“And you, Gigi? Do you still wish you could end it?”
She looked at me and raised her chin, and for a moment, she was the Genevieve London of old. “It was a momentary weakness,” she said, her tone regal. “Then again, I thought you’d be abandoning me at the end of summer. I didn’t think to ask you to stay.”
“You never know what you’ll get if you ask,” I said.
“Ask me something,” she said. “Whatever you’ve always wanted to know. Quickly, before my brain melts and I can’t answer.”
I was surprised by her question. Chances like this didn’t come that often with her. Thinking a minute, I took a sip of my wine and petted Mac’s enormous head, watching a clot of his fur drift to the floor. Now or never. “Are you proud of me, Gigi?”
She looked at me a long minute, then took a sip of her martini (against doctor’s orders, but hey; a person had to have some vices). “You turned out nothing like what I’d hoped,” she said.
Super. Should’ve known. “Thanks.”
“You’re much, much more, Emma. I’m rather in awe of you.” She looked away, a little embarrassed, as the words sank into my heart. “You’re the best mother I’ve ever met.”
I got up, went to her chair and knelt in front of it. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I’ve made you cry, have I?”
“For the best reason.”
She patted my head. “Well. Let’s not get sloppy, shall we? Be a good girl and make me another drink.”
And so I did, my heart as full and happy as it had ever been.
* * *
* * *
The Thursday before Columbus Day weekend was the kind of day that proved the Northeast was the best part of the country to live in. The leaves were golden and red, the sky utterly clear and blue. The Sound was calm, the air cool, the sun warm. The Talwar family was coming up tomorrow, and we were planning to have dinner here at Sheerwater, so I was going to have to bring my A game to the kitchen and start by cooking dessert tonight. Apple pie, I was thinking. ’Twas the season.
I stopped at an orchard on the way home and picked up some apples that made my car smell like heaven. Riley came into the kitchen as I peeled and sliced, telling me about her AP Gov class and how she’d been assigned to present the arguments for a Supreme Court case decided in 2011. “It’s pretty interesting,” she said. “This guy was shot, and he told the cops who shot him, but then he died, and originally, the case got thrown out—”
A crash came from upstairs. “Gigi?” I called.
There was no answer.
Riley and I both ran upstairs.
My grandmother was lying on the hallway floor, her mouth opening and closing. Donelle knelt at her side, and the five dogs were barking.
“You better call Dr. Pinco,” Donelle said tightly. “It’s okay, Gen. We’re all here.”
“Gigi?” Riley said, her voice sounding young and scared.
“Sweetheart, go get my phone,” I told my daughter. “Take the dogs and put them out back.” She did, and I knelt beside my grandmother. Her mouth was drooping on one side, and she was flapping one hand. The other lay still. “I’ve got you, Gigi,” I said. “Let’s get you to your room. Good thing I’m strong, right?”
She was lighter than I expected, but still, it wasn’t easy, carrying her down the hall. Donelle flipped back the covers, and I set Gigi down awkwardly, but not dropping her. Riley ran in, her face white, blue eyes too wide, and thrust the phone at me.
“She’s having a stroke,” I told her. “Looks like this is bigger than the others.” My voice was calm, but my heart thudded sickly against my ribs.
Dr. Pinco and I had talked about this—what to do, what could be done, whether or not to go to the hospital. Gigi was adamantly against going anywhere and had all her wishes written up by her lawyer—do not resuscitate, no heroic measures, pain control only. At the end of August, she’d made me her medical decision maker.
But now that the moment was possibly here, the little girl in me wanted to beg her not to die.
I called the good doctor, and he said he’d be on his way and to make her comfortable in the meantime.
There was a hard lump in my throat. “We’re here, Gigi. Dr. Pinco’s on his way. Can you smile for me?”
She tried, but the left side of her face didn’t move.
“How about talking? Can you say ‘Nice to see you’?” I was talking too fast, my voice too chipper.
“Nahsh ee oo,” she said.
Shit. “Good! That’s great. Okay, just take it easy, Gigi. We’ll take care of you.”
There were tears in her eyes.
“Shouldn’t we call 911?” Riley asked.
“No,” Gigi said. “No. No.” That, at least, was crystal clear.
“She said no hospital,” Donelle reminded me.
Riley was crying. I stood up and walked her over to the window. “Call Pop.”
“Is Gigi dying?”
I pressed my lips together. “I don’t know. Maybe. It might be her time.”
Riley’s face scrunched up, and I kissed her forehead. “Call Pop,” I said again.
“Hello! It’s Jeff Pinco,” came a voice from downstairs.
“Up here!” Donelle called. “Hurry, Doc.”
He came in the room, doctor’s bag in hand. With him was a nurse—Sophia, the same one who’d shaved my head. She nodded at me in recognition. “Let’s see how you’re doing, Mrs. London,” he said. “Out of the room, everyone.”
We left, a cluster of worry and teary eyes. Riley called my grandfather, and we all went into the upstairs sitting room, which looked out over the water, to wait.
The view was almost too beautiful for what was happening.
A few minutes later, my grandfather appeared, squeezed my shoulder, kissed Donelle on the cheek and sat next to Riley, tucking her against him.
We waited. And waited. No one said much. Charles came up from the garage and sat with us, crying surreptitiously. Riley texted someone.
After an eternity, Dr. Pinco came in. “It’s a stroke,” he confirmed. “The nurse is with her now, making her more comfortable.”
“Is it ischemic or hemorrhagic?” Donelle asked, and we all looked at her in surprise. “I read the Internet,” she added, scowling.
“Ischemic,” he said. He glanced at Riley. “There’s a blockage in a blood vessel in Mrs. London’s brain,” he explained. “It’s cutting off blood flow, and that’s why she’s having trouble walking and talking. I gave her a shot that should clear it up, but she won’t go to the hospital for a CAT scan, which is what I’d prefer.” He looked at me. “You’re her medical decision maker. At this point, she’s impaired, so the call is yours.”
My throat was tight, and my nerves buzzed in fear. I knew she was old, and I knew her wishes, and I didn’t want the responsibility.
“Get her to the hospital, Mom,” Riley said. “She could get better.”
I cleared my throat. “No. She stays here.” My eyes filled. “That’s what she wants. If this is going to clear up, her odds are better if she’s home. And if it doesn’t . . . she deserves to die here.”
Riley put her head against Pop’s shoulder and started to cry softly.
“Good job, honey,” Pop said to me. His eyes were shiny, too.
“Yep. Good job. Excuse me.” Donelle got up and started out of the room. We heard her start to sob.
“Come on, honey,” Pop said to Riley. “Let’s go downstairs and make some sandwiches.”
Dr. Pinco said it was a wait-and-see situation. That, yes, it was possible she’d be her old self in a few hours, but with the vascular dementia, chances were higher that this would be the beginning of the end. If she recovered from this stroke, her cognitive functioning would be worse.
I went into her room. S
he was sleeping, and Minuet was on her bed, having apparently sneaked back in. That was fine. “Good girl,” I said to the little dog. She didn’t lift her head from Gigi’s arm.
Sophia left, and I dragged a chair to the bedside and sat, taking Gigi’s hand in mine. “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “We’re taking good care of you.”
Riley came in, and Gigi’s eyes fluttered open. “Hi, Gigi,” she whispered.
My grandmother looked at her. “Shhep,” she said. “Shhep . . . ard.”
“That’s right,” I said. “She has the same blue eyes as Sheppard.”
“Shheppard.”
“It’s okay, Gigi. Try to rest. You’ll feel better soon.”
Her eyes closed again, and after a second, she was snoring faintly.
“I have to make a call,” I whispered to my daughter. “Can you stay here for a second?”
“Sure. Um, stay close, okay?”
“I’ll be in your room.” It was closest to Gigi’s.
I went in and took a deep breath.
Funny how you can know someone is winding down, and then still feel panic-stricken when you turn the corner and there it is—death. There was no coming back from that.
I didn’t want my grandmother to die. I wiped my eyes and pulled out my phone, then saw something on Riley’s desk. A large mailing envelope from FutureFoto. I opened it and saw my father.
No. It was Sheppard, or an estimate of what he’d look like. I’d almost forgotten that Riley had started this project. My father’s eyes weren’t as sky blue as Sheppard’s (or Riley’s), but wow.
I called the last number I had for him, and to my surprise, it was answered.
“Hello?”
“Clark?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s Emma. Your daughter.”
There was a pause. “Oh! Hi! How’s it going?”
“Genevieve had a stroke. You might want to get to Sheerwater and see her.”
“Oh. Uh . . . I don’t know if I can.”
“Why, Dad? Writing another book?”
“I’m in DC, actually. Uh, research. Hey, Stu, how you doing?” I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a restaurant in the background.
“Yeah, well, your mother is dying,” I said.
“And you know this how?”
“Because I’ve been here all summer. With my child. Hope is doing well, in case you’re interested.”
“Yeah, yeah! That’s great to hear. Good. Well, uh, yeah, I guess I can make it up midweek sometime . . . Don’t really see what good it would do, though. If she had a stroke, she’s pretty out of it, right?”
For God’s sake. Then again, why should I expect him to be different from exactly who he was? He wouldn’t come. And did anyone really want him here?
I glanced at the pictures of what my uncle might look like.
“She was talking about changing her will earlier this summer,” I said slowly. “Riley and she really hit it off. Riley’s my daughter, in case you forgot.”
“What? She changed her will?”
I had his undivided attention now. “I’m not sure,” I said. “She did say she had a big surprise for Riley, though.” She hadn’t. “I’m just so glad we’ve been here all summer. I forgot how much I love it here.”
“Maybe I should come up. Yeah, I can catch the train. I’ll get there as soon as I can. Tomorrow by the latest. See you soon.”
Mission accomplished.
My grandmother would get to see her son once more.
CHAPTER 38
Clark
When you try to forget something, even when you’re good at forgetting things, it becomes seared in your brain.
Clark had only been five when his brother went away, and a lot of years had passed since that day. He forgot his wedding anniversary, his daughters’ birthdays, forgot the thousands of things Choate and Dartmouth had tried to teach him, forgot dates, names, appointments. He forgot to vote. (But really, what was the point? Sometimes he forgot who was running.) He forgot to check in for flights, forgot luggage, forgot his laptop more than a dozen times.
But he remembered so fucking much about That Day. For years, he’d wake up in the middle of the night, terror crushing his heart, almost killing him. Even now, he dreamed about the woods at Birch Lake, the water. The rocks.
That Day had started out as the best day ever. Mama made waffles, and even though she often told him he was chubby, she let him have two. With whipped cream. And strawberries.
Then, “the boys” were doing something together. Daddy wouldn’t let Mama know what it was. It was manly stuff, and she wouldn’t understand. Clark remembered his father winking at them. Sheppard and he looked at each other with glee. A funny feeling happened in his stomach, like on the elevator in New York when they went up so high and fast. Sheppard was sometimes nice to him and sometimes wasn’t, but today was going to be a good day, Clark could tell.
Manly stuff. That sounded fun. Just the three of them, too, which was nice, because Clark liked Daddy better than Mama.
So Daddy packed the big car, including the tent, which worried Clark because no one said anything about sleeping away from home. They had the canoe on top of the car, and Clark hated the canoe. It was so tippy.
“Mama?” he said.
“Clark, you’re too old to call me that,” she said, her voice tighter than when she talked to Sheppard. “Call me Mom or Mother, like Sheppard does.”
“Mom?”
“What is it?”
“I want to come home tonight.” He didn’t want to sleep away. He loved his bed with its heavy quilt and stuffed animals.
“It’s camping, dear. It’ll be fun.”
Sheppard was so happy about camping. He was asking Dad about all kinds of things that Clark didn’t know about . . . lines and weights and flies and fish grippers, firewood and owls. Clark tried to join in.
“How big are owls? What’s a bass?” he asked. “Why do we need corn?” Only Daddy bothered to answer, which made Clark feel small and stupid.
Daddy patted his butt as he got in the car, ruffled Sheppard’s hair. Sheppard got to sit in front. “It’s not fair,” Clark said, and Dad told him he could sit in front on the way home. They drove out of town, past the ice cream stand. “We’ll stop there tomorrow,” Dad said. “Maybe even tonight for dessert.”
Clark felt better. He loved ice cream.
They drove out to Birch Lake—Mama wasn’t allowed to know their secret location, but once they turned down the dirt road, Clark vaguely remembered coming here another time. The road was bumpy and long.
They got to the lake, the only car there. Clark wasn’t sure, but maybe it was just their lake and no one else could come. They were on a cove, sheltered from the wind, Dad said. It made it feel like a secret place. Clark played under a pine tree in the sandy soil, making roads with a stick, while Dad and Sheppard set up the tent and put things away.
“You can help, too, you know,” Shep said, but Clark pretended not to hear. He opened the cooler. There was soda in there. Good. Mama didn’t let him have soda.
“Get in the canoe, Clarkie!” Dad said.
Clark did, reluctantly. Dad helped him in, then got in the back, Shep in the front. They got to paddle; Clark just had to sit there and hold on to the sides.
“Can I have a turn, Shep?” he asked. He wasn’t supposed to call him Shep because Mama (Mom) didn’t like it. Daddy said it was okay for brothers to have special names for each other. Shep didn’t have a special name for him, though.
“Maybe later,” Sheppard said. “I can show you where the water’s not so deep.”
Yes. Shep was going to be nice to him today.
The lake was blue, and the water was warm enough to swim, Dad said. They paddled around for a while. Dad pointed out a blue
heron, and Shep saw a turtle, which wasn’t fair, because Clark didn’t see one. When he leaned over to look, the boat tipped, and Dad yelled, “Sit up straight, Clark!” and he felt bad.
“We don’t want you falling in the drink, son,” Dad said, and Clark felt his father’s big hand on his shoulder, taking away the sting of the yelling.
They went back to shore, and Clark was glad, because he was bored.
“Get into your suits,” Dad said.
“In the car?” Clark asked.
“No, dummy,” Sheppard said. “Out here. No one’s around. No one will see.”
So they did change. Clark looked away from his father, not liking him naked, seeing all that hair and other things. The private things. He hoped he would never look like that. Shep was fast and didn’t seem to worry that someone would see him naked.
Clark dawdled, not wanting to take off his clothes. “Get moving, son,” Dad said, so he had to. It felt funny, the air on his parts, on his butt. He put both feet into the same leg hole; Shep laughed and didn’t help him.
That made Clark mad, a little bit. He pulled his leg out and put it in the right hole, then found the suit was on backward, so he had to do it again. He didn’t like Daddy and Sheppard seeing him, even if they were his family.
Dad and Sheppard ran right in. Clark was slower, and scared. The bottom of the lake was squishy and dark. He went in up to his shins, then came back out.
“Don’t be a baby!” Sheppard said as Clark walked on the shore back and forth. “It’s great in here! Come on! You can see the lake shark!”
“There’s no lake shark,” Dad said. “Sheppard, honestly. Be nice to your brother. Come on, honey. Swim to me. I’m right here.”
Clark liked that his dad called him honey. Some dads just said son or fella or buddy. It was nice to hear honey. It made him feel . . . safe.
He wanted his father to be proud, so he went in and in and in and then he was swimming, trying to keep his face out of the water, trying to keep his mouth closed. The water was silky and tasted strange, and he hated swimming.
“Nice job!” Dad said, catching him in his arms and pulling him close, and Clark coughed a little and held on tight. His father was warm and strong, and it felt so good to be safe again. Daddy never told him he was too big to be held, like Mama did. Clark was big, bigger than all his classmates, heavier than Sheppard, but he wasn’t too big for Daddy. To Daddy, he was still a little boy, and that felt so good.
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