Her Perfect Life

by Rebecca Taylor

  Eileen could still remember Ella’s instructions, “If they ask you any personal questions, you just tell them it’s none of their damn business. You hear me?” Her mother came from a long line of pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstrappers, which suddenly made Eileen wonder if that maybe had something to do with Clare’s…

  “Thank you,” Eileen said. “I will.”

  The woman smiled and nodded. “Please make yourself comfortable in the family lounge area. It’s across the foyer, second door on the left.” She lifted her hand palm up and used it to direct Eileen’s attention to the other side of the room. “I will notify you when your mother’s session is complete and she is ready for visitors.”

  Eileen nodded and did as she was told, crossing over the plush Persian rug and around the taut, cream-colored leather sofas and chairs to the double-doored family lounge. Inside, there was only one other person, an elderly woman with a lap filled with knitting and a steaming cup of something on the coffee table in front of her. At the back of the room, a coffee and tea bar was set up along with dome-covered plates of pastries and bagels. The woman looked up at Eileen, smiled, and then returned her attention to her creation.

  Eileen found a sunny seat near the plate-glass window overlooking a lush, well-manicured lawn and geometric flower beds filled with an assortment of bright yellow and orange mums. She placed her tote on the couch next to her and dug through its depths, past her planner, receipts, two hairbrushes, the manila envelope with the photos of her husband fucking Lauren Andrews, half a pack of gum, a wrinkled and yet unsigned parent permission form for a field trip Ryan’s class was supposed to be taking to the Museum of Nature and Science—“Shit,” she whispered—until she found her phone at the very bottom. She pulled it out to check the clock. She needed to make sure Henry would have enough time to get her back to the house before all the professionals showed up to plan Clare’s funeral… and apparently the public relations that would be required. Eileen sighed. She had always known Clare’s life was different, but she was only now beginning to realize what an entirely different planet from Eileen’s her sister had been living on.

  She had missed three calls, one from Eric and two from Paige. Just seeing his name on her screen made her heart beat hard, her palms sweat. She could feel the rage bubble up fast, like roiling lava right at the base of her sternum. Thinking about Eric, what he had done, what he was still doing. With all she did for him? Their family? Every goddamn day of her life and he had the audacity to betray her?

  She couldn’t breathe—the embarrassment, the shame she felt imagining Lauren thinking—what?—that she was better than Eileen, that she had won something, some goddamn Eric contest that Eileen didn’t even know she was competing in?

  She felt so fucking stupid.

  But why? Why should she feel stupid? When he was the one who… It wasn’t like she had known.

  How could she have fucking known?

  Should she have known?

  Eileen stared at her phone and considered what would very likely happen, what she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from saying, if she called Eric back right now.

  She texted her daughter instead.

  Everything okay?

  Within seconds, Paige responded.

  Ya. Just checking on you.

  As good as can be expected. Getting ready to see Grandma and tell her the news.

  Paige sent her a tear-faced emoji and:

  So sorry, Mom.

  I love you. Talk to you later tonight.

  K, love you too.

  She decided to ignore the call from Eric, for now, and put her phone away, this time being careful to use the small inside pocket so she didn’t again lose it to her bag’s dark abyss. She wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever, obviously, but she had no idea what to say to him.

  “Mrs. Greyden?” a woman’s voice called to her.

  Eileen turned in her seat and saw the woman from behind the counter peeking her head through the doors. “Yes?”

  “Your mother finished early today. She’s ready to see you now.”

  Her mother sat in a low-backed, blue brocade armchair near the window in her room. Eileen had been here once before, three years ago at Christmas, but had forgotten how spacious and lovely the accommodations were. Like a small one-bedroom apartment with a separate bedroom, bathroom, and living room area. The only room missing was a kitchen. By the time Clare had moved their mother here, the doctors had determined she was no longer independent enough to be placed in one of the “full amenities” suites. Basically, their mother had no business being near a stove. Almost burning down their old house in Casper was how she ended up here in the first place. But her current cognitive status was functional enough for this, a three-quarter suite with around-the-clock supervision. Eileen looked up and saw the cameras placed strategically in high corners; they were monitored at the nurses’ station and were in every room. All her food and beverages were provided either in the restaurant downstairs or delivered to her here if her personal caregiver determined she was not well enough to make it downstairs.

  The last time she’d spoken with Clare about their mother, she had said that, for the most part, their mother still made it downstairs to eat with others and would even sometimes play games with the other residents, but she frequently forgot how she’d come to live in this lap of Alzheimer’s luxury and couldn’t keep hold of anyone’s name that she’d met in the last ten years.

  Eileen knocked gently on her mother’s open door. “Mom?”

  Ella Kaczanowski turned slowly from her gaze out the window, a placid smile on her face. She stared at Eileen for several seconds before finally saying, “Hello.” Her expression was a question that asked, Can I help you?

  Eileen blinked, waited a bit longer. Maybe it would come.

  “Hello?” her mother repeated again, wrinkling her brow. “Are you lost, dear?”

  It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t like she could control an overgrowth of plaque and neuron entanglement eating away at the person she once was; but even knowing this, it still hurt to have your mother look at you like she’d never seen you before in her life.

  “Have we… Eileen?” her mother suddenly said, sending a wave of relief through Eileen so powerful it nearly brought her to tears.

  “Yes, Mom,” she answered, coming into the room. She bent down and hugged her mother, who was still sitting in her chair. “Hello. I’ve missed you.”

  When she pulled away and looked into her mother’s eyes, she was struck by how similar her expression was to her own children when they were much, much younger than they were now. What was it? A wide-eyed innocence? A not-yet knowing? Or in her mother’s case, an absence of life’s worry and pressure simply because they’d fallen away with the memories of most of her life experiences?

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” her mother said, patting Eileen’s hand between her own. She looked around Eileen and toward the door. “Has Clare come with you? If I’d known you girls were coming, I’d have made some dinner.” She looked questioningly around the room, as if wondering what she had on hand that she could offer, her expression darkening when she seemed to realize she was not where she thought she should be.

  “That’s all right, Mom. I’m not hungry anyway.”

  Eileen pulled up a chair next to her mother and took her hand. She was smaller, but she was obviously as healthy as could be expected and actually now had a sort of glow about her that Eileen couldn’t remember her hard-edged cop mother ever possessing. This place, all Clare’s money, was doing a good job of taking care of Ella. Eileen didn’t like to think about where she would have probably ended up if she and Eric had had to make the payments every month. For sure there would have been no saltwater pools and personal care assistants. Her mother plastered a smile on her face and stared at Eileen. She may have recognized her own daughter, eventually anyway, but she still
had huge holes and questions about who, when, and even what the hell was going on at all times. The smiles were a cover—smiles and waiting for other people to say things that provided her context clues. Ella had been doing that act for years before she and Clare had any real idea that something more serious was going on with their once-sharp mother.

  Eileen took a deep breath and regretted the decision to not have a therapist in the room. “Mom, I need to tell you something. Something that is going to upset you.”

  Ella dropped her smile, her features morphing into an expression of grave seriousness. “Whatever it is, sweetheart, you can tell me anything. Mothers are—well, the good ones anyway—always there for their children, no matter what they’ve done.”

  Speechless and completely unsure of how to move forward, Eileen stared into her mother’s forgiving expression.

  “Is it about the smoking?” Ella leaned forward and whispered. “Well, I’ll tell you a little secret, young lady.” She held up her arthritic pointer finger to Eileen. “I already know about it.” She sat back in her seat and nodded sagely. “I don’t approve, and you shouldn’t make it a habit. It’s very hard to quit. And I shouldn’t have to tell you how addiction runs rampant through your father’s side of the family.”

  Stunned, Eileen watched the cognitive train wreck derail before her. In less than half a second, her mother had jumped track and traveled back over twenty years. “No,” Eileen said. “It’s not about the smoking.” She leaned in, uncertain if pushing ahead with her news was really the best decision, but also feeling pressed for time; maybe she could coax her mother back into the present day. “It’s about Clare, Mom. She…there’s been…an accident.”

  Ella’s gaze hardened. “What would you know about that?” She narrowed her eyes at Eileen, as if she’d suddenly become suspicious of a stranger. “Who?” She raised her voice. “Who have you been talking to? What did they tell you?”

  “Mom.” Eileen tried to reach for her mother’s hand, but Ella snatched it away quicker than Eileen would have thought her capable. “I’m sorry, but I need to tell you something about Clare. There’s been an accident, and I’m so sorry, but… Clare is dead, Mom.”

  Ella wrinkled her brow and let out a loud scoff while shaking her head. “You don’t know anything.” She pointed to the center of her chest. “I was there. I know perfectly well what happened. My daughter is not dead, and whoever is telling you that is wrong. It was that boy, that…” She looked away, out the window, as if the pieces of her mind that were missing might be floating out in the sun beyond the window.

  “Mom, please, you’re confused. I need you to try to be here with me now. I need you to understand that Clare is gone.”

  “Adam.” She suddenly found what she was looking for and turned her attention back to Eileen with a triumph. “Not my Clare. It was the Adam boy that died in the accident. You’re the one who’s confused.”

  Eileen’s shoulders sagged as understanding overtook her. The car wreck. Her mother thought she was talking about the wreck. “I’m not talking about that accident.”

  “And you shouldn’t.” Ella’s face contorted with a sudden rage. “You don’t know… I was there! I was there! My daughter—I would do anything for my children. Anything!” Ella shouted at her.

  Eileen sat back in her seat. This was a mistake. She should have listened to the woman at the front desk and requested the therapist.

  “You don’t know!” her mother screamed. “You don’t know anything!”

  Two attendants in pale-blue scrubs arrived at the door. “Is everything okay?” one of them asked in an alert, but still calm, voice.

  Eileen shook her head. “No,” she said, watching her mother shake her head violently back and forth as she rocked in her chair. “I’ve made a mistake.”

  The attendants came in slowly. “It’s okay.” They were reassuring Eileen, not her mother. “These things—they happen. It’s really hard to predict.”

  One of the attendants placed a hand at the center of Ella’s back. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothed. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  Chapter 18

  Eileen

  Eileen pushed through the revolving main door, past the doormen and beyond the protection of the Regency’s entrance awning, and up the public sidewalk. Blinded by the midmorning sun, she tripped on a raised square of concrete, pitching forward, arms cartwheeling. It was only after three huge, embarrassing stumbles that she barely escaped a nasty fall.

  “Jesus Christ,” she cursed under her breath while she collected herself and attempted to regain her composure.

  Looking around, she saw that the doorman behind her and several other passersby had noticed but also had the good grace to pretend not to and quickly glanced away. With a roll of her shoulders and a deep breath, Eileen moved closer to the building to steady her fractured nerves and begin the search for Henry’s business card so she could call for a ride back to the house.

  After several seconds of frustrated rummaging, followed by new resolutions and promises to both buy a smaller purse and keep it organized, Eileen finally fished out her scratched sunglasses and the small, rectangular card. As she slipped on the glasses, she grabbed her phone from the pocket she’d left it in, a miracle of organization, and tapped the call icon. Still distracted by her embarrassment, Eileen dialed the number while continuing to glance at the doorman, who appeared to be keeping a suspicious eye on her.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “Henry, it’s Eileen.” She lowered her head and turned toward the building. “I know you’ve barely dropped me off, but can you come back now? It didn’t go very well. Mom got very upset when I told her about Clare…completely confused. She thinks I’m talking about something that happened over twenty years ago.” She waved her free hand in the air above her head as if that could clear away the terrible misunderstanding that had just happened. “Anyway, it’s a mess, and I just need to get back to the house before I fall apart right here on the street.”

  Eileen pressed the phone to her ear and waited for Henry to tell her, No problem, be right there.

  “Eileen?” he asked. “Greyden?”

  Eileen breathed into the phone as an uncomfortable awareness washed over her. Henry didn’t sound like Henry. She lifted the business card and inspected it more closely.

  “I think you may have dialed the wrong number. This is Samuel Cramer. We…well, bumped into each other in the airport yesterday.”

  Eileen lifted her gaze from Samuel’s card in her hand and stared down the busy street at the press of cars fighting to make their way up the steeply sloping hill. After helping her during her drunken stupor, Samuel had given her his card yesterday. Shit. She closed her eyes.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked her. “You sound upset. Do you need help?”

  “No, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I meant to call someone else. I grabbed your card by mistake and didn’t look… I’m so sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother, really. Actually, I was hoping—”

  “I can’t begin to imagine—” How could she be so stupid, so careless? She stared at the card in her hand: Samuel Cramer, Vice President, Global Connections. How hard was it to not make a complete and utter ass of herself in front of this man? In a rush of panic, she hung up.

  She stared at her phone, acutely aware that she likely just made a merely embarrassing situation horrific by hanging up on a man who she would most certainly be sharing a soccer sideline with in the very near future. There would be no avoiding the man. The shame was tangible, a weighty blanket.

  How hard would it have been to simply apologize and end the conversation with a cordial, and humanlike, “So sorry to bother you. Goodbye.”

  “You are losing it, Eileen,” she said out loud to herself, then looked up and noticed the doorman inspecting her. She bit her lip and turned
away from his prying eyes.

  The card with Henry’s number ended up being in her back pocket, not her bag. After two rings, he picked up and promised he could be there to rescue her within fifteen minutes.

  Back at the house, Clare’s publicist had already arrived with the funeral planner. They sat in the sun-drenched living room looking posh and well prepared, with open laptops, cell phones, and perfectly manicured fingers that flew through screens and schedules. Their expertly lined lips both consoled and explained to Simon, who still looked shell shocked and unwashed, what all the best options were, from the venue for the memorial to the florist talented and capable enough to pull off the large number of enormous, but tasteful, arrangements they would need.

  “And we really should get this guest list finalized,” Eileen heard the woman with thick black hair spilling down her back say as she entered into their planning session from the mudroom off the garage. When they noticed her, both women turned on sympathetic expressions that fell just shy of genuine emotion. The woman whose flaming red hair was styled into a tight bob stood up first and extended a long, thin arm that ended in graceful fingers with heavy jewels.

  “You must be Eileen.” She pressed forward and took Eileen’s hand between her two cold palms. “I’m Katherine, Clare’s publicist.” Her brow crease deepened. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Eileen managed to whisper.

  “We’re just getting started. Are you able to join us?”

  She didn’t want to. She would much rather climb the stairs to her room, strip down, fall into bed, and sleep for the next three days. One look at Simon’s blank expression told her she wasn’t alone. She wondered if he was actually getting worse as the hours since her sister’s suicide added up. With every passing minute, the reality became clearer for Simon, less deniable. His wife was dead; she was never coming back.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” Eileen said, taking the empty seat on the couch next to her brother-in-law and across from these charged and efficient women being paid to help navigate their grief. “What do you need me to do?”