by Kelly Rimmer
“Whatever we’re doing with it?” Tim interjects, surprised. “Jez, there’s only one thing to do with it. We have to sell it.”
“We could keep it and rent it out,” Jeremy says, frowning.
“And if we do that, how exactly are we going to pay for Dad’s health care?”
There’s a significant cost for Dad’s care at this nursing home—it’s a beautifully plush facility, but it comes with a mind-boggling fee to match, and his insurance is going to cover less than half of it. The first bills will come due early next year . . . maybe even sooner if Dad passes in the meantime. Dad was reasonably well-off, but when he retired he handed ownership of the business over to Ruth, and in the five years since, his savings seem to have evaporated. It was quite a shock when Dad signed his power of attorney over to Tim earlier this year and we realized just how little he had left. We’re still not entirely sure where all of his money went. It’s something Tim’s “going to look into when he gets some time,” but I don’t really blame him for putting that task off—it’s a pointless endeavor. Wherever Dad put that money, it’s not coming back.
“We’ll all chip in for the fees.” Jeremy shrugs. “Between the four of us, I’m sure we’ll find a way to come up with the cash without selling this place.”
Hunter and I exchange a glance. I guess we could come up with some money if we had to, but we’d probably have to remortgage our place to do it. He’s a junior partner at a law firm over in Seattle and he makes a good salary, but six years of expensive fertility treatments and now six months without my income have left us without any savings.
“I just don’t think Dad would want us to do that,” Tim says.
“But you really think Dad would want us to sell the house he built with his own two hands?” Jeremy snaps.
“He built hundreds of houses over his lifetime,” Tim snaps back.
“Oh, come on, Jeremy,” Ruth sighs. “You know this one is different. This one is ours.”
“So you’d have us hold on to it, but then install complete strangers in it?” Tim snorts. “Makes perfect sense.”
“Beth? What do you think?” Jeremy asks, and all eyes around the table turn to me. Ruth and I have arranged babysitters for our respective children—Noah is with Chiara again; Ruth’s kids are with her au pair. Alicia is supposedly coming, but Tim says she’s running late, and I think we all know that means she didn’t want to come but didn’t have the guts to admit that to him. But Ellis sits beside Ruth, and Hunter sits to my left. It’s Hunter my gaze goes searching for, because I don’t have the energy to buy into this debate, and I’m hoping if I deflect the attention to him, I won’t have to.
“Are there legal considerations?” I ask him, my voice small.
“I haven’t seen Patrick’s will,” Hunter says. “But generally, after he passes, the house would go to all four of you unless he’s specified otherwise. And in the meantime, Tim has power of attorney, so it’s up to him what happens to the house.”
“I wouldn’t do anything the others didn’t agree to,” Tim says, aghast at the suggestion. Hunter shrugs.
“I know that. I think we all know that, Tim. But the law is also clear on this—the final say is yours.”
“Beth, I wasn’t asking you to ask your husband for his professional legal opinion,” Jeremy interjects impatiently. “I was asking you what you think.”
“Jez?” Hunter says, and he lazily shifts his gaze from me to my brother. Jeremy raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re being a dick tonight.”
Jeremy opens his mouth to argue, but then closes it again abruptly.
“Okay. Maybe I am.” There’s a burst of quiet laughter from around the table before Jeremy sighs and admits, “I’ll be honest. I just cannot stand the thought of losing our last ties to this place.”
“We’re not losing each other. We’re not even losing Dad. It’s just a house . . . simply an object. What’s actually precious to you is the bonds the house represents, not the house itself,” I say automatically.
“Well done, Jeremy. You’ve knocked Beth back into therapist mode,” Ruth sighs, but then she flashes me a wink. I offer her a wan smile, then divert my gaze back to my plate. If only there really was a therapist mode. I’d love it if I could press a button and revert back to the competent professional I used to be.
“You still haven’t told us what you want to do with the house, Beth,” Tim murmurs. “What do you think?”
I think that I’m over this dinner and over this conversation, but I have been since we arrived, and Noah isn’t even here so I don’t have an excuse to leave early. My feelings are muted on all of this—which is confusing, because everyone else is frothing at the mouth about what we should do next. Tim obviously wants to sell, Jeremy and Ruth obviously don’t, Hunter and Ellis will keep their opinions to themselves because although they are definitely part of the family, it’s really up to the four of us.
I start to think it all through—what it will look like to prepare the house for sale or lease, the packing and the cleaning and freshening up the paint and fixing the garden. It’s a big job. No, it’s a huge job, and an awful one. It’s a job that no one has time for, although one of us could, theoretically, make time. And one of us is most definitely stuck in an odd rut at the moment, so . . .
“We’ll need to get the house ready either way,” I say slowly. I skip my gaze around the table, but this time avoid my husband’s eyes. “We can get help in for the painting and the gardening, but sorting through Dad’s things is going to be the hardest part. Maybe I should take that on, since you’re all so busy.”
“Wait—aren’t you going back to work soon?” Jeremy asks. I knew that lie was going to come back to bite me.
I clear my throat and say noncommittally, “Soon. But not quite yet.”
“You can’t do the whole house, Beth. That’s not fair.” Tim frowns.
“I . . .” I glance quickly around my siblings, then back to my plate as I shrug. “I’m the only one of us who can make time. And I kind of want to do this. For Dad.”
“You’d have to let us all help around work,” Ruth says. I glance up at her, and find she’s staring at me. I don’t like it. She’s too sharp and it feels like she’s looking through me. I pick up my fork and begin to push the food around on my plate, just so I can avoid her gaze. “And of course, when you need contractors, I can arrange them.”
“Good,” I say, still looking down.
“Are you sure, Beth?” Tim asks, very gently. I nod firmly then force a smile before I raise my gaze to look at him.
“Noah is five months old, guys. I’m ready for a project.”
Now everyone is looking at me. I feel my cheeks heating.
“It’s just . . . you’re sure you’re up to this, Beth?” Jeremy says eventually. The words drip with awkwardness, and I scowl at him.
“What? Of course I am.” Oh God, please let me do this. I just want to feel useful again. “I had a baby, Jez. I’m not the one with the terminal diagnosis here.”
“Hunter?” my sister prompts carefully, and I gape at her.
“Seriously, Ruth? Did I time warp back to the 1950s? Did you seriously just ask my husband to give me permission to do something?”
“Of course she didn’t,” Hunter sighs. “Let’s talk about this later.”
“No, Hunter,” I say flatly. “Let’s talk about it now.”
“Talk about it all you want, guys, but I’m too jetlagged to watch you two battle it out tonight, so can you do it at home?” Jeremy interjects.
“Like you can talk,” Tim snorts. “You’re the one who’s been picking fights all night.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ruth groans, rubbing her eyes wearily. “If this is how family dinners are going to be without Dad, can we just forget about the tradition altogether?”
The reminder of that empty chair is the slap in the face we all needed, and the squabbling stops immediately.
“Sorry,” I whisper, after a while. Around the tabl
e there are echoes of me too, except from Ellis. I’m pretty sure he’s actually reading, because although he’s still sitting with us, he’s been silently staring at his lap for a long while now and every now and again I hear the faint rustle of pages. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s mentally checked out of a family function to disappear into a book, and I guess that’s what Ruth gets for marrying a librarian.
“So the plan is that we clear out the house, tidy things up . . . then decide what to do with the property once it’s all done?” Jeremy asks quietly.
“In the meantime, we can all think about whether or not we can chip in to cover Dad’s health care bills,” Tim suggests.
“Andrew’s confirmation service is at St Louise’s next weekend,” Ruth says suddenly, speaking about her eldest son. “Let’s have one last family lunch here after Mass.”
“We can bring Dad back for that, if he’s ready for a day-leave by then,” Jeremy says, and that reminds me . . .
“Ruth, you left me off the roster this week. When do you want me to go visit Dad?”
My sister stiffens again, then offers me a thin smile.
“I thought you might like a little break before you dive right into all that.”
“What? Why?” I ask blankly. It was deliberate? That makes no sense at all. If the doctors are right, we don’t have much time left with Dad. And even if they’re wrong, I’ve seen how fast he’s declining. God only knows what his condition will be in two weeks. Besides, Dad and I are incredibly close. He’s going to notice if I don’t go in to see him.
“We should get going,” Hunter says quietly as he rises. “We said we’d pick Noah up from Mom’s by nine.”
“I want to go see Dad,” I say stubbornly. No one says anything, and I sigh impatiently. “Look, I’m going in with or without your approval and I know you’re all busy so you may as well swap.”
“Go on Tuesday in Alicia’s place,” Tim says eventually. I nod at him curtly, and then rise beside my husband. I glance at my sister again, and find she’s staring at her wineglass.
“I’ll start straightaway on the house, but I’ll pack up this room last,” I say with a frown. “In case he comes home for lunch with us next week, we should try to keep things nice and normal for him.”
“It’s settled, then,” Ruth sighs, resigned. “You start the process, but promise me you’ll call us for help when you need it.”
“Fine.”
I glance at Hunter, and I’m wholly unsurprised to see him staring into space, his face set in a grim mask.
“What are you thinking, Beth?”
We’re on our way home. Hunter is driving, his face set in a stony mask as he stares ahead at the road. It’s raining heavily, and now isn’t the time for an argument because he needs to concentrate on driving. I keep my tone mild as I reply.
“It’s just that someone has to get the house ready, that’s all. The others are all so busy—”
“And so are you.”
“Not really,” I say. “Not compared to them.” I pause, then can’t help but frown as I ask, “And what was all of that about anyway? Since when does everyone treat me like I have leprosy?”
Hunter sighs heavily, then runs one hand through his hair. His hairline has just started to recede, something he’s philosophical about. When we first noticed the hair loss eighteen months ago, we were in a very different place. I remember tentatively raising the issue as we were getting dressed in the bathroom one morning, and, shirtless, he’d flexed his muscles and told me not to worry, he’d still be just as irresistible once he was bald as a bowling ball. When I laughed, he chased me into the bedroom, his cheeks still covered in shaving cream, cornering me near the bed and kissing me playfully. I washed my face and reapplied my makeup but I smelled like his shaving cream all day, and between appointments with my clients, I’d pause to enjoy the scent and think about him.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asks me hesitantly.
“Better than what?” I scowl.
“Beth. You haven’t been yourself for months, and whenever we ask if you’re okay, you change the subject.”
“We?” I repeat, eyebrows drawing down. “Who is this ‘we’?”
“Me and Ruth. And the boys. Everyone can see it. Is it your dad?”
“Is what my dad? I just had a baby, Hunter. I’m allowed to be tired.”
Hunter doesn’t reply. Instead, he drives in silence for a while. Part of me wants to argue more, but I’m not sure I want to delve into this too deeply. I’m not myself, but I’m definitely not ready to explain to him where my mind is at. When we’re a few blocks from home, he speaks again, so suddenly that I startle.
“I assume, since you’re so keen to sort out your dad’s house, you really think a project is going to help?”
“There’s nothing to help,” I sigh impatiently. “I’m fine. But I do want to do this for Dad and it’s not a big deal. It needs to be done, and if someone doesn’t take it on, the task will linger for months.”
“I’ve been thinking that maybe you should see someone.”
“See who?”
“See a psychologist, Beth,” he says. I gape at him. “Do you want to ruin my career?” I ask him incredulously.
“Do you?” he fires back.
“If the directors knew I was in therapy, I won’t have a job to go back to.”
“Come on, Beth. That’s hardly—”
“That’s the reality of it, Hunter!”
He pauses, and I think he’s going to try to debate with me about whether or not there’s a stigma around mental health professionals seeking mental health treatment. I’m getting ready to point out to him that he’s a lawyer, and what would he know, but he draws in a sharp breath, then asks very quietly, “So if your career wasn’t a factor, you would talk to someone?”
The question catches me off guard, and I stare at him, momentarily unsure how to answer. My problem is my circumstances, not my thought processes. And maybe I’d love to talk through the tangled mess of worries I’m drowning in lately, but I just don’t have the energy, and even if I did, I can’t bear the thought of admitting aloud to another human being some of the stupid things that have been going through my head.
“No,” I say stiffly. “You’re wrong about this. I don’t need therapy. I just need time.”
There’s a terse, awkward pause, then I relax as Hunter softens his tone and changes the subject again.
“So you’re going to pack your father’s house up this week? And next, I guess. It’ll take a while.”
“Yes, I think that’s for the best.”
“And are you taking Noah with you, or were you planning on asking my mom to babysit him for days on end?”
I turn to stare out the window, embarrassed that he’s seen right through the reason I was so quick to volunteer for this arduous and painful job. I like it when Chiara takes Noah for a few hours. She’s an amazing mother and she’s incredibly comfortable with him—so much more capable than I am. I feel like he’s safer with her, but there’s no way I’m going to admit that to Hunter. Now it’s my turn to fall silent, and I stare sullenly out the window, planning a hasty retreat into the bathroom as soon as we get home. I’m not much of a crier, but I feel pressure and heat behind my eyes, and maybe I do need to leak a few tears tonight.
When we pull into our driveway a few minutes later, Hunter reaches across and rests his hand on my forearm. I’m not sure the expression on my face won’t entirely give me away, so I don’t turn to face him.
“Just think about talking to someone, babe. It seems like you really don’t feel like you can talk to me,” he murmurs. I open my mouth to deny this, but then I close it again. Once upon a time, I had no filter when it came to Hunter. I’d share any thought that crossed my mind, and I’m pretty sure he felt the same way. There’s no denying that’s changed since Noah was born. Hunter’s hand contracts around my arm, gently squeezing. “If you’re worried about your clinic finding out, I’ll help you find s
omewhere you can be anonymous. Whatever you need, we’ll make it happen.”
“I don’t need therapy,” I whisper insistently. “I know exactly what a therapist would say, and I can say those things to myself for free.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and then Hunter asks, “Well . . . what would you say to yourself, then?”
“Time,” I croak automatically, as, at last, I turn to face him. “I’d tell myself to just give it more time.”
Hunter nods, kisses me on the cheek and leaves the car. As I swing open my door and step out, I force a brutal moment of internal honesty for the first time in months. I don’t treat adult patients anymore but I did early in my career, and I can easily picture a client sitting in my office voicing my recent struggles. I see myself as an impartial third party, listening and mentally planning my response.
My gut drops when I finally admit what I’d actually say to that client.
It sounds like you’re totally overwhelmed and out of your depth. It sounds like you’re struggling with your dad’s situation, but that’s not the biggest issue you’re battling. It sounds like you’re actively looking for excuses to avoid your son, and you’re not coping at all when you are alone with him. You’re terrified that having Noah was a mistake you can’t undo. Is avoidance really the solution here, though? Let’s talk about other strategies you can employ.
On the porch Hunter and his mother embrace and then I see them talking quietly. As I step out of the car, Chiara flashes me a warm smile and a wave, and I wave back, fixing my brightest smile in return. I’m certain it’s convincing, despite the fact that I’ve just dropped a mental bombshell on myself and my gut is churning. I’m so desperate to get behind that locked bathroom door it’s all I can do to stop myself from sprinting for it. Luckily, the one thing I am quite good at these days is putting on my game face.
