by Sonja Yoerg
She squatted in front of Diesel and scratched his ears. “How’s everyone’s favorite ottoman?” Diesel licked her hand and whined softly.
Ella said, “How’s Nana?”
“Better. She should be out of the hospital in a couple days.”
“That’s good.”
Geneva shrugged. “I saw your cousins. Whit was asking about you. He wanted to know if you had a boyfriend yet, or if you were still cool.”
“He said that?”
“Yes. He’s a riot. Like his dad.”
“We haven’t seen them in a while. Wasn’t it Thanksgiving?”
Geneva smiled, gratified her family mattered to Ella. With the Novaks a constant presence, she didn’t take her daughter’s memory of Riley family events for granted. “Yes, Thanksgiving in L.A.”
“Oh, yeah. Nana fell asleep at the table. Uncle Dub got all the Christmas stuff from the garage, and we strung up lights and decorated the table while she was out of it.” She stopped to control a fit of laughter. “Then she woke up, looked around, and said, ‘Must’ve been the eggnog. Merry Christmas!’”
Geneva winced. Perhaps some Riley family events were better forgotten.
“Ellie,” Tom said as he put his tools away, “I’m about finished here. Give Diesel his dinner, would you?”
“Sure.” She turned her book upside down on the chair and left, the dog at her heels.
Geneva picked up the book. She tore a corner from the newspaper on the floor, marked the page, and placed the book on a side table. “Ella was verging on garrulous. What’s that about?”
Tom shrugged. “She’s a teenager.”
“It’s just been so long since she said that much. At least to me. Anyway, did she do the practice SAT test?”
“I don’t know. She was in her room a long time today working on something. You can ask her.”
“Thanks. I love being the SAT police.”
“You’ve got a knack for it.”
“Someone has to be the parent.”
He glared at her. “What the hell do you think I do?”
Whatever’s easiest, she thought as she sank into the chair.
Tom swept wood shavings into a dustpan with short, sharp strokes. “Did you and Dublin get anywhere with finding help for your mother?”
“Tom, can we talk about this later?”
“I guess. But isn’t there some urgency?”
Geneva sighed. “We called a few places that were recommended, but no one was available on such short notice. I’ll call more tomorrow.”
Tom stood in front of her. “I mentioned this on the phone, but I’m going to say it again. She could come here.”
“And I’ll say what I said on the phone: I can’t see it working.”
“Why not?”
“How can you ask that?”
“She’s a sixty-four-year-old woman who had a bad car accident. And she’s your mother.”
“She could pay for the care she needs. She’d just have to curtail her spending.”
“How much?”
“She’d probably have to move somewhere cheaper. Out of California.”
“Away from her grandchildren.”
“That she’s so very close to. She called Charlie ‘Barney’ the other day.”
“She’s old.”
“Any other tired excuses you want to trot out, Tom?”
“I don’t see why you’re so hostile.”
“Because you’re doing a stellar job of making me feel guilty.”
“Honestly, Geneva, your guilt should be telling you something.”
“Right now it’s telling me that you’re pressuring me. Try backing off.”
“I only want you to do the right thing.”
“Right for whom?”
“For everyone.”
“Good luck with that.” She instantly regretted her sarcastic tone. “Look. I know a daughter is supposed to help out her mother, especially if there aren’t other good options. I get it. But why does that automatically override the fact that I don’t want her in our house?”
“Maybe she’s learned her lesson. Maybe if she’s here, and she needs to rely on you, she’ll see how to be a better person.”
She wanted to laugh. A better person. So ridiculous, so trite. But Tom meant it. His face betrayed concern and hope. She had always been drawn to his earnestness and optimism, fascinated by his sunny worldview. She didn’t consider herself a cynic, but next to her husband she was. She felt disappointed in herself even while knowing, in logical terms, that her attitude toward her mother was justified. At work, Geneva was precisely the person she needed to be. At home, however, she felt compelled by Tom, and sometimes by her children, to consider other possible versions of herself. More flexible. More forgiving. At forty she hadn’t decided whether strength or fear kept her true to her real self—the tough, rational one.
“I wish it didn’t have to be me.”
“It’s not you. It’s us.”
“I know, Tom. Thanks.” That’s what he deserved to hear, but she didn’t believe it for a minute. When it came to her mother, she was on her own.
• • •
She’d first met Tom outside the clinic during her second year at the veterinary school at the University of California at Davis. One afternoon she left the building, intending to study at home in her studio apartment, then take a long walk before dinner. She pictured the container of vegetable curry she’d moved from the freezer to the refrigerator the night before and wondered whether she had finished the jar of chutney from the farmers’ market.
A man sat hunched over on a bench, a dog’s collar in his hands, and a leash at his feet. His shoulders shook with each loud sob, the sound half choke, half cry. Geneva stopped, unsure of what to do. Was it worse to ignore him or to intrude? She took a few steps toward her car, away from the crying man, and stopped again. It felt wrong to leave. She wondered for a moment if she recognized him, if that might account for the pull she felt, but couldn’t place him.
She never cried in public. Even in the privacy of her apartment, she never gave in so thoroughly to distress. Perhaps she had as a child, but she couldn’t recall a specific incident. When her father died, she must have broken down then, but she couldn’t be certain. She could summon few clear memories from that time.
She walked to the bench and sat down. People went in and out of the clinic doors. Dogs stopped to sniff and pee on a worn patch of grass. An afternoon breeze lifted across the playing fields on the far side of the parking lot. She zipped up her jacket. The man’s crying eased. He sat up, wiped his face with his sleeve, and stared ahead at the field where a group of men was getting ready to play soccer. He reached for Geneva’s hand.
She struggled to comprehend why she was holding hands with a complete stranger—and an emotionally distraught one at that. But a deeper feeling, instinctual, told her she was exactly where she needed to be. For once, she listened.
The man turned to face her. His eyes were hazel. “He was a really good dog.”
She squeezed his hand. “What was his name?”
“Larry.”
She couldn’t help a small smile.
“I know.” He shook his head a little and shrugged. “It suited him.” His expression shifted, suddenly aware of himself, but not embarrassed. “I’m Tom.” He smiled at her.
Clarity. Not the certainty of a well-reasoned argument, or the satisfaction of a properly completed procedure. But clarity, like light itself.
“It suits you,” she said.
Eighteen years later, she remembered the feeling, but dimly. On dark days she felt no more than the hope of its return. Her love for Tom was at sea in a fog.
• • •
At six the next morning, she arranged her swim fins, paddles, buoy, and kickboard on the edge of th
e community pool. A young woman in an ankle-length parka and ski hat sat atop the lifeguard stand, her knees hugged to her chest, and gazed vaguely toward the only other swimmer—a man whom Geneva recognized as a regular. On other mornings, they had nodded to each other across the lane lines but never spoke. She put on her goggles and pressed the lenses to ensure they were watertight. Goose bumps rose on her arms and legs. She entered the water feetfirst. Fog swirled above the surface of the pool, obscuring, then revealing the large lap timer three lanes away. She stuck a piece of paper detailing her workout onto the pool wall just above the waterline. The workouts came from a Web site. She printed out a month’s worth at a time and stored them in her swim bag. She never read the workout until she entered the pool. If it called for lots of sprinting, or length after length of butterfly, she would be tempted to crumple it up and improvise. But once in the water, she was committed.
To her relief, the printout called for long sets to build endurance. She pushed off the wall and began the warm-up series. Each time her arms came out of the water, she felt the cold. Her legs felt heavy, and her flip turns were off by a foot. She concentrated on lengthening her stroke, on catching the water and pushing it past her. She imagined her body as a swimming machine, smooth and efficient. After twenty laps, she found her cadence. She unhooked her mind from the work of her body and let it drift.
To her surprise, the first person who snagged her thoughts was not her mother, but her father. He would have turned eighty a month ago, but she couldn’t picture him as an elderly man. He was frozen in his late forties, upright and strong, with a touch of gray at his temples. When Geneva was three, Eustace Riley became mayor of Aliceville. His family’s reputation and wealth had helped him garner attention, but it was his self-assurance that held it. It seemed natural to Geneva he should run their town—the only world she knew. He handled every situation within the jurisdiction of his family and his town with unguarded authority. And if he were alive today, he would know how to handle her mother.
As she swam lap after lap, she imagined her parents together as they were thirty years before, walking home from church or sharing a drink on the wide front porch. Her mother was so young, her hair golden and her eyes clear and bright. She was innocent of her future as a thirty-six-year-old widow. She didn’t drink then, not more than most people. Occasionally she came home from a party tottering on her heels and laughing a little too loudly. If the children were awake, her father would steer Helen into the kitchen by her elbow and instruct Paris to make coffee. He was impervious to alcohol and late nights, rising each morning at five without fail.
She stopped at the pool wall to catch her breath and take a couple glugs from her sports drink. Her vision of her father was that of an eleven-year-old. How could it be otherwise? But it didn’t matter. She aspired to emulate him, to manage every situation with quiet ease. Tom wanted her to invite Helen to convalesce at their house out of filial duty, and with the hope of improving the mother-daughter relationship. She would take her mother in, not for Tom’s reasons but her own. She would find a way to cope with her, and to help her. Her father would have wanted her to do no less.
Geneva glanced at the workout sheet. One more set of five hundred yards, starting slowly and building by hundreds to her fastest pace. She pushed off the wall, her arms stretched in front in a streamlined position. She executed two dolphin kicks, coasted halfway down the lane, and began her long, smooth strokes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GENEVA
Pushing open the glass door, Geneva entered the rehabilitation center where her mother had been since her release from the hospital two days earlier. Helen waited in the reception area in a wheelchair. Her arm hung in a sling, and her right leg was encased in a brace. An orderly stood behind her, hands on the handles.
Geneva bent to kiss her mother on the cheek. “Happy Mother’s Day. Ready to go?”
“You’re late.”
“Tom and I had a little trouble leaving Dublin’s.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Is it really Mother’s Day?”
“It is.” Geneva addressed the orderly. “Do I need to sign anything?”
He handed her a clipboard. “John Hancock at the X, please.”
She glanced at the release and signed it.
Helen gave a wry smile. “You just paid my bill.”
The orderly laughed. “We’re going to miss your spunk, Mrs. Riley.” He showed Geneva how to operate the wheelchair and followed her outside. “You have a nice Mother’s Day with your family.”
Geneva wheeled her mother down the ramp to the curb. Tom and Dublin waited beside the open doors of the Cherokee. Tom had accompanied Geneva to L.A. in case Helen needed assistance on the way home.
“We sprung you!” Dublin shouted. “Quick! Before the cops get here!”
“One prison to another, more like,” Helen mumbled.
Geneva shook her head in dismay and set the brake.
Tom helped Helen stand; then he and Dublin lifted her into the front seat.
Dublin wiped his brow in an exaggerated motion. “Good thing you still have your girlish figure, Mom.”
“Same as Nancy Reagan. A perfect size six.”
Geneva recognized the thinly veiled reference to her own height and athletic build, which her mother considered less than ladylike. As if she were in control of her genetic material.
She and Dublin climbed into the backseat. He pinched her knee in a horse bite. Reflexively, she elbowed him in the ribs.
He winked at her. “Just like old times, huh, Ginny?” She smiled at him.
Tom reached across and clipped Helen’s seat belt. They drove the few miles to the condo to collect her things. Helen insisted on coming inside.
“We can pack for you, Mom,” Geneva said.
“I don’t want you all rifling through my drawers. And how could you know what I want?”
So Tom and Dublin unloaded her into the wheelchair.
She pointed to the passenger seat. “My bag, please.” Dublin placed it on her lap and wheeled her inside. The one-bedroom condo was crowded with heavy furniture from the Aliceville house. The blinds were shut, and the air was stale. Geneva tilted the blinds and slid open the door that led to a small balcony overlooking a pool. Several adults lounged nearby under umbrellas while children splashed in the water. A small boy sprinted along the coping. A woman leaped from her chair, grabbed his arm, and swatted his bottom. His wailing carried into the room.
“If you leave that open,” Helen said, “all you’ll hear is screaming.”
“What’s a little screaming?” Dublin said. “Smells like a crypt in here.”
He parked his mother in the bedroom, then helped Tom empty the sparse contents of the refrigerator into a box. Geneva couldn’t remember having been in her mother’s bedroom before. Talia must have been the one who’d helped her move in five years earlier. How sad it must be to get older, she thought. To raise your family in a beautiful house in the small town you grew up in, where every person on the street was someone you knew, then to watch your family go, one by one. And finally, to end up in a cramped condo in an enormous city, hoping your children grant you a slice of their lives.
“The suitcase is under the bed,” Helen said.
Geneva bent down and recognized the red roller bag she and Tom had given Helen for her first California Christmas. “For visiting us,” he had said. “Or Florence and Renaldo,” Geneva added, intending to suggest her mother had options. Now she could see how she might have felt pushed away.
The bag was stuck. While Geneva attempted to free it, she heard a drawer near the bed open. She peeked over the bed. Her mother had her hand over her handbag. The drawer of the bedside table was gaping. A flash of surprise came and went on Helen’s face.
“I can help you get what you need,” Gen
eva said.
Helen pulled a zebra-striped glasses case out of her bag and showed it to her daughter. “My extra set. Just in case.”
Geneva brushed away a pang of uneasiness. “Good thinking.” She unzipped the suitcase and opened the closet. “Okay, what do you want? And remember it’s colder there.”
“Don’t remind me.”
When Helen finished with the closet, she directed Geneva to the dresser. Four framed photos were arranged on top. Front and center was the same photo of Dublin and his family in Santa Monica that Geneva had on her desk at work. Another was of Geneva’s family, including Diesel sporting reindeer horns, from two Christmases ago. The third she had never seen. Florence and Renaldo, grinning and sweaty, arms over each other’s shoulders at the finish line of a race. She thought it an odd choice for her mother.
“Is this a recent photo?”
“That? Not really. But it’s the only one of the two of them I have. No decent wedding photos.” Florence and Renaldo had been married by a friend in New York. All the photos of the occasion included one or more of a motley assortment of people Helen did not know. “I don’t want strangers in my bedroom. Especially not New Yorkers.”
The last photo, in the back, pictured the four Riley children lined up on the porch of the house in Aliceville. Geneva guessed she and Dublin were around five and six. His expression was one of concerted seriousness, as if he had been told—for the last time—to behave. Geneva’s head was turned toward him. Florence and Paris were perhaps ten and twelve. Florence was half a head taller but still very much a girl, smiling awkwardly. Paris was relaxed and bored; she understood her beauty.
