There’s no retort she can think of, and a half hour later she’s in line at the town’s only Mexican restaurant, studying the menu. They advertise in bright yellow letters that they serve “real guacamole.” As opposed to what she wonders, and decides to order for herself the taco salad bowl, which according to the menu board contains a whopping 1123 calories, but that’s less than her dad’s burrito which clocks in at over two thousand. At this point for him, who cares about calories or cholesterol or any of the rest of it. She imagines that knowing you’re about to die feels like being caught up in a strong warm wind that propels you aloft, no need to care about the ground or about any obstacles. She thinks it’s like the wind you sometimes feel in your dreams when you can suddenly fly and not hit anything. No need to worry about feeding the cat or getting set up with a violinist. For her dad, life is now all about the present. There’s a part of her that’s jealous; another part recoils from the whole idea. She must, she thinks after
placing their order, talk some sense into him. He is too young to take his own life, still too vital. This is one of those times when she wishes her mother was still alive so she could call her up, enlist her help, gang up on him with the armory of reason.

Her mother had been above all a sensible person, the middle school secretary who kept a jar of sugary orange wedge candies on her desk — a treat that was not greatly desired by anyone, but useful if a kid came in crying, needing a confectionary distraction. Her mother would no doubt assert that dialysis couldn’t be all that bad, that other patients live many productive years, feel lucky. Her mother wasn’t this lucky; she died of pancreatic cancer, fast; by the time the doctors diagnosed it, it had spread to other organs so there was no point in even trying chemo or radiation. Her mother had hosted a dinner party right after that doctor appointment and then three days later was on a massive dose of morphine. When Cecily got to her house, her mother was already yellowish. Cecily had held her hand, told her what the hospice nurse had said to tell her, that she’d soon be on the other side, able to meet up with Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Freddie. Her eyebrows had suddenly shot up at the mention of her wayward brother. “Do you want to see Freddie or not?” Cecily had whispered, but her mom’s eyebrows were slack again, her breathing labored. When the death rattle began a few hours later, Cecily felt the hopeless pull of sorrow, of all the lost conversations they’d never be able to have. It felt way too soon although her mother was eighty. While the hospice nurse smeared Vaseline onto her mother’s lips, Cecily began to quietly cry. And she kept crying until the moment the death rattle stopped, and the room fell quiet, then she’d been too stunned to cry any longer. It had felt as if a piece of a puzzle had been plucked away, disappeared under a couch or beside a dog dish, so that it’d never be right again. The woman who got rolled out of her bedroom was not her mother; she was just a body; so does that mean she believes in souls Cecily thinks that maybe she does and this sits with her until the Mexican restaurant calls her take-out number.

When she gets back to The Farm, one of her father’s commune friends is visiting, sharing beer with him; they pass the damp bottle back and forth while the dachshund snores in her father’s lap. “Should I have gone to the package store?” she asks while wondering if her father is even supposed to drink beer with his kidneys. On the other hand, what does it matter now? She feels lightheaded, her sense of reason blurred. He could go back on dialysis tomorrow, or even the next day and be just fine. Right now, his blood pumps without too much contamination. Is that the word? Without too much muss and fuss and piss and wuss.

“This is my daughter, Cecily, in from the big city.” He points the beer at his friend, who is about his age, wears coveralls. “And this is Nate.”

“Nice to meet you.” Nate extends his hand and she shakes it.

“Nate’s going to bury my ashes at Moorshead Glen.”

She is startled; she had assumed she’d be in charge of disposing of the ashes in some meaningful, as yet undetermined, way. How much has her father planned out? How much has he delegated?

“What’s Moorshead Glen?” She asks, goes to get some plates from the trailer’s kitchen. She thinks of the real estate agent vocabulary she uses to describe small spaces — “cozy,” “snug,” “intimate” — words better suited for a good marriage than a space where you can spread out your arms and rotate in a circle, touching every appliance.

“Moorshead is off highway five and just about the most haunted place you’ll ever see,” Nate says. “We ride out there sometimes,” Nate sips his beer. “There’s a real old church and a cemetery with settlers in it from the 1700’s.”

“Old abandoned cemetery,” her father nods. “Where I want my ashes scattered. You can visit me on a foggy night and feel the chills up your spine.”

“Why would you want me to have to do that?”

“Oh hell, of course you don’t have to visit me. Just think of me at the holidays and raise a toast while I’ll scare the teenagers that come to the graveyard to drink Colt 45’s and screw.”

She plops her father’s burrito onto a plate, adds a couple of containers of pico de gallo. “Are you really sure about this whole plan?” There is no good time to ask such a thing. She hands her father his dinner.

“More sure of it than anything I’ve ever been sure of in my life.”

“But why now?”

His cheeks are ruddy with the beer. He’s still got a head-full of white hair. There is nothing about him that says close to dead.

Her father turns on the Red Sox game, unwraps his burrito. “Now this is the good life.”

“You’re happy. Why not keep on going?” She wants to know.

He turns to look at her, his face lit up by the television. “Except you see, I’m done. Over, Roger. Kaput. No more hours smelling that hospital clinic smell. No more sitting around televisions, needle in my arm, nothing to say or do for one hundred eighty minutes a day. No more of The View, no more Wheel of Fortune. I can’t stand the soaps. Nada mucho for me. No way, Jose.” He takes a bite of his burrito. “Damn, this is good. Did you get chips? I want them with extra salt.”

Nate pulls his chair closer to the TV and they intently watch the game. Cecily wonders if her father would hang on if there was better daytime programming. What about Netflix? What about Amazon Prime? It can’t be this complicated.

At a little after seven, Cecily heads for her car and the inn in town. The sign out front says, Welcome Full Breakfast.” No comma. This bothers her for some reason, and when she gets into the frilly over-made bed she’s still irritated. On her phone, she looks up Moorhead Glen Cemetery, finds out that it’s on the state historical registry because it’s the resting ground for numerous revolutionary fighters. Space is not available for additional burials.

The next morning, she ponders whether or not to shower, decides to do so and washes her long wavy hair. This prep work is and is not about Renee; her dying father is setting her up on a date so she feels obligated to do her part to look good. (She dries off, puts on her black leggings, black boots, gray cowl neck sweater.) She’s also being honest with herself that this will not work out. How could it? Her father thinks she’s a capitalist sell-out; while Renee’s a country violinist. Probably a fiddler? She puts on her dark plum lipstick that makes her recently bleached teeth look even whiter. Her phone rings; it’s her father. “Come here and then follow me to the orchard where we’ll meet up with Renee.”

She thinks of her cat back in her apartment. She thinks of the work crew above her subway station with their orange cones and neon work vests. She thinks of the Starbucks on the corner advertising Pumpkin Spice Lattes, and the smell of piss covered sidewalk. That’s her life.

A half hour later she follows her father who’s on his red motorcycle. She keeps a steady three car-length distance away, while he leans into the empty highway’s turns, rides with confidence, his gray braid hanging down the middle of his black leather biker jacket. The trees are gorgeous with fall leaves, a bright riot of reds, yellows, orange, all frost tipped. It’s a crisp morning, dew on her rental car’s hood. She’s not turned on the heater so her breath steams in the cold. The oak-covered mountains are mixture of gray bark and gold leaves, the sky a shimmering cerulean blue. It’s as if the earth’s a peacock, showing off its beauty.

Her father signals a right hand turn long before she can see any cross-street. Then there’s a big white wooden sign that says Renee’s Orchard, Apple Picking 9am 4pm, Fresh Pies, Pressed Cider. Renee, the fiddler, owns an orchard? Cecily feels vaguely confused. She feels like her dad could have told her, prepared her, given her the literal lay of the land.

The turn off winds between old apple trees laden with fruit. A white picket fence lines either side of the road and her dad’s bike kicks up dust, gravel. They arrive at an empty parking area with a red barn that looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. A sign says, Try our Cider Donuts! Fresh apple and pumpkin pies! This is quintessential New England and Cecily feels out of place, dressed entirely wrong. She should be in jeans and a plaid shirt. She should be eager for donuts and pie. Instead, she’s full from the inn’s waffle breakfast.

Her father honks his bike’s horn and she pulls her rental car next to him. There’s a part of her that’s now curious about Renee; another part says that they’ll have absolutely nothing in common. Why did she think black leggings were the right thing to wear to pick apples?

When Renee comes out of the barn, she’s dressed the way you should dress for apple picking. She’s got a silver crewcut, a few extra pounds around her hips, work boots. Her face looks younger than her hair, pretty.

“This is my daughter, Cecily,” her father says, taking off his black helmet.

“I’ve heard all about you,” Renee says. “Your father’s rather smitten.”

What, exactly, does her father say about her?

“Would you like a donut?” Renee asks and without waiting, turns around, heads for the barn.

They follow her, shoes crunching over gravel.

“In an hour, there’ll be a hundred kids in here,” Renee flips on the overhead lights. “We hand out free donut holes and their parents end up buying a full baker’s dozen of the donuts. We make nothing off the apples they pick. It’s all about the donuts and pies and jams and relishes and fudge. Plus, candles and cider.” There are barrels of collard greens and Brussel sprouts; stacks of pumpkins and multi-colored carrots; a cooler with jugs of cider; stacks of pumpkin bread and bunches of bright red radishes; it exudes bountiful harvest.

“This is beautiful,” Cecily says and means it.

“We try.” Renee goes to the bakery counter and takes out donuts from a display case. “We made these around eight last night. Should still be fresh.”

“Let’s bring them to the river,” her father suggests. “Ride with me Renee?”

“Dad, no one wants to ride with you. I’ve got a perfectly good car that’s a lot safer–”

“Fine, fine!” He waves a hand in the air.

Renee puts the donuts in a brown paper bag, then lifts a violin case from underneath the cash register. “Thank you,” she says. “He’s always pestering me to get on the back of that bike.”

“I swear I need women in my life with more spunk,” he says.

“Maybe women with less brains,” Renee motions for Cecily to take the lead.

When they get inside the car, the air fills with Renee’s smell — something like fresh cut grass — mixed with the sweetness of the donuts. Cecily puts the car in gear, rubs her overly sensitive nose. She drives behind her father down the gravel lane, to a cross street. He brakes, looks in both directions although there’s not a car in sight. “So, you know he plans to kill himself, right?” Cecily suddenly asks. “He’s going off dialysis, cold turkey.”

“I know, he told me the other day. It’s shocking, but it seems his mind is made up.”

“He’s killing himself right now, right at this moment.” Cecily thinks of the contaminants gradually filtering into his bright red blood stream. “He wants his ashes scattered at a creepy burial ground where they don’t even allow new dead bodies.”

Her father signals that he’s taking a left onto a small side road.

“This is the way to the river,” Renee says. “My foreman lives in a trailer right over there.”

“So how big is your orchard?”

“About eight hundred acres. I inherited from my parents. I’m an only child. This is all part of the parcel.”

Up ahead the hilltops burn with glittering gold. On either side of them are bright green apple trees with wild purple asters sprouting from the ground. Cecily’s hands are tight on the wheel — perhaps this is the real way to live, surrounded by nature’s beauty rather than by Duane Reeds and Jamba Juice bars? “How busy will you get today?” Cecily asks, thinks of tourists and children pouring onto the property with metal buckets for apple picking.

“Oh, hundreds. We’re peak season. I’ll have to get back soon. I’ve got half the high school working for me today.”

“Your wish is my command,” Cecily says.

“I’m not much of a commander. The high schoolers take great advantage of me. They smoke pot and eat donut holes, but I can pay them minimum wage. It all gets done at the end of the day.”

Cecily watches her dad stop at a sign for a narrow bridge. This must be the river. She pulls her car off to the side, turns off the ignition.

“This river bisects my property right about in the middle.” Renee carries her violin case out of the car. The bridge is made of stone, built over rushing rapids. Renee opens her case and sets it down on the bridge’s stone wall, begins to tune. Cecily’s father opens up the bag of donuts, hands her one.

Maybe it’s the donut’s sugar or the sweetness of the violin that makes Cecily’s eyes water. They stand on the bridge in a row, her father licks sugar from his finger’s tips while Renee plays Bridge Over Troubled Water with vibrato. Cecily sings the old familiar lyrics in her mind with a voice that is far more melodious and in tune than her real voice would ever be. She mentally sings, “sail on silver girl, sail on by, your time has come to shine.” She harmonizes perfectly with Paul Simon.

“I told you she was something,” her father whispers of Renee.

When the song’s over, they stand on the bridge, watching the water roar under them. Renee holds her violin against her belly, looks down at the rushing water. “Sometimes it blows my mind to think that this beautiful river is part of my property.”

Cecily listens to the rapids, looks at the case balanced on the bridge’s stone wall. She thinks of her clients back in Manhattan who want that one-bedroom on 64th Street. That’s her true self; not any of this. There is no way that she and Renee can make a go of it. Right? Right? The leaves will fall, the trees turn to gray, there’s no chance of them being together. Her life is in the city and not here. The water beneath her feet rushes under the bridge fast and free. Her father will pass on as well, fast and free. The violin case is black, old and scuffed with a bronze latch. It belongs here, in Vermont. Maddeningly, it belongs here.

“All I want to do is eat,” her father says and reaches for another donut. “Everything tastes so good when you can suddenly have whatever you want. This is the life.” He chuckles. “Best decision I ever made.”

“Well then good for you,” Renee says, “I’m glad.” And plucks a string.

It is the tiniest movement, the smallest gesture, done without thinking, a bit of a stumble, a bit of a bumble, Cecily jerks forward and her hand accidentally knocks the violin case into the roaring water.