The Descendants

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  “Is this really the right time to be talking about this?”

  “How much are you getting?” Scott asks.

  I look at Barry for a little help in shutting his father up, but all he says is: “Dad, you can read all about it in the paper, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t need to read about it,” he says. “I can hear about it right here.”

  “I’m not talking about this right now, Scott. It’s hardly appropriate.”

  “It’s all the same to you, I guess. No big deal. A million here, a million there.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Scottie looks petrified on his lap. He makes to get up and she gets off his lap, but then he settles back into his chair. He doesn’t make eye contact. There’s a cruel, teasing grin on his face. “It’s funny that Joanie happens to come into this misfortune at the same time you’re coming into fortune.”

  “It’s not funny at all,” I say. “There’s nothing remotely funny about any of this.”

  Yesterday the cousins gathered around Hugh as he broke the news, and I appreciated his delivery. It was flat and impartial, commanding. His tone was unwelcoming; no one balked or sighed dramatically. I know Joanie must have had something to do with it. They would have protested if she were healthy. Now they’ll wait until some time has passed. Hugh made me sound bewildered though determined. He made me sound optimistic and brave. Ralph patted me on the back. Six said, “Doesn’t matter to me. I’ll be dead soon.”

  “You were selfish with her,” Scott says. “She gave you everything. A good happy home.”

  “Scott,” I say. “What’s the point?”

  I look at Barry again, busying himself with Joanie, and I know he must agree with his father or else he’d be helping me out.

  “We lived well,” I say. “Better than well. You think she was unhappy because I didn’t give her enough? Are you actually angry about this?”

  “She wanted her own boat.”

  “I couldn’t afford it! I don’t have that kind of money at my disposal. Things are tied up. We live off of my salary. I will use trust money to pay for college, and I use it for Punahou, which is twenty-eight thousand for the two of them. Plus voice and dance, summer camp. The list goes on.”

  The girls look startled and offended. That’s the thing with privileged kids—they forget their teachers get paid. They forget that everything costs something: being in a play, making a bong in glassblowing. I’m sure poor kids are aware of what everything costs. Every little thing. I look at the wall over Scott’s head and want to punch it. Why am I talking about tuition? Why am I defending myself?

  “She should have had her own boat, something she really knew. Then she wouldn’t be…” He gestures to his daughter.

  “She wasn’t driving in the first place, and you can’t blame this on me. I didn’t orchestrate this!”

  “She deserved more from you,” he says, looking me square in the eyes. I can’t believe he’s saying this, especially in front of the girls, and I almost do it. The truth almost takes a swan dive off my tongue. I could tell Scott she was cheating on me, that I deserved more as well. I could tell him she broke all of our hearts.

  “I know,” I say. “She deserved more.” And I realize this is true, not just a statement to placate him. I take a deep breath, remembering he is her father. I couldn’t imagine one of my daughters on that bed. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “For Christ’s sake, take it easy on the man,” Sid says.

  “Yeah, Grandpa,” Scottie says.

  “Dad did the best he could,” Alex says.

  I’m shocked, almost uncomfortable, worried that Scott might think I paid the girls to say this. Our united front feels strange, like we’re some other family. One of those happy families I see occasionally. And then I think: Are we? Despite everything, are we on to something here? Yet wherever we are, whatever we are, it would exist only with Joanie’s absence. This has all been made possible by her silence. I think of Sid telling his mother that his father’s death was the best thing to happen to them, and I realize he didn’t say it to be malicious or insolent. He said it because it was partly true, painful but true. How brave he must have been to say it.

  I could tell Scott that money isn’t going to make my life better; his daughter’s death is going to make my life better. Deep within me, I know this. I don’t want to be in this situation, I don’t wish this upon her, but now that it has happened, now that I know what’s going to happen, I am confident my girls will make it out and will become strong, interesting people and I will be a good father and we will have a better life than the one we thought we were destined to have. The three of us are going to do well, Joanie. I’m sorry about that.

  “I didn’t make a choice,” I say to Scott. “I didn’t sell.”

  The girls search my face. Alex smiles. I’m not sure why, or what my decision means to her, but I’m so glad to have her approval.

  “I’m keeping it in the family even though it’s going to be a pain in the ass. I’ll have a lot of work to do.”

  “It’s none of my business,” Scott says.

  I want to shout that I’m holding on to it, that I’m holding on to everything, that life has taken me by surprise and I’m surprising it right back in my small way.

  Scott stands and walks over to Joanie. He appraises the flowers as though looking at books on a shelf, and then he laughs. “You must have pissed a lot of people off.” He seems almost proud.

  “I did. And I probably haven’t heard the end of it.” Even though what I have done is perfectly valid and protected by law, I’m not ruling out a jackass prosecutor finding some tiny rip in the seam that he can worm himself into.

  Alice looks at Sid’s magazine. Her eyes are huge, like an owl’s. “Are we ready to go?” she asks.

  “No, Mom,” Barry says.

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “Because, Mom—”

  “Yes, Alice,” Scott says. “We’re ready to go.” He holds his hands together and looks down upon his daughter. The girls look at me, panicked.

  “Girls,” I say. “Sid.” I gesture toward the door and they follow me into the hall.

  “He’s doing it now?” Alex asks.

  “I guess so,” I say.

  Out in the hall, we take a few steps in one direction, then turn around and walk in the other direction. Scottie is the only one who stands still and watches. After a while we follow her lead, yet glance down the hallway, perhaps trying to hide our interest in seeing how it’s done. Scott is closing his eyes and touching her shoulder, but he isn’t speaking. Barry is watching him, too, with both fear and reverence.

  “Is he praying?” Sid asks.

  “No,” I say.

  Alice walks away from the bed and Scott glances up at her, then down at his daughter, and puts his hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. Then he opens his eyes and places a hand on Joanie’s forehead, smooths her hair back, and lets his hand rest on top of her head. Then he goes to Alice, takes her hand, and walks toward the door. We all step back. He glances at me briefly before walking down the hall. It’s a look I recognize—one that another attorney gives me when he loses to me. It’s a look of annoyance that I seem to have gotten away with something. It’s a look that’s stupidly certain I am a lucky man.

  41

  JOANIE SEEMS DIFFERENT now that her father has said goodbye. It’s as though his farewell pushed her a step closer to nonexistence, and it’s hard to look at her, knowing that her parents won’t ever see her again. Everything seems different. We stay out in the hall, letting Barry be alone with her.

  “Does Grandpa even like us anymore?” Scottie asks, something I myself was thinking about. I wonder if he’ll keep in touch with us, though I suppose that’s up to me. I’ll need to make sure he sees his grandchildren. I’ll need to make sure he’s taken care of. He’s mine now, too, I guess. The tops of the girls’ heads are identical. I notice this for the first time, a white flash of s
kin in the middle, the hair twisting to the right.

  “Of course he likes us. He’s just sad. We say things when we’re sad.”

  Sid keeps looking down the hall, toward the elevators, and it distracts me.

  “I’m leaving, everyone,” Barry says, walking out of the room.

  “Okay,” I say, catching myself from saying, You’re done? You’re sure? This is happening too fast.

  “I might be back,” he says. “I’m going to go and let it sit. If I feel there’s more, I’ll come back. But right now I’m going to go.”

  “Okay, Barry,” I say.

  He gives me a hug and then goes to hug the girls. “We can do anything,” he says to them. “We can act any way we want to, but we must not be angry. We can’t be ugly.”

  I recognize those words. I was cooking a roast and Esther was making empanadas and watching Oprah, and on the show a woman whose son was killed said the same thing to her family directly after his death. I remember actually stopping to watch this woman because she sounded so strong and smart and I really believed her, believed that she said this to her family, and I believed that saying this worked, but the words don’t sound powerful coming from Barry. I’m not convinced they’ll work for him. He’s read so many self-help books, but they were about love, not death. I think grief and anger are going to come to him suddenly. They’ll be undiluted and words won’t work. We’re all going to get hit and won’t know how to hit back. I wish I knew the answers, how to help myself and the people who will hurt all around me.

  “Well, girls,” I say. “It’s just me and you.”

  “And you and me,” Scottie says.

  “And me,” Sid says.

  “Are you guys okay?” I ask. “Should we go back in?”

  Everyone looks in, but no one makes a move toward the room.

  “This isn’t working,” Alex says. “I feel like we’re just watching her. Waiting…”

  “I know,” I say. “I know.”

  I see Sid looking down the hall and checking his watch and cell phone once more.

  “You expecting someone?” I ask.

  “No,” he says.

  I can tell he’s disappointed in me. He thinks that I should “step up” and fight Brian who, Sid claims, “couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight.” He thinks telling Julie about the affair would make me feel better, and this is amusing to me, yet sad because he still doesn’t get it. If anyone should know about the futility of revenge, it’s Sid.

  “Maybe we should get some air. Get some food? We could get a plate lunch.”

  “Should we say goodbye like it’s the last time?” Scottie asks. “Just in case.”

  I look into the room. “No,” I say. “It’s okay. We’ll be right back.” Saying goodbye like it’s our last could become exhausting, so we leave. We just go, hoping she’ll still be here and too afraid to admit that we could be wrong.

  42

  SHE WAS STILL there when we got back from lunch and she’s still here this morning. And here we are again, another day sitting in the dark room, watching Joanie, waiting. Some of the flowers have wilted, the ginger and the pikake, though they still make the room smell good. The tips of Joanie’s fingers are blue. I wonder if anyone else notices this. It has been five days since she’s been on her own.

  Joy appears in the doorway. I’m relieved to see her.

  “Joy,” I say.

  “Mr. King. Your wife has a visitor.”

  I watched a father say a wordless goodbye to his daughter, yet this is almost more disturbing, Joy’s graveness, the fact that she can’t look me in the eye.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “A woman. I don’t know her name. Should I send her this way, or would you folks like to be alone?”

  I try to think of who it could be. Everyone I told has stopped in, though I could see Shelley coming back to check on us.

  “Sure,” I say. “Send her in.”

  “Okay, Mr. King.” Joy walks away, and I wonder if she’s sad for me or if it’s that we’re no longer clients; they’re just waiting for us to get out of here so they can clear the bed for the next patient.

  “Who is it?” Alex asks. She tucks her hair behind her ear and smooths her shirt. Only now do I notice how nice she looks. She wears black slacks and a crisp white collared blouse. Sid, too, is wearing a collared shirt, and jeans that aren’t falling off him. No one told them to dress nicely or respectfully, and I’m stunned though almost saddened that they didn’t need me to guide them. Scottie, however, is still in my charge, which is evident from her extra-large T-shirt that hangs below her shorts so it looks like the T-shirt is all she’s wearing. The back of the shirt reads FIERCE and has a picture of a pit bull foaming at the mouth and lifting his hind leg over a daisy.

  “What if we don’t want her in the room?” Scottie says. “It’s our time.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” Alex says.

  “What if she’s from the child protection agency?” Scottie asks.

  “For what, Scottie? Why would they be here?” I look at her shirt, her hair, her nails.

  “To take us away,” she says.

  “But why would they do that?”

  “I was only joking. Jeez, chill.”

  Sid sits in the same chair and his foot taps against the floor; he seems nervous. Then his foot suddenly stops and he straightens up, a look of contentment brightening his face. I look at the doorway and see a huge arrangement of white roses, so large they cover the woman’s face, but I immediately recognize the bronze hair and pale arms of Julie Speer.

  SHE SETS THE vase of flowers on the floor and looks down at her light blue sweater.

  “I’ve spilled,” she says. Water runs down her sweater, ironically forming a stain that looks a bit like a rose on its stem.

  “Here,” Scottie says. She goes through the drawer near Joanie’s bed and brings out a hospital gown. “Use this.”

  Julie hesitates but then says, “Thank you,” and quickly swipes at her sweater, then stops and looks at all of us and then at Joanie. I remember telling her that my wife was sick, but I can’t believe she would come. Alex picks up the vase and places it on the shelf at the back of the room, since the counter near Joanie is full.

  “It’s nice of you to visit,” I say. “I didn’t expect—”

  “I know,” she says. “We just met, but I was thinking about you girls these past few days and I knew your mom was here. I just felt I should stop in.”

  Her hands are shaking slightly. She brings one to her chest and takes a deep breath. I take her by the elbow and lead her to the chair by Sid. He nods at her.

  “This is Sid,” I say. “Sid, Mrs. Speer.”

  “Julie,” she says.

  He extends his hand and she takes it and for some reason says, “Thank you.”

  “Where are your kids?” Scottie asks.

  Julie seems to consider her question carefully. “They’re still on Kauai with my husband. They’re returning this afternoon.”

  “Are you friends with my mom?” Scottie asks.

  Julie studies Joanie as though the answer to Scottie’s question depends on what she sees. “No,” she says. “I’ve never met her.”

  Alex and I make perplexed faces at each other, something I’ve found we’ve been doing a lot lately. Whenever something is strange or annoying or funny, her face is the first place I look. What is Julie doing here? my face asks.

  “We appreciate the flowers,” I say. “We appreciate you coming by.”

  “Alex,” Sid says. “Scottie. Let’s give them some time alone.”

  “What?” I say. “No, that’s okay. You don’t have to leave.”

  Sid puts his hand on Alex’s back and guides her toward the door. Scottie follows, and then he closes the door and leaves me alone with her. I need to tell Julie that my wife isn’t going to get better, as I previously said. I need to tell her she should leave. I walk to my wife’s bedside.

  “I know,” Julie says.
>
  She stands against the window, against the vertical blinds, the kind Joanie couldn’t stand. I used to have them in the den. “They’re very starter-home,” Joanie said when she first moved in. They were there when I bought the house and I wouldn’t have changed a thing—the floors, countertops, patio, garage, roof—until Joanie pointed out the flaws. She extended the front walk, planted three types of ferns, extended the roof, and put in large wooden posts so that the façade looked grand yet welcoming. She ripped out the carpet, tore down the floral wallpaper in the bedrooms, remodeled the kitchen, the bathrooms. She bargained with contractors, called in favors. She worked hard, and she made the old place into a beautiful home, and once I saw it, I couldn’t imagine ever living in it the way it had been.

  “Matt?” Julie says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, Julie.”

  “That’s why I’ve come,” she says. “Because I know. I’ve come because my husband wouldn’t.”

  I absorb this, searching my pants pocket, for some reason. I finger a ball of something—lint or a worn wrapper. I wonder what it is.

  “I know he was sleeping with her. I know she’s…not well.”

  “She’s dying,” I say.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “That’s not what I’m asking. I mean, why are you sorry?”

  “I shouldn’t have come to your house like that,” I say. “I didn’t know he had a family. I’m sorry.”

  She looks at the foot of the bed, then up to Joanie’s face.

  “Joanie’s beautiful,” I say. “This isn’t the way she normally looks.”

  She nods. “I feel awful,” she says, “but I’m so angry.” She starts to cry. “I’m so angry at both of them.”

  “I’m angry, too. And it’s really strange, a really bad thing to feel.”

  She wipes the tears off her face.

  “When did he tell you?” I ask.

  She looks surprised. “My husband?”