Driving With Dead People (31 page)

“You said you’d never go back to Elk Grove. It makes you sad,” he says.

“There’s part of me that still belongs here,” I tell him.

“Aren’t you getting cremated?” he asks. “When we got married, that’s what you told me.”

“That was twelve years ago,” I say.

“You told me if you died first, I had to carry you around in a satchel.”

“Especially if you’re dating,” I say. “Carry me on all your dates.”

“We can talk about this when you get home.” He laughs.

“Okay, but if I die before I get home, put a little of me in the satchel and a little of me next to Dave and Joan,” I tell him.

“I will,” he says. “I promise.”

It’s cloudy and a soft spring breeze is blowing across the cornfield as I make my way back across the highway to Maple Creek. I’d forgotten the smell of Ohio, but here it is: damp soil, freshly cut grass, and burning wood coming from somewhere on the other side of town.

I leave the cemetery and drive through Elk Grove on my way to the Cincinnati airport, where, luckily, I won’t be picking up a body at the cargo hold. Sitting at the four-way stop on the corner of Orchard Street and Highway 64, the corner where Dad’s store burned and where Pizza Palace still sits, a brown car stops across from me.

I can’t see the person’s face clearly, but I instinctively know—it’s Dad and he’s staring right at me.

I don’t step on the gas. I don’t do anything. And neither does Dad.

Dad destroyed all of us, and yet he’s heading to the Valley Inn Restaurant or maybe to the grocery store to buy steaks for the lake house, normal things. He lives without consequences.

Dad moves first, driving slowly through the intersection, approaching me on the left. I look right at him. Unlike JoAnn and me, he isn’t afraid of showering at night or walking to his car in an open parking lot. He doesn’t constantly look over his shoulder or startle at the smallest sound. He gave his fear to us, and we took it and moved away.

If he recognizes me or makes any effort to stop, it’ll be a huge showdown right here on Orchard. My adrenaline kicks in as I put my left hand on the door handle.

Dad taps his brakes, and I move my other hand to the gearshift, ready to shove it into park if he wants to tangle. But Dad drives by, glancing at me without a flicker of recognition. I’m a forty-three-year-old woman in a baseball cap and glasses. The last time he saw me I was twenty-nine.

He looks exactly the same.

I glance at myself in the rearview mirror and see the wrinkles around my eyes. They’re from laughing. I’m glad I don’t look the same; there’s no way I could. I’m happy now.

I step on the gas and head out Highway 50 toward Cincinnati. I have a plane to catch.

Elizabeth Kaplan, my smart and savvy agent who took me under her wing, thank you for believing in me.

To the wise and incomparable Tricia Boczkowski, editor extraordinaire. Your fierce loyalty and fine eye served as my backbone throughout the writing of this book. How can I ever thank you for your unflinching support and for caring so deeply? There is no book without you.

Thank you to Jennifer Bergstrom for your great ideas, sense of humor, and ardent support.

Cara Bedick and Katherine Devendorf, thank you for your careful and tireless work. Thanks to Bara MacNeill, a terrific and smart copyeditor, and to everyone at Simon & Schuster who supported and enriched
Driving with Dead People
. I couldn’t have been luckier than to have landed at Simon Spotlight Entertainment.

Eric Raymond, thank you for being so smart and guiding me so thoughtfully toward the end.

To my husband for his unfailing confidence in me, even when I was positive I couldn’t write another word, and for reading this book in all its many forms—many, many, many times. Thank you for how incredibly smart and patient you are, and for still being attracted to me even after I crawl out of my office unbathed, wild-eyed, and behind schedule. I couldn’t have dreamed you up if I tried.

My son, you are a priceless gift and my greatest joy. I had given up on unconditional love until I was utterly blessed with you. You restored my faith in all things. You are my life.

My precious sister, your strength and wisdom constantly remind me to be courageous myself. You came out of the worst storm imaginable with such aplomb. You are my inspiration every day.

Hope Edelman, there are not enough words to thank you for all you’ve brought to my life. Your confidence and steady guidance over the years have given me the confidence to follow my dream of writing. I am dazzled by your talent and your extreme generosity.

Jennifer Lauck, you are a shining star who gathers up all who love you and shows us exactly where the light is. I am profoundly blessed for finding you just when I needed you most.

Liz Berman, your friendship and steady hand on my back throughout the writing of this book has been an infinite source of inspiration and support. I am grateful for your enormous heart as well as your exceptional talent.

Leslie Morgan Steiner, you shepherded me through my first professional writing job, becoming not only my mentor, but my trusted friend and confidante. You are one of the smartest, most talented women I know.

Barbara Abercrombie, friend, teacher, and grooviest of humans, you are an extraordinary teacher and writer who inspires all who are lucky enough to know you.

Jo Ann Beard, your miraculous book,
Boys of my Youth
, sent me racing to my computer to put my own story on paper. My profound thanks to you for showing me I was ready.

Beth Schachter, for encouraging me all those years ago to tell my stories and for sharing the tiniest living space possible in New York City and still loving me, I thank you. You are a true friend.

Steve Wall, I met you at a crucial juncture in my life and you changed the way I would feel about myself forever. I am eternally grateful.

To the precious Ceballos family, who took care of everything and everyone while I was in my office pounding the computer keys.

To my aunt and uncle who still live across from the old Methodist church. I love you and thank you for standing by me when no one else in the family was willing.

To my incredible circle of friends who bless me with their love, their undying support, and lots of snacks.

To that quirky, fabulous funereal family with whom I spent some of the happiest times of my life. Thank you for allowing me to write our story.

And lastly, thank you to the people of my hometown who took good care of me when all was not well, whether you knew it or not.