good-byes

Will was WONDERFUL in the play!  I was so proud and impressed and moved.  Dave kept saying, “That’s a Will I’ve never seen.  He never gets mad or mean like that.” And it’s true.  Will is such a sweetheart, and to see him play such a disappointed curmudgeon.  To see the subtle layers he wove into his character, the motivations, the fullness with which he was always present.  I was very glad the lights were out because towards the end of the second act, the person behind me was sobbing and I found that tears were rolling down my cheeks as well.  All the kids in the play really gave it their all.  Michael W does an amazing job directing these teenagers. The quality of shows, the sets, the wardrobe and make up, the creative sound design and lighting is so good.  The shows he puts on, in no way, have that taste and smell of high school.  I had absolutely nothing to do with the production of the show, don’t know most of the teenagers that up there on stage and yet there I was, bursting with pride for all that they had accomplished.  Bravo.

Driving home in two cars, because we all won’t fit in one.  Don drove, ____ and C______.  And I got to drive with my boys.  Me and Dave talking excitedly about the play, Will’s performance, how much we loved what he had done. Will quietly pleased.  It felt like old times.  And if Emily could have been there...Ahhh!  We got home, had some more pie.  Yum!  Talked a little bit more and then the boys disappeared downstairs to play a new video game. 

I talked a little more with Don and then went downstairs to help ____ with his packing.  He wanted to take the new Apple computer we bought for him to use up here.  He wanted to pack something else that he has always left with us for safe keeping.  He was brusk, bordering on grouchy, and I knew then, when he insisted on bringing these two things back to L.A., which way he was leaning. 

Later, sitting on the sofa with David and Don, I tell them what ____ needed to pack and sadness fills my boy’s eyes.  All of us sit with that loss and there is nothing we can do.  We talk of other things then.  Life and relationships and growing up and moving on.  And we are so close tonight.  Soft warm family room light, darkness outside. 

Don and I talk late into the night.

In the morning I bring ____’s breakfast tray down.  I am determined to keep it light.  Last minute reminders, “I’ve put your passport, your money, your keys and your credit cards in the side zipper compartment.  Your blackberry is in the upper inside pocket of your light jacket upstairs.  Promise me, you won’t let C______ go until you have found a good replacement.  Someone whose only concern is to keep you healthy and safe.  Who will make sure you take your meds and eat regular meals because if you die, they lose a well paying job.  Promise me.” And he promised.  He gave me his word.  And I pray he keeps it.  “I feel like I’m sending you off to University,” I say, and tears come, even though I was determined not to.  I don’t dwell on the sadness, bustle around the room.  Carry his book bags upstairs.  Make sure C_____ knows they are leaving in 20 minutes, that he brings ____ his morning meds.  I wake David up because he wanted to say good-bye.  The car and driver are waiting outside. 

Lots of hugs and suitcase lugging up and down the front steps.  I come up from dropping off his carry-all of meds, and two bags of books and go to hug ____ good-bye and his face crumples and he starts sobbing.  I pat his back, wish I could make all this turn out right, but I can’t.  And I feel this sadness in my chest because he wouldn’t be sobbing if he didn’t think that this might be good-bye for good.  And then he straightens.  Puts a smile on his face.  I hold his arm as he goes down the steps, he gets in the car and disappears behind the black glass windows.  I give C_____ a hug.  I’m actually going to miss him.  A good person.  I sorry ____’s decided to let him go.  ____ unrolls the window slightly so his hand can wave above the glass.  I can’t see him clearly, only a pale silhouette behind glass.  He does that wave my grandmother used to.  Small tilting movements of the palm and fingers.

The driver rounds the car, in his suit and tie, his long spiffy overcoat flapping around his legs.  “Bye!” I say, a smile on my face.  I know the drill.  Had to say good bye to too many people in my life.  “Good bye...love you.  Safe flight.” I wave until the car turns out of the drive and disappears.

Back in the kitchen, everyone needing cheering up.  “How about dim sum?” I say.  And it’s a good idea, so Dave takes a shower, Don makes a reservation and when everyones ready we drive into town.  Dim sum is good.  Delicious actually.  It is good to look over at both my boys faces across the table. 

We go home.  Dave and Don battle it out on the NHL Hockey Video game.  I would put money on my husband having Sidney Crosby on his team.  And then it’s time to take Dave to the sea plane.  We drive back downtown.  The girl at check in thinks he’s cute.  He doesn’t even notice.  He’s just out of a three year relationship.  She offers to make him a latte.  “Why don’t you ask her out?  She likes you,” I say. 
“Mom,” he says in that tone of voice all young adults use when their parent is being ridiculous.  “She does not.” He shakes his head, like I’ve lost my mind.  But I saw the way she brightened up when he approached the desk.  I saw the faint flush on her cheeks.  I’ve taken this plane before and they offer complimentary coffee and tea, but nobody has ever offered me a “espresso, or would you like a cappuccino or I could make you a latte?” Never.  And I watch closely, and a lot of people come and go from her counter and nobody else gets a hot steamed latte, complete with a dark foam series of hearts that Dave said was “A leaf, Mom.  It’s a leaf.”

I was very tempted, after we waved from the dock until Dave walked down the ramps and got smaller and smaller and then finally disappeared into the float plane, to ask her for her email or phone number, to set up a blind date or something when Dave next came into town. Because she was very sweet and pretty and hard working and obviously can cook as well because that was a very fine latte.  But Don talks me out of it.  “He’s 21, Meg.  You would embarrass him.” So I reluctantly follow my husband outside and get into the car.  And I don’t care what anybody says, I still think they would have made a very sweet couple.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Saturday, November 24, 2007 in Chewing the Fat

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