Her Perfect Life

by Rebecca Taylor

  Both the nurse and counselor approached Ella with hands raised and heads crouched, like she was a silverback gorilla that had escaped its zoo habitat and they were afraid of startling her into a rampage.

  “Ella?” the nurse soothed. “Everything’s okay. We’re here to help you.”

  Eileen watched her mother turn toward the two women, her face set in an expression of stony command. “Ladies,” she said, taking a step toward them to establish her jurisdiction over them and this situation. “I’m going to ask you one more time to disperse. Now please collect your belongings and exit the premises with the others in a timely and orderly fashion.”

  The two women looked momentarily shocked, like they were suddenly questioning if they should, in fact, be listening to what Officer Kaczanowski was ordering them to do.

  The entire funeral had stopped. The guests standing next to the coffin turned away from Clare, their curiosity getting the better of them. Others who were still seated either craned their necks or turned in their chairs, obviously unsure of what was happening and what they should do.

  “Do we need to leave?” one woman a few rows back asked out loud. “Is there a problem?”

  “Eileen,” Simon begged, grasping her forearm. “Please, do something.”

  Yes, but what exactly? She felt like a limp rag in her seat. “Mom?” she tried, her voice thin and childlike in her own ears. She was not at all sure her mother would even recognize her.

  Hearing her, a look of surprise washed over Ella’s face, and she turned to Eileen. Seconds ticked as Ella stared down at her, the contaminated cogs of her mind working through the sight of her younger daughter at the funeral for her older. What year was it for Ella? What state were they in? How old did she believe Eileen was, and did that number make sense in relation to the middle-aged woman she saw in front of her?

  Some mental consensus was reached. Ella’s face softened, and she motioned to Eileen to come here, come quick, as she once again scanned the crowd.

  Eileen rose from her seat. Both uncertain and embarrassed, she glanced at the nurse and counselor, who were still standing by. They gave her encouraging smiles and nods while they made no expert moves to de-escalate the situation. “Mom?” Eileen asked again, without any real hope that she would get her mother back into her chair and up the aisle of gawkers without further incident.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in a gray suit surreptitiously angle the camera in his lap in their direction. How many media people would have been invited to Clare Collins’s funeral?

  “Eileen?” Two arching vertical lines formed in her mother’s forehead as she grasped Eileen’s shoulders and pulled her close with a strength Eileen wouldn’t have guessed possible. “Honey, what are you doing here?” She placed both her hands on either side of Eileen’s face, like she had done when Eileen was eleven and she wanted her full attention. “This isn’t what it seems, okay?”

  Over Ella’s shoulder, the counselor moved into Eileen’s view and gave her an exaggerated nod. “Go along with it,” she mouthed.

  “Okay, Mom,” Eileen said.

  Ella gave her a soft smile. Her right hand pushed Eileen’s hair back as she brought her lips close to her ear. “Your sister,” she whispered. “She’s okay, you hear me. These people don’t seem to know that.” She shook her head once. “But that doesn’t matter. I was there; I know. I don’t want you to worry. I took care of it.” She pulled back until she could again look directly into Eileen’s eyes. “It was a horrible accident,” she whispered. “But we’re family, and we’re all we have. Do you understand, Eileen? They will come after Clare, but she still has her whole life ahead of her. We need to protect your sister now.”

  Eileen’s mouth felt dry. Her mother was talking again about Clare’s car accident—but also something else. She glanced again over Ella’s shoulder, and the counselor gave her a thumbs-up and then made a single rolling hand motion. Keep it going.

  Eileen took a breath and swallowed. “Mom? Can we go now?”

  Ella placed both her hands on Eileen’s face again. “First, I need you to promise to help me.”

  “Help you what?” she asked.

  “Keep this one secret.” Ella closed her eyes, as if she were sorry to have to do this. “I know it might feel wrong. But I need you to trust me right now. I know what’s best. Can you do that for me? For your sister?”

  With her face still between her mother’s hands, Eileen nodded.

  “Good girl,” her mom whispered, kissed Eileen’s cheek, and then released her.

  She gave Eileen another smile, so full of love and motherly devotion, and then shifted her gaze to the space all around them. Eileen watched as the confidence and self-assured authority drained away from her mother and confusion rushed onto her expression to fill the void. Her shoulders dropped two inches, and her mouth fell open. Her eyes raked back over Eileen without a spark of recognition. Eileen took a step forward and grabbed Ella’s hand, afraid that her mother might flail or fall. The nurse and the counselor took some cue that now was the time to act and moved in behind Ella, gentle and careful to not startle her as they guided her backward and into her chair.

  “She’s exhausted. We’ll take her out now,” the nurse said.

  Eileen nodded and watched as they released the brake, turned the chair around, and rushed Ella back up the aisle.

  “Jesus,” Simon whispered as they both returned to their seats. “Is she okay? Are you? How did you get her to calm down?”

  Eileen stared ahead at Clare’s frozen profile as the momentum of mourners returned and then began filing past to say goodbye. “I promised to keep her secret.”

  “What secret?” Simon glanced over their shoulders, as if checking to make sure Ella was truly gone.

  “I’m not sure.” She turned her head and faced him. “But it has something to do with Clare…and I think maybe Adam too.”

  Chapter 28

  Clare

  Two years before her death

  The work was affecting her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Largely because, when she had first decided to dig deep and write A Perfect Life, she hadn’t envisioned the story the way it was turning out. She was only a few chapters in, and already she was wondering if she should abandon the project altogether.

  There was a darkness to them, like her mind and creative energy were being dragged down into some backwater of her subconscious. The words were crafted behind some gauzy neurological filter that she couldn’t see beyond. She only felt them. And all the words felt like loss, betrayal, regrets, and grief. For the first time in her career, she was beginning to avoid writing. Instead of marching upstairs with coffee in hand ready to jump in every morning, Clare found herself spending more time sifting through her old journals and pictures and the memories they dredged up. She would spend hours just sitting on her couch, staring out at the Pacific and thinking about her life, about her family, about Adam—about the girl she had been and the woman she had become. The beliefs she had about that woman. The beliefs she had about the events that shaped her life—this work was making her question all of it.

  The questions were somehow tied up with the book, and she was beginning to think that maybe the book was formulating an answer to these questions. It was beginning to frighten her because she realized she had no idea what would happen next. She sat down every day and picked up the thread from where she’d left off the day before with no plan or plot or even forethought, if she was being completely honest.

  It was most like writing in her journals, the free flow that was never meant to be seen by anyone other than herself. Did she realize that millions of people all over the world would eventually read this book? What would all those people think? Since beginning this new project, she herself rarely liked what she wrote—and she was pretty sure she hated her largely unsympathetic characters. A long suffering and childless couple, wh
ose withered ambitions, broken promises, and marital betrayals had left them both bitter and prone to engaging in verbal jousts and petty slights. Would two such people even stay married to each other? And if so, why would they do it? Maybe she should guide them to some redemption—some reconciliation. If that was the case, she couldn’t see any ladder up from the pit she had flung these two characters into.

  Curled on her couch with her feet beneath her, Clare sighed in frustration. She wasn’t probably making a mistake with this project; she knew she was.

  What are you so afraid of, Clare? It was like she could actually hear Donna, all these years later.

  Charlie, tired of lying in the sun at the edge of her shag rug, jumped up onto her lap, stretched his paws high onto her chest, arched his back, and extended his mouth up for a quick lick of her face. He stood there, squirming and wagging his tail, insisting she come back to the room, back to this present, back to the sun and the view and the life that was right here. She smiled at him, and his tail picked up the pace.

  “How can I love you so much? You silly dog.” She held his long ears in both her hands and kissed his head.

  Her phone rang on the coffee table in front of her. It was the Regency, her mother’s care facility. Clare’s back tensed. It was the third call this week. She had Henry drive her out there every Thursday for a visit, and those visits were typically pleasant. Her mother was, mostly, cogent, relaxed, and well cared for. During their visits, Ella would tell Clare about all the activities she had participated in over the week. Then last month, something had changed. Her mother had been less lucid during their visits, more confused, and would often speak to Clare as if she were still a child. Last Thursday her mother had launched into a conversation about Clare’s upcoming high school graduation as if it were 1993. Without the doctors having to tell her so, she knew her mother’s condition was getting worse.

  She picked up her phone. “Hello, this is Clare.”

  “Ms. Collins, hello. This is Winston Crane, director here at the Regency.”

  Clare sat up straighter. It was always hard to tell from the onset of a phone call if the reason why the top dog was contacting her directly was because the situation was really that serious or if it was simply because she was Clare Collins. “Yes. Hello, Winston.” She worked to keep the edge of panic from her voice. Maybe it wasn’t even about her mother. Maybe her assistant had simply forgotten to pay their enormous bill. She stood up and walked to the plate-glass wall. “I hope everything is okay?” she asked as she gazed out at the ocean, which was reflecting sharp shards of sunlight. A lone person in a kayak paddled far out beyond the breaks.

  “Yes, well…I am sorry to be calling you again…”

  Clare closed her eyes.

  “But I’m afraid that Mrs. Kaczanowski—well, two members of our staff needed to restrain her. I know this is distressing to hear, but it was a safety measure we needed to deploy as your mother was physically attacking another resident. I assure you, it was only done in strict accordance with our policies on restraint and as a last resort to protect the other resident.”

  Clare tilted her head back and closed her eyes again. She wasn’t sure what to say next: Is she okay? Is the other person okay? Why did she attack another person? Are you kicking my mother out?

  “We are going to need you to come down and sign some paperwork. It’s part of our policies and procedures when restraint has been used.”

  “Legal,” Clare blurted, returning her head to its upright position.

  Winston cleared his throat. “Yes, but we also take the opportunity to fully explain the event and response to the family—to answer their questions fully and hopefully reassure them that their loved one is being cared for by only the best and most thoroughly trained individuals at all times. Is there any possibility that you can come in today?”

  “Yes, of course. I will come right now.”

  “And,” Winston said, hesitating, “will you be bringing legal counsel with you?”

  She could almost hear him wincing on the other end of the line.

  “No,” Clare said, sighing. “I doubt that’s necessary.” She knew as well as anybody her mother’s physical capacity. She had been a cop for forty years. Coupled with her worsening confusion—“Do you know why she attacked the other woman?”

  “Ah, a man, actually,” Winston corrected her. “And after interviewing the staff and other residents who were present when it occurred, I’m sorry to say we have been unable to identify a plausible antecedent. Several people did report that she was yelling and calling the other resident Jim. She seemed to believe that he was about to hurt someone named Eileen? I’m not sure if that helps, but we can certainly discuss it further when you—”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Clare blurted and hung up her phone. Jesus Christ. Ella thought the man was Jim, her long-dead, abusive husband.

  She rushed from her study and down the stairs. Her bare feet quick stepped on the cold marble as Charlie kept an excited pace beside her. “Simon!” she shouted, her voice echoing throughout the empty house before she remembered he had left on a flight for New York that morning. “Damn it!” Also, she realized it was Sunday and Henry had the day off. “Shit!”

  She would have to drive herself. Which she could do, thanks to her mother’s insistence and homespun amateur behavior therapy two decades ago—but she still didn’t like to. “Shit, shit, shit,” she whispered to herself as she pulled the car key off the hook in the mudroom, slipped on a pair of sandals by the door, and snatched her purse off the bench.

  She rushed out, hit the button to open the double garage door, and slid onto the driver’s seat of her Bentley—not noticing how the airflow between the open garage and the open windows in the living room prevented the house door from closing behind her. Pushing the ignition, she pointedly ignored the flood of adrenaline and the deep recesses of her brain that were forever hardwired to be afraid of driving. She backed out of the garage, her neck craned so she could see over her shoulder, down the drive, onto their street. Then she cranked the wheel left and pointed the car toward the city, silently cursing Simon and Henry, her mother and the Regency, even though she knew that none of this was anyone’s fault.

  When she pulled up, the Regency valet opened her door, and Winston was at her side within moments. “Ms. Collins—”

  “Just take me to her,” Clare said, cutting him off as they entered the double doors being held open for them by two uniformed doormen. “I promise to sign all your paperwork after. But I want to speak with her first.”

  “Of course. Her personal therapist is in speaking with her now.”

  Clare nodded, wondering if her mother, in one of her mental time travel episodes, ever went into an apoplectic fit over the idea that she now saw a mind meddler—and twice a week at that.

  “Here we are,” Winston said as they arrived at Ella’s private rooms. “She is calmer now, but would you like the therapist to stay? Just in case.”

  “No,” Clare said and opened the door herself. “I think we’ll be fine.”

  “Very well. If you change your mind—”

  Clare waved off the rest of his sentence with her hand. When the door opened, the therapist rose from her chair in the corner with a smile. “We’ve just been—”

  “Thank you,” Clare said. “I know how to call if I need you.”

  “Yes, um…of course. I’ll be…it’s just that…”

  “Thank you, Doctor Keen.” Winston cued the woman to wrap it up and leave. “Ms. Collins will let us know, should she need us.”

  Without any more broken sentences, they both left the room, closing the door without a sound behind them. Clare had half expected to find her mother lying flat on her back in bed, wrists and ankles secured at her sides by two-inch leather straps. Or in wilder thoughts incited by asylum scenes in old movies, her mother may have been forced into a ding
y, once-white straightjacket of some kind.

  Instead, Ella Kaczanowski sat quiet, in full possession of all four of her limbs, sipping what was possibly hot tea from a small blue china cup. She turned and smiled at Clare without a trace of recognition. “Hello,” she said, sounding a little surprised but not necessarily unhappy to have her private afternoon suddenly interrupted by a strange visit. As if remembering her manners, she asked, “Have you come for a cup of tea?”

  Clare licked her lips. She was tempted to ask her mother, in the shittiest tone she could conjure, if she had bothered to offer the poor elderly man she had assaulted a fucking cup of tea before she attacked him. It’s not her fault, she reminded herself. It’s the disease advancing throughout her brain more and more every day, cleaning house and shutting off the lights. She took a breath; what would Eileen do? She had watched her sister barely break a sweat while dealing with her own three children fighting like cats. Jesus, she wished her sister was here right now.

  “Mom?” she finally asked and took a step forward. “It’s me, Clare.”

  Ella’s smile faltered, but only for a second before Clare saw the awareness move into her eyes. “Of course you are, silly girl. Who else would you be? Come, sit down. Someone made us tea.”

  Clare could tell this thought tripped Ella up again, because who had made them tea? As she sat down, she watched her mother gaze around her bedroom—and for that matter, where were they…exactly? Her mother may have realized that she was Clare, her daughter, but other than that, she was still not in the here and now.

  “Mom, do you remember what happened?”

  “Course I do. I was there.”

  This could mean anything, really, but Clare decided to press on anyway, just in case her mother was more lucid than she appeared to be. “Can you tell me what happened? Why did you do it? I’m going to have to go and sign some paperwork, legal stuff, and I want to make sure—”