Dr. Griffin put his elbows on the counter and steepled his fingers. “Is that what you think? That this is strange?”

I glanced at him uneasily. “You’re doing it again. Answering questions with questions.” I pointed my spoon at him again. “Very therapist-like. Dr. Brinkley would be proud.”

He laughed. “Occupational hazard.” He cleared his throat. “Talia, I want you to understand something.”

Oh, boy, I thought. A lecture. I braced myself.

“Your parents were married for fourteen years and they were together a long time before that. Paula loved Vince enough to want to build a life with him. They built dreams together, built a life together.” His eyes bored into mine. “Do you really think she could just turn that off?”

“He didn’t deserve her,” I said, pushing my bowl away.

“Maybe he didn’t.”

“No,” I said, emphasizing that word as much as I could to make him understand. “He was a monster.” I whispered the last word even as I choked on it. “He was horrible and said awful, awful things, and—”

“And he made mistakes,” he finished for me. “We all do that.”

“A mistake is when you forget to carry the one when you’re adding something in your head. Or going straight instead of taking a left at the corner. What he did was….” I fumbled for the words. I thought of the yelling that piqued my curiosity enough to leave my room and go downstairs. I remembered seeing my father towering over my mother, shrinking where she stood under the weight of all his cruelty. I didn’t even know what the fight was about; I never knew what they were about. I only stepped in because I wanted it to stop.

“What he did was way worse,” I finally managed to say.

Dr. Griffin didn’t speak. He was one of the only people who knew what really happened the night my dad left, and he still didn’t say anything. He just kept watching me.

I wondered if his silence was an occupational hazard, too.

“There aren’t many people you get to choose to be in your life,” he said at last. His mouth curved into a sad smile. “You can’t choose your parents, right? But your mom chose your dad, and she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, for better or worse.”

I narrowed my eyes. I heard his words, but they didn’t make sense. “It definitely got worse.”

He paused before nodding. “I’m sure it wasn’t always like that, though. And I think if you’d let yourself forgive him—”

“I was ten!” I balled my hands into tight fists and folded my arms across my chest. “All I wanted to do was get him to stop yelling at her, and he hit me.” I looked away. “Knocked me into the wall and then turned around and blamed my mom for making him do that. Like it was somehow her fault he was such a….” I couldn’t think of the right words. Everything that came to mind didn’t seem right to say in front of my stepfather.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Every now and then an ice cube would fall from the dispenser in the freezer, but we were otherwise quiet and still.

“I’m sure you can remember some good times if you try,” he said quietly.

I let out a snort. “I think it’s better if I don’t.”

He nodded. “And that’s okay, too. You need to process grief in your own way, in your own time.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready.” He stood and left the room. I watched his retreating figure before I reached for my bowl and turned my attention back to my lunch, grateful for the solitude.

If Dr. Griffin was right and everyone had ways of dealing with death and stuff, I was happy to embrace mine alone.

Chapter Seventeen

My dad’s memorial service the following day was surreal. He’d often said he wanted his remains cremated and his ashes scattered in the Pacific Ocean, so there wasn’t a viewing or anything. My grandparents on my mom’s side were vacationing in New Zealand, but my dad’s family — all people I hadn’t seen for more than six or seven years — still flew in from all over the country. Even my cousin Pete, the only family member I’d kind of kept in touch with, was there.

There was a big argument that morning over who’d be allowed on the yacht to see my dad’s remains float out to sea. Only nine people were allowed, and everyone seemed to be jockeying for position. My grandmother insisted my mom had no right to be on the boat, but Mom said because she was paying for everything, she had the right to go wherever she wanted. At this my grandmother mumbled something in Italian. I’d never quite gotten the hang of the language, but I knew what an inferno was and I could guess she told my mom to go to a not-very-nice place.

I volunteered to give up my place and stay home to entertain the rest of the mourners, but my presence was the one thing my mother and grandmother could agree upon. Plus my mom knew my idea of entertaining guests was hiding in my room.

“Channel Islands is so far away,” I said from the back seat of Dr. Griffin’s car as we neared the marina. “Why couldn’t we just go to the Malibu Pier and toss his ashes over the edge? At least he’d be in the ocean. I mean, it’s not like he’d really know.”

My mother sighed. “There are ordinances and laws governing these things, Talia.”

“So there’s, like, the Cremation Police?” I smiled at my own joke. Maybe that could be the name of Jake’s next band.

“Paula, does it say which lot to park in?” Dr. Griffin said as we neared the marina.

I peered out the window. In the distance, ships’ masts stuck straight in the air while palm trees swayed in the ocean breeze. The surface of the water looked almost silver as it reflected the overcast sky.

“All I know is that it’s moored in the southwest section.” Mom rifled through some papers in her lap before turning to him. “It’s called The Sleep.”

“That’s an awful name for a boat,” I said.

She turned to look back at me. “Are you wearing your patch?”

I froze. Though I knew we’d be on a boat, the thought to put on one of my motion sickness patches hadn’t occurred to me.

“No,” I said, and she let out a heavy sigh. “What? You said we’d only be out there for, like, an hour.”

“Yes, but it’s been raining the last few days, and the surf’s choppy. You know how you get when there’s only the tiniest bit of turbulence on a plane.”

I could tell she was exasperated, but it was an honest mistake. I mean, it wasn’t like I wore the patch every day.

“Fine. I’ll stay in the car with Dr. Griffin.”

“No,” they said simultaneously. Mom straightened in her seat and faced forward again. “That’s not an option,” she added.

I’d never seen my mother as stressed about anything as she was that day. I had to give her credit; she took care of my dad’s cremation and memorial services by herself. I was pretty sure my grandmother’s presence and silent critiques contributed to keeping her on edge.

A small group was gathered at the far end of the dock. I could tell who’d come from northern, snowy climates because they weren’t clutching their scarves and coats the way I did when I stepped out of the car into the late January air. A cold ocean breeze assaulted my bare legs, and I wished I was in jeans and a sweatshirt instead of the black dress my mother insisted I wear. The chilly air also reminded me why I didn’t go to the beach in the winter. I loved the sweet, briny smell of the ocean, but not when inhaling it meant freezing the insides of my nose.

I greeted my grandmother with a quick kiss on the cheek but got shooed away when she burst into tears. I’d remembered her as a strong woman with a stern brow who spoke to me only in short, clipped sentences. A single look from her had been known to freeze grown men where they stood and make small children cry. But the weeping eighty-something-year-old woman who stood before me only vaguely resembled the grandmother I knew.