“It’s been just Sheri and me around here for so long it’s easy to forget we have someone else to consider for once,” he says, though his tone is more downbeat than playful.
I’m painfully aware that we really haven’t visited as much as we should have over the years, and an image of Sheri and Popeye sitting at the dining table, just the two of them, day after day, tugs at my heart. It’s kind of like, when Dad packed up his life and moved to LA with stars in his eyes he forgot about the lives of those he left behind.
I unwrap my arms from around Popeye’s shoulders and he sets his wrench down, then crosses the kitchen. He rifles through a drawer rammed full of papers and cables, then holds up a plastic device like a small TV remote. “This is for you,” he says. “I’m going to call that technician and give him a piece of my mind if he doesn’t show up and fix that gate soon, and when he does, you can use this electric remote to get in and out. But until then, please make a note of thecorrectcode.”
I move across the kitchen to take it from him, turning it over in the palm of my hand. “Thanks, Popeye.”
Sheri appears at the back door to the kitchen, shaking her hair out of its ponytail. She’s wearing an old shirt and tattered jeans caked in dirt, and she kicks off her grubby rubber boots by the welcome mat. Sheri is blessed with naturally gorgeous features, so even when covered in horsehair and muck, she still manages to look like a million dollars. Dad once told me that, in her early twenties, Sheri was set to marry a paramedic from the city, but he was tragically killed in a car accident out on the interstate. She has never gone on to marry anyone else or have kids of her own. It seems to suit her, though; she always seems cheerful and contented.
“Oh, good morning, Mila, you’re awake!” Sheri says, crossing the kitchen. She lifts a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah, right up until Ruben woke me up. He wasn’t too thrilled about last night.”
“Last night?” Sheri repeats, stiffening. “Ruben knows you went out?”
“Yeah. About that. . .” I say sheepishly. “There was a little. . . Incident. Someone took my phone and called my dad.”
“Oh, Mila!” Sheri groans, turning for the sink. She lathers up her hands with dish soap and rinses them beneath the faucet. “Now Ruben will callmeand give me hell!”
“No, he won’t,” I say with a shy smile. Although I haven’t had much of a chance to grow close with my family over the years, I do like Aunt Sheri, and I really appreciate that she’s willing to take me in for the summer. The last thing I want to do is make life difficult for her. “I covered for you.”
“Thank you, Mila. That’s the kind of teamwork we need to have, okay?” she says with a relieved laugh, shaking the water from her hands. She might be my aunt, but I get the sense Sheri is still young at heart. “Oh, Dad! What are you doing with that wrench?”
Popeye gestures with the tool. “Fixing this darn window! That latchyoubroke last week. I don’t want this place turning into a tumbledown shack. Not now, not fifty years from now, not ever,” he grumbles.
“Okay, but perhaps this isn’t the best time. . .” With a groan, Sheri turns back to me. “Mila, we have church at ten, so make sure you’re ready to leave in an hour.” Her eyes catch on my frayed jean shorts. “And our church’s attire is semi-formal, so please wear a skirt.”
“Church?” I repeat as though she’s spoken a language I don’t understand.
“ItisSunday,” she says, brows pinching together as she scrutinizes my bewildered expression. It seems to dawn on her that I’m not confused about which day it is, but rather confused about the notion of attending church in the first place. There’s a distinctive shift in her demeanor. “I assume Everett doesn’t take you in LA?”
“No.”
Popeye mumbles something unintelligible under his breath and walks out of the kitchen, banging the wrench down on the table with a clatter. Sheri lets out a disappointed sigh.
I fear upsetting her further, so in as positive a tone as I can muster, I tell her, “Skirt it is. I’ll get ready.”
I mean, how bad can church really be? It’s clearly super important to Sheri and Popeye, so I guess that means it has to be important to me while I’m here in Fairview.
Sheri disappears off to check on Popeye and I toast myself some bread, taking it upstairs to my room with me. I should probably call Mom at some point rather than just text her, but honestly, Ruben has sucked all the energy out of my soul, and I’ve had enough of a reminder of my life back in Hollywood for one day.
I spend ten minutes doodling in my bullet journal instead, designing a new spread for this fresh chapter of my life here in Fairview. I create a section entitled “New Memories” which I plan to fill out with any memorable events that occur while I’m here, and I make a note with yesterday’s date and the words “tailgate party”. Hopefully, stuff will actually happen over the summer, because I’ll feel super lame if the pages in my journal remain mostly blank.
Then, I shower and get dressed so I’ll be on time. I keep my hair down in its natural waves and I put on a denim skirt, the most modest blouse I packed, and sandals. Part of me wonders if denim is even allowed, but it’s the only skirt I brought with me.
When I head back downstairs an hour later, Popeye is sitting in the shade out on the porch and looks handsome in his brown slacks and white shirt. His silky white hair has been smoothly combed over and he even smells like cologne. He reaches for my hand again when I join him, and I realize that I’m the only grandchild he’s ever had. No wonder he looks at me as though I’m something pure and special.
“I’m glad you’re coming with us,” he says. “Lots of young people attend, so it’s not just us oldies.”
“If church is important to you, Popeye, then I want to see what it’s all about,” I tell him, though it’s not one hundred percent the truth. I’m notthrilledabout going, but I know my words are ones he’ll be happy to hear. And that’s really all there is to it – you keep your grandfather happy, even if you have to lie a little.
8
The church Sheri and Popeye attend is on Fairview Boulevard. It’s a large, red-bricked building with white awnings and lots of immaculate, bright flower baskets. It triggers a memory from five years ago. I’ve been here before. It’s the church where my grandma’s funeral was held. I was only eleven, but I remember when my parents and I flew home to Fairview to attend the service. Popeye restlessly paced the fields of the ranch back then, distraught, while Dad and Sheri had to put their own grief to one side and take care of the funeral arrangements. And then we all gathered here, in this church, and said goodbye to the grandmother I’d barely seen since we left for LA. That’s why it became important to me to keep in touch with Popeye a lot more once I got a little older. I didn’t want to forget about him too, because I’d already learned how distance does that to people.
This morning’s service doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes, but the parking lot is already pretty full, and people are chatting among themselves at the church doors, basking in the sunshine before heading inside.
I’ve only just slid out of Sheri’s van when someone taps me on the shoulder. I spin around and Savannah greets me with a wide smile.
