The first of three stories drawn from our road trip through the eastern Sierras and western Nevada. We visited the places, but fortunately, didn’t come across the ghosts.

I knew I was going to get to the campsite late – it was that kind of a day; that couldn’t be helped.

I also knew he’d be waiting.

Despite the fact I took the day off, I didn’t get on the road out of Sonoma County until nearly three and I was facing a six hour drive.

That’s the bad part. The good parts started the minute I headed down Adobe Road heading east and I turned on my “Happy Camper” mix on my phone and grooved along with Gladys Knight singing about the “Midnight Train to Georgia.”

I’ve always loved road trips, though they’ve taken on a melancholy tinge since Barry died three years ago. Road trips were our thing. The more obscure, the more bizarre, the better.

Fallon Cantaloupe Festival? Check.

Selfie at the Mojave Desert Mailbox? Definitely.

Hiking the longest continuous lava tube in Oregon? Why not?!

We bought this very Subaru Outback with the twin goals of putting on as many miles as we could and making it as comfortable a car-camper as we could. After a hundred thousand miles in three years, it was our veritable home away from home.

And then Barry was mountain biking with friends in the back country of Breckenridge when his appendix ruptured spectacularly and spontaneously, and he was mostly dead by the time their air-vac’d him to the trauma center.

I never had a chance to say goodbye. But, like how to comfortably spend a week together in a mid-size hatchback while not killing each other, we found a way.

I swallowed the lump in my throat as the Subie and I traversed the washboard rutted dirt road that led up to Buckeye campground. The high beams flickered with moths darting in and out of the beams as we took switchback after switchback and I felt grateful that while the road ahead of me shone brightly, I couldn’t see the sheer drop off just to my left.

A “Closed for the Season” sign greeted me at the entrance to the site and rather than a letdown, the sign elicited a smile. As I made my way down the main road of the campground, the ancillary roads leading off from the right and left to campground loops were blocked off with “Road Closed” gates securely padlocked across the entrance.

All the way in I got to the loop for campgrounds 1 – 10 and I stopped with the Subie’s lights reflecting brightly off the sign. Two minutes of lockpicking opened the cheap government-sourced padlock. That little trick boggled Barry the first time. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Does a girl have to give up all her secrets?” I replied. That first time, for the record, took ten minutes. I’ve been practicing, trying to impress someone who isn’t around anymore. Sad but true.

Subie inside, I relocked the gate (and gave myself another shot at unlocking it tomorrow). I slowly drove around the loop until I got to campsite #5.

He was waiting for me sitting on the picnic table.

I turned the car off and in the absence of the headlights the darkness swallowed the scene completely. I climbed out and grabbed the Coleman lantern and Bluetooth speaker from the back seat. Turned on the gas, clicked the piezo lighter and the lantern mantles erupted in searingly bright light.

“Still using the Coleman?” he asked. “I’d have figured you’d have gone for one of those LED units.”

“Have you ever known me to go new-school when old-school works just as well?” I smiled at him sitting there as I approached.

“Point, Charity,” he acknowledged. “Running late today?”

“What, you’ve got a hot date? Some sweet looking force ghost making eyes at you? Whose spectral ass do I have to kick?”

He laughed that laugh of his and my insides just fucking melted. I closed my eyes hard against the onrush of tears.

“Hey,” he said. “No crying until we at least get the music going.”

I blinked back the tears and nodded, afraid my voice would betray me. I set the lantern and speaker on the table and pressed the button that brought the speaker to life with a “boop boop beep! Bee-boop” and fiddled around with my iPhone until I found our playlist. Ray LaMontagne’s “Hold You in My Arms” broke the forest stillness.

“Ms. Berman, may I have this dance?” he asked standing and holding out his hand.

“Certainly, Mr. Fonseco,” I said and took his hand and we started slow dancing to the sweet tune.

“You’re such a sap,” Barry said.

“Takes one to know one,” I said finishing our regular exchange.

“Every year you come here on the anniversary of our proposal,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to, I don’t know, move on?”

“I will. In due time. Just… not yet.”

“Promise?”

I looked into his eyes and knew they would be gone the next day. I knew this embrace couldn’t last more than the night. And yet, I held him tighter and said quietly in his ear, “Shut up and dance.”

I do have my mom’s lasagna recipe – I just made it again last month. One of my big regrets is not getting a chance to make her famous scalloped potatoes and ham with her while she was still alive. Alas… If your mom is still alive, and you have that one dish only she makes right, please go make it with her. Don’t wait. Don’t put it off. Not all mom’s come back…

“You’re up early,” my wife said coming into the kitchen in her robe.

“I have to clean before I can start cooking.”

“Oh? What are you making?”

“Mom’s lasagna.”

“Oh!” realization dawned on her. She surveyed the remaining dirty dishes and said, “You’d better get this place clean. Or you’ll hear it!”

“Don’t I know it!”

“So, you’re making lasagna?”

I nodded.

“Okay, I’ll order Chinese tonight then.”

“Sounds good,” I agreed.

“Why are you guys up at 7 on a Saturday,” our son, Taylor wandered in rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Your dad is going to make lasagna with your grandmother today.”

“So, we’re having Chinese tonight?”

“You know it!” I fist bumped him.

“Come on, Tay, let’s leave your father. He’s got some work to do.”

It took another two hours to finish the dishes, clean every surface, and put everything away. When I finally finished I shaved and showered then came back to the kitchen and pulled my mom’s binder of handwritten recipes off the bookshelf.

As I opened it and started turning the browned and stained pages I heard, “Oh, so you do know how to use a mop!”

“Hi mom,” I said.

“Hi Junior,” she greeted me with a hug and kissed me on the cheek. “What are we going to try to make today?”

“I was thinking lasagna.”

“Oy, are you ready for that?”

“I think so.”

“Well, we’re burning daylight. Do you have the recipe?”

“Right here!”

I started a pot of water for the noodles.

“Junior, that’s not enough salt!” mom corrected. “Like sea water! Like sea water! I bet Taylor could boil water better than you!”

“What was I thinking?” I smiled, adding more salt.

“How’s he doing in high school?”

“Oh, it’s culture shock for him.”

“Oh, how so?”

…

“Who taught you to cut onions like that?”

“You did.”

“Not like that! That dice is too fine! There’s going to be nothing left! How’s Jackie doing? Is she still fighting with that other partner?”

“She is, yeah. But I think that might spur her on, you know?”

“Yes, I understand. Your father had a coworker when he worked at Smith Nephew — do you remember when he worked there?”

“I do, barely.”

“Well, this guy, took great delight winding your father up…”

…

“Those tomatoes aren’t ready!” she admonished. “Junior, sometimes I swear you’re deliberately trying to sabotage this!”

I suppressed a grin. “Mom, you know I’m not culinarily inclined.”

“Culinarily inclined,” she scoffed. “Not even a word,” she mumbled under her breath.” Then, changing the subject, “How’s your sister doing? When you ruined that Apple pie last month it sounded like she and Jason were on the outs?”

“They’re in couples therapy.”

“Really?” She blew out a breath. “Well, hopefully that will help them…”

“You never met Jason. He’s got a good heart.”

“You say that, but me makes my little girl upset?”

“Mom, you know Peggy gives as good as she gets. They test each other.”

“If you say so.”

…

“Simmer, Junior! Simmer the sauce! This isn’t a race! Oh, speaking of that, how’s the presidential field coming along? Are there still like 43 candidates?”

“They’ve whittled it down quite a bit, but it’s still a pretty crowded field.”

“Your boiling sauce would make a better candidate than that yutz in office!”

“Can’t argue that, mom.”

“You’re lucky I died before he was elected! You’d be sick of me kvetching! Lower heat, Junior! You’re still boiling!”

…

“Mom, I can just use the food processor for the cheese…”

“Junior, do you want to take shortcuts or do it right? We grate the cheese. Do you remember that time your father was ‘helping’ by using the Cuisinart to shred the cheese?”

“I thought you were going to have an aneurysm!” I laughed.

“That didn’t come for ten more years. And then I couldn’t blame it on your dad!”

“How’s he doing?”

“Oh, you know… I can’t say too much about things over there.” She stage whispered, “The big guy gets irate. It’s like you die and you automatically sign some kind of non-disclosure agreement!”

“Well,” I said unwrapping a ball of mozzarella, “If it means you can still help me cook, then it’s worth any restrictions.

“Only until you get them down. Then you’re on your own. But, Junior, I swear! How do you manage to mess up grating cheese?”

“Told you, mom, cooking’s not my thing!”

She rolled her eyes.

…

With the lasagna in the oven, my mom had her yellow dishwashing gloves wrist-deep in suds.

“When are you and Jackie going to give Taylor a little brother?”

“Heh,” I laughed. “Mom, you know that ship has sailed.”

“Can’t blame an old woman from hoping.”

“I’m sorry you can’t hang out with Taylor. He’s a great kid.”

“I know. I keep an eye on him.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you.”

“What kind of grandmother would I– Do you smell that?”

I sniffed and knew exactly what it was. “What are you smelling?

“How much time is left on the lasagna?” She asked stripping off the dishwashing gloves.

I pulled out my phone, “An hour left– that can’t be right!”

“Did you accidentally set it two two hours instead of 20 minutes?” She opened the oven and smoke poured out. The fire alarm started blaring.

“That must have been what I did! Aww, mom, it’s ruined!”

She pulled the scorched lasagna out of the oven and set it on the stove with a thud. “Well, Junior, I think you killed it.” She nodded, “Yes, I think you did.”

“Well, maybe next time.”

“You’ll get it one of these days, Junior.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“I have to go, but let’s do this again soon.”

“You got it, mom,” I said giving her a big hug and kiss.

“I love you, Junior!”

“Love you, mom!” And she walked out of the kitchen and vanished.

Jackie came into the kitchen using a pillow as a fan to try to silence the fire alarm, which did quiet after a minute longer. She coughed at the smoke, “That looks terrible.”

“Worst yet!”

“No, that apple pie was pretty bad. Oh, while you were busy making a mess, the restaurant called. Joey said the shipment of rockfish was bad. He wanted to know if you had a back up.”

“He’s my sous chef for a reason. It’s my one day off, he can figure it out.”

“Good, that’s what I told him.”

“When are our Chinese reservations?”

“Six Thiry. Time enough for you to clean up this mess and tell me about how you’re mom’s doing.”