I've never smoked, but it's the last day of my mother's shiva, so here we are. I have the cigarette between my teeth, standing on the back patio, looking at what was, just two months ago, a pristine white sectional, now weatherworn. My mother kept everything clean. She kept everything.
Carol's rules to live by:
• Never throw away a good pair of jeans.
• Always have fresh lemons on hand.
• Bread keeps for a week in the fridge and two months in the freezer.
• OxiClean will take out any stain.
• Be careful of bleach.
• Linen is better than cotton in the summer.
• Plant herbs, not flowers.
• Don't be afraid of paint. A bold color can transform a room.
• Always arrive on time to a restaurant and five minutes late to a house.
• Never smoke.
I should say, I haven't actually lit it.
Carol Almea Silver was a pillar of the community, beloved by everyone she encountered. In the past week, we have opened our doors to sales associates and manicurists, the women from her temple, waiters from Craig's, nurses from Cedars-Sinai. Two bank tellers from the City National branch on Roxbury. "She used to bring us baked goods," they said. "She was always ready with a phone number." There are couples from the Brentwood Country Club. Irene Newton, who had a standing lunch with my mother at Il Pastaio every Thursday. Even the bartender from the Hotel Bel-Air, where Carol used to go for an ice-cold martini. Everyone has a story.
My mother was the first person you called for a recipe (a cup of onions, garlic, don't forget the pinch of sugar) and the last one you called at night when you just couldn't sleep (a cup of hot water with lemon, lavender oil, magnesium pills). She knew the exact ratio of olive oil to garlic in any recipe, and she could whip up dinner from three pantry items, easy. She had all the answers. I, on the other hand, have none of them, and now I no longer have her.
"Hi," I hear Eric say from inside. "Where is everyone?"
Eric is my husband, and he is our last guest here today. He shouldn't be. He should have been with us the entire time, in the hard, low chairs, stuck between noodle casseroles and the ringing phone and the endless lipstick kisses of neighbors and women who call themselves aunties, but instead he is here in the entryway to what is now my father's house, waiting to be received.
I close my eyes. Maybe if I cannot see him, he will stop looking for me.