“Find the river.”
— R.E.M.

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It was summer 2013 in Portland as I recall. Hugh was nine. We stayed with my parents, and my grandmother Barbara was there too—eighty-eight at the time, lucid, funny as hell. All the relatives were around. It was that kind of week: people coming and going, meals stretching, the house absorbing it.

On the day of the rehearsal we took Hugh to the Science Museum—Sachie, Hugh, Claudia, and me—and we ran late because of it. That was the trade. By the time we got to the rehearsal dinner the mojitos were gone. This had been the big promise. Everyone laughed when we found out Barbara had had three of them. It wasn’t scandalous. It was just Barbara.

The rehearsal dinner was in a tall pink building downtown, or near it—one of those Portland landmarks that stays more as color than address in memory. The night had that soft, anticipatory feeling rehearsals sometimes do: no one tense yet, no one released either.

Junko was there. She was Sachie’s aunt on her mother’s side, and we had paid for her to come. Sachie wanted to repay her for years of quiet kindness. Junko was a nurse, like Sachie. At the time there was nothing remarkable about her being there, except that she was there, which later would come to matter more than anyone knew.

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II

After the rehearsal dinner there was movement in different directions. Kate was around, her husband too. Later—after drinking somewhere else—he got into an actual fight. Not an argument, not raised voices: a fight. I don’t remember the details and don’t need to. Kate and Matt are divorced now. At the time it registered only as background noise, the kind you note and then step away from.

At the party Junko danced. She danced and danced, and people noticed. They commented on it, openly, approvingly. She was light on her feet, joyful, fully there. Jeff was dancing with her—this was when he was still with his second wife, Lisa—and everyone seemed pleased by the sight of it. It was one of those moments that didn’t announce itself as anything special, except that later it would become impossible not to remember.

That night back at the hotel, Mike and I went down to the bar with Pat. We ordered a bottle of champagne. I’d had a few drinks already at dinner, but Mike wanted it and I was up for one bottle. We drank it and immediately ordered another. I was less up for that, but I went along. When it came time to pay, Mike said, “No money until October. Peace out.” He was in a career transition, trying to get back to Seattle, broke. I picked up the bill.

It didn’t feel dramatic. Just one of those small, late-night imbalances you carry quietly and don’t do anything with.

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III

In the morning Mike wanted to go running. He was hungover. I wanted coffee. We walked together for a while along the river, then I peeled off to find caffeine. Mike puked, rallied, and went running anyway. Classic Mike.

I was hungover too. The ceremony started around one. We went back to the hotel and got dressed. I was glad I wasn’t in the ceremony. Sarah had insisted on tuxes, which meant fittings and mild resistance and then compliance. It was fine.

We drove to the church and met some of Sarah’s brothers—she has a few. Everyone was nice. The ceremony itself was intensely Catholic. Very Catholic. All the rituals, all the structure. It didn’t alienate me or convert me. It just was. I don’t remember much beyond the density of it, the sense of time being held in place by repetition.

There’s a photo from that day that I still have. Mike and Pat and me, all in tuxes. I look impossibly thin. I look young. I was thirty-nine.

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IV

We stayed a few more days. At some point Glenn and Barbara were at my parents’ house together. My parents have a big place, the kind that can absorb people overnight without strain. Barbara was leaving. Glenn—her only son—was staying the night.

She was saying goodbye, already halfway turned toward the door, when she stopped and looked at him.

“Glenn,” she said, “I love you, but hit the gym.”

She said it without malice and without hesitation. Love first, then truth. Glenn loves his food and drink. Everyone laughed. Barbara was eighty-eight. She was lucid. She was still very much herself.

That’s what I remember.

Dedication: For Pat and Sarah, and their three lovely girls.
You still owe me a mojito, though.