey sitting on the floor with an expression like she is trying to poop.

“She lost her husband and three children and we’re all she’s got,” she says. “I mean there’s been some really really awful stuff in her life.”

“Well, yeah, she told me just a little of it.” There’s a pause. “I don’t really know what else to say,” I say, which is true. I don’t know why the hard life should equal being trapped in your home for the rest of your days. I feel a little flare of indignation on Alice’s behalf. Why shouldn’t she go where she pleases, meet who she likes, be where she wants, power of attorney be damned. She’s not even driving the car. She’s her own woman.

“Okay, well Alice and I will talk about the car situation and maybe you can confer with your husband and then we’ll call you back tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound adult and soothing and responsible.

“Okay,” she says. “I guess that’s all we can do. Please take care of her. I mean you sound like a normal person but I don’t know you at all—no offense,” she says.

“I totally, totally understand. This must seem super weird. But I promise I just want her to get where she’s going safely.” Alice is now in the bathroom door glaring at me and making a hang up gesture.

“Okay, well, talk tomorrow, Yarrow. Nice to meet you.” I tap the phone to hang up.

“Did you hang it up,” says Alice.

“Yes, you just press the screen,” I say.

“Make sure it’s hung up.”

“It’s hung up!” Honey is hugging my leg and making tentative nips to my pants. “NO BITING,” I say, and she bursts into theatrical crying that I first assume is fake but I see a tear squeeze out and I have to pick her up and kiss her and say “I didn’t mean to scare you, Honey-pie” and nuzzle nuzzle. “But you know we don’t bite.”

“I don’t know how reassured she felt,” I say to Alice. “She’s awfully protective of you, it sounds like.”

“I want to lie down,” she says abruptly. “Okay,” I say.