She Gets That from Me

by Robin Wells

  I don’t tell many people about this, because I know it sounds idiotic. Brooke is the only person who seems to understand, and even she will tease me about it. “What’s the goose bump factor?” she asked last week when I couldn’t decide between shrimp or chicken on my salad.

  I’m getting better at trusting myself, though. A couple of years ago, I moved to New Orleans and started my own business. That was an uncharacteristically bold move—especially opening a retail home-furnishings shop, Verve!, to drive my design business. It’s turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life; I love New Orleans, I love being close to Brooke and Lily, and my business is booming. In fact, I’m giving more and more design responsibilities to my assistant, I’m trying to hire an additional part-time manager for the store, and I often have to work nights to get everything done.

  Tonight is one of those evenings. I head to the kitchen, open my laptop, and settle at the kitchen table to plot out the furniture placement of a master bedroom for a client I’m meeting with tomorrow morning.

  I’m engrossed in the project when a sharp rap sounds on the front door. Ruffles barks. I glance at the time on my computer screen. It’s nine thirty-seven—too late for social calls or most deliveries. My instinct is to ignore it and hope that whoever is there will go away. To my consternation, the knock sounds again, louder this time. Ruffles barks again. I rise from the chair and scoop up the little dog, hushing her.

  The lights outside are on and the living room lights are off, so I step to the window and peek through the blinds. I don’t know whether to feel alarmed or reassured that a police car is parked by the curb.

  The door knocker clunks, thunderous brass against brass, and Ruffles once more sounds off. I’m afraid the racket will wake Lily, so I go to the door and peer out the sidelight.

  Two police officers in full uniform stand on the porch. I flip on the light to the foyer and crack the door, keeping the chain on.

  “Yes?”

  “Good evening, ma’am. Is this the residence of Brooke Adams?” asks the taller officer.

  Alarm crawls up my spine. “Yes, but she’s not here.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “I’m a good friend staying with her daughter.”

  “May we come in?” asks the shorter officer, an older man with gray eyebrows. His hat sits further back on his head, and I can see that his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses are kind.

  “Well, uh . . .” I’m flummoxed by the request. My palm grows damp on the edge of the door.

  The younger officer holds out a badge.

  New Orleans Police Department, I read. It matches their uniforms and the car at the curb, so it’s unlikely they’re anything other than what they appear to be, but I’m scared to let them inside. Whatever it is that brought them here needs to stay out of Brooke’s house. “What’s this about?”

  “We’d prefer to discuss it inside, if you don’t mind,” the older officer says.

  “O-okay.” My hands shake as I close the door to unfasten the chain, then open it again. “Has something happened to Miss Margaret?”

  “Miss Margaret?” the tall officer asks.

  “Brooke’s grandmother. In Alexandria.”

  He pulls out a notebook and jots something down.

  “Wh-what’s going on?” I’m running through the plots of all the TV shows and movies I’ve ever seen, trying to come up with an acceptable reason for them to be here, a reason that won’t open a sinkhole beneath this household. Maybe they’re questioning everyone in the neighborhood about a crime or something.

  “I think it would be better if we come in to talk,” the kind-eyed officer repeats.

  “Of—of course.” I step back, letting them in, still clutching Ruffles. They take off their hats and follow me into the living room. I gesture to two armchairs by the fireplace. “I have to say, you’re really getting me worried.”

  “We apologize for that.” He gives me a sympathetic smile and walks to one of the chairs. His partner goes to the other. “And we apologize for coming by at this hour and disrupting your evening.” He holds out his hand, indicating the sofa, as if he were the host and I were the guest. “Please—have a seat.”

  I sink to the sofa, Ruffles in my lap. It seems to take forever for the two men to lower themselves into the chairs.

  “What’s this about?” I ask.

  The gray-haired officer adjusts his glasses on his nose. “I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

  My heart slams hard against my rib cage. I’ve already figured out that much.

  “It’s about Brooke Adams,” he continues.

  My breath freezes halfway through an inhalation. “Wh-what’s happened?”

  “I really regret having to tell you this,” he says, “but Ms. Adams is dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Margaret

  Wednesday, April 3

  I JUST LEFT Brooke at the cemetery, so I know she’s gone, yet it doesn’t seem real. I feel dazed and addlepated, like those prizefighters my late husband, Henry, used to watch on black-and-white TV, back when Muhammad Ali was still Cassius Clay—like I’m staggering around in circles, moving but not going anywhere. I feel pummeled and stunned and numb. Just when I think my head might be clearing, grief packs another wallop, sending me reeling again.

  I’d forgotten this about fresh grief—how it hits, then hits again, drubbing you over and over. I’d forgotten how physical it is—how impossible it is to eat or sleep, how it makes you ache all over, how difficult it is to make decisions or conversation. And, oh, mercy—there are so many decisions, so many conversations that have to take place after a loved one dies.

  “Can I get you something, Miss Margaret?” A petite brunette—why, she’s no bigger than a minute—appears in front of me, her brown eyes warm behind her large black-plastic-rimmed glasses. I don’t remember her name—maybe Amie, or was it Annie?—but I know she’s one of Brooke’s friends from that single-parent-by-choice club. They’ve been angels, really. They’ve brought food and arranged everything for this postfuneral reception at Brooke’s house. One of them took Lily to preschool the past few mornings because Quinn was helping me make funeral arrangements. Lily’s too young to understand what’s going on and it seemed best to just keep her on her regular routine. They’re lovely young women, despite the fact they’re all so misguided.

  “Why don’t you have a seat and let me fix a plate for you,” the sweet gal with the A name says.

  “Thank you, but I don’t think I could eat a bite.”

  “How about some iced tea, then? Or a glass of wine?”

  I hesitate. I’m not much of one for day drinking, but wine has some appeal.

  She puts her hand on my arm. “Let’s get you settled over here by the window, then I’ll bring you some wine.”

  Glad to be absolved of the decision, I let her lead me to the armchair as if I’m incapacitated.

  I sit down, lean back, and close my eyes after she scurries off. I’ve been through the loss of loved ones enough times that I should be used to it, but the truth is, it never gets easier. I lost my mother, my father, my sister, and my husband. That was bad enough, but then I lost my only child and her husband and my grandson, all at once, in one terrible accident. I thought nothing could ever be as bad as that, but pain is apparently not measured by body counts or lessened by the number of times one has suffered it.

  In many ways, tragedy is a matter of survivors. I’m old enough that most of my life is behind me, and it doesn’t much matter to me personally if I slog my way through this or abandon all hope, but there’s Lily to think about. Because of her, I can’t give up. It’s unbelievably horrible that my sweet great-granddaughter has lost her mother, especially at such a tender age.

  Not that there’s ever a good age to lose a mother—my grandmother told me that she was sixty-nine when she lost hers, a
nd she still felt orphaned. My mother died when I was eight and it felt like the end of the world, but thank heavens I still had my father. Poor Brooke was twelve when she lost both parents.

  That was truly catastrophic. Twelve is such a terrible, awkward age anyway—an age when everything wonderful about childhood is ending, but the excitement of the teen years hasn’t yet arrived. Twelve-year-old minds and bodies are gangly and green and unevenly growing, prone to hormone storms and mood squalls. Twelve-year-olds really need their parents, if only to pull away from later.

  At three, Lily will hopefully be more resilient. I sit for a moment, mentally checking my math. Yes, she’s still three. Dear God—she’s three, and I’m seventy-nine. I’ll be ninety when she’s fourteen!

  Before Lily was born, Brooke had tactfully broached the subject of setting up her will. “You know how I love you, Grams, and you know there’s no one I’d rather raise my baby if I were in an accident or something, but I’m worried about the age difference. I’m wondering if perhaps I should name Quinn as the baby’s guardian if anything happens to me.”

  “If anything happens to you, the child’s father should be named as guardian,” I’d told her.

  Brooke’s eyebrows had lowered. “Grams, we’ve been over this. You know that’s not what he signed up for.”

  “How many men in the history of the world have had children they didn’t ‘sign up for’? Half of the earth’s population got here that way, I’d wager.”

  “This is different, and you know it,” she’d said. “The donor signed a contract waiving all parental rights and responsibilities. I don’t know his identity and he doesn’t know mine, and the cryobank will keep it that way.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. So you’ve told me.” I’d sighed. I knew I wasn’t going to change her mind by arguing with her, but nothing would change my mind, either.

  When Brooke first told me she was pregnant by an anonymous sperm donor, I tried to talk her into locating and contacting the father. She’d unpacked all these official-sounding words—cryobanks, contracts, anonymity—that should have nothing to do with parenthood. She told me that her child’s father had no rights or responsibilities, and explained that the terms of the contract were binding morally as well as legally. We’d argued about it—quite vehemently, in fact. I realized then that I’d have to accept the situation on Brooke’s terms if I didn’t want to risk alienating her, but I’d held out hopes that she might change her mind as the child grew older. “I just think that every child should have two parents,” I’d said yet again when we discussed her will.

  “That’s ideal, I agree, but it’s not always an option,” Brooke had replied. “And my child will be very blessed to have you and Quinn in her life.”

  Quinn is a lovely young woman, to be sure, and I’m very fond of her, but she isn’t a blood relative. I believe that family should raise family. I knew this argument wouldn’t hold weight with Brooke, who often said Quinn was like a sister, so I focused on the fact that Quinn was living in Atlanta at the time.

  “If something were to happen to you, God forbid, it’ll be best for the child to be with someone she knows well. I’ll be visiting all the time since I live in Louisiana,” I’d said. “Quinn will only be able to see the child occasionally. Besides, I’m remarkably sound for my age.” I take great pride in my physical fitness. I walk two miles almost every day and I volunteer three days a week at the library. Everyone, including my doctor, says my physiological age is at least ten years younger than the calendar indicates. “Are you saying I’m too feeble to care for a baby?”

  “I wouldn’t dare!” Brooke had laughed. “You might pin me to the floor.”

  I’d smiled. “That’s more like it.”

  Brooke had shaken her head, then held up her hands in surrender. “Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll put you as the primary guardian and Quinn as the backup for now, but we’ll revisit this in a few years. I’ll make a note to talk to my attorney again when you’re eighty and Lily’s four.”

  She’d given me a copy of the will. Both Quinn and I already had letters of temporary guardianship for the times when Lily was in our care.

  “Miss Margaret, are you okay?”

  I open my eyes now to see Quinn standing in front of me. I’m embarrassed that she’s caught me with my eyes closed, like a doddering old woman napping in a chair.

  “Yes, yes. I’m just . . . regrouping.”

  “Here you go.” The petite woman with the glasses reappears and hands me a glass of wine. Again, I feel a bit sheepish about Quinn watching me. I hope she doesn’t think I make a habit of drinking in the middle of the day.

  The thought irritates me. She’s not the judge of whether or not I’m fit to raise Lily. Although, I have to say, it bothers me a bit, how close she is to the child since she moved to New Orleans. She lives just a couple of blocks over, which means she sees Lily all the time. I’m still a three-and-a-half-hour drive away in Alexandria, so my argument about why I should have guardianship of Lily no longer holds water.

  Quinn and Lily are very attached to each other. I feel a little twinge of—what? Guilt? Jealousy? I don’t know, but it’s an unpleasant and shameful emotion—that Brooke hadn’t called me to come stay with Lily when she went out of town, the way she used to before Quinn moved to New Orleans. Of course, it’s a long drive for me, and I can see how much easier it was to just have Quinn pop over, but still. I feel a little . . . displaced.

  Well, that’s not Quinn’s fault. And I’m very grateful for the way she’s handled things since Brooke’s death. She’s been most considerate and respectful of my feelings.

  After the police visited her that awful night, she phoned my minister—she knows my church because she’s attended Christmas Eve services with Brooke and me for the last eighteen years—and she asked him to come to my house to break the news to me. Afterward, he put me on the phone with Quinn, and she told me everything she knew. She offered to handle the arrangements for getting Brooke’s body back to New Orleans. She realized it was my place to break the news to Lily, so she waited for me to arrive from Alexandria.

  The memory makes my chest hurt again. I hope I did an adequate job with that. How does one tell a child her mother is dead? I’ve had to do it twice, which is twice more than anyone should ever have to do such a horrific thing in a lifetime. My minister—a man with a short graying beard, caring brown eyes, and a rock-solid faith—had driven me down to New Orleans early the next morning, his wife following in their car. They and Quinn were with me when I’d told Lily the tragic news, and the support had been a tremendous help.

  “Just tell Lily what happened,” my minister had advised when we discussed it on the drive. “Put it in simple terms that she can understand.”

  How was I supposed to do that, when I didn’t understand it myself?

  Here’s what I knew about what had happened:

  Brooke had been at a business dinner in Chicago. It was at a nice restaurant downtown, one with white linens and a skyline view. She’d been wearing a black dress and her mother’s pearls. Everyone at the table had been eating their main course—Brooke was having the tiger shrimp; I’d asked Quinn to find out, because for some reason, I wanted to know—when she abruptly put her hand to her head, murmured something about a headache, and tried to leave the table. She’d halfway risen from her chair, then keeled over onto the restaurant floor.

  I’d asked Quinn to find out if the floor was carpeted. Thankfully, it was. I felt a little better knowing that her fall had been softened.

  Everyone at Brooke’s table had jumped up in concern. Someone called 911, and a doctor dining with his wife across the room gave Brooke CPR. Medics arrived and transported her by ambulance to a hospital that supposedly has a world-class reputation, but when she arrived at the emergency room, she was pronounced dead.

  Because she was only thirty-eight and seemingly in perfect health, the co
roner had conducted an autopsy. The cause of death: an aneurysm had burst in her brain.

  It was a fluke, one of those things nobody can predict or explain. There was no way Brooke could have known it was about to occur and nothing she could have done to prevent it. She had been the picture of perfect health. There was absolutely no reason that it should have happened.

  So how was I supposed to explain that to a child who’s only been out of diapers a year?

  “Well, honey,” I’d ended up saying, “your mommy had a problem in her head that no one knew about. The problem is called an aneurysm, and it’s very unusual. It got very bad very fast, and it killed her.”

  Lily, bless her heart, hadn’t really understood. She’d been sitting on my lap on the sofa, hugging her stuffed bear. She’d turned solemn eyes up to me.

  “So Mommy got sick?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she’ll get better.”

  In Lily’s world, that’s what always happens. I blinked hard, my vision blurred. “Not here on earth,” I’d said. “But she’s in heaven now, and she’s all well there.” I’d glanced over at my minister to check my theology. He’d nodded encouragingly.

  “When will she come home?” Lily had persisted.

  “She can’t, honey. But one day we’ll all be together again,” I’d said.

  “Where?”

  “In heaven.”

  “Well, then, I wanna go to heaven to see her.”

  “You can’t, honey. Not for a long time.”

  Lily’s face had twisted. She’d turned to Quinn, as if she didn’t trust me. “I don’ want to wait a long time to see Mommy.”

  “I know, sweetie,” Quinn had said. “I don’t, either, but we don’t get a choice.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s just how the world is.”