Life and Other Inconveniences

by Higgins, Kristan

  My brain was back in full control. It was January 10, a Friday, and this was what Donelle and I always did. Cocktails with the neighbors and Miller. In the summertime, the Talwars would be here each weekend, and sometimes I invited the Batemans, but they preferred to winter in their apartment on Park and Eighty-Third. Yes, it was 970 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10028.

  If I could recall that address, what had just happened?

  Miller poured the drinks from the pitcher, and with a little flourish to cover for my lapse, I twisted the peel over the first glass, rimmed the glass and dropped the lemon peel in, repeating the gesture for each drink.

  “Thank you, dear boy,” I said.

  “Now I know your secret to the perfect martini.” He took two glasses over to the Smiths. He said the right words, but he was still sad, and I couldn’t remember why.

  As the Smiths told us about their lovely children—two at boarding school, two still home, all of them well-spoken and not overly loud—it eventually slid into my head that Miller’s wife had died. Perhaps I’d known that all along. I mean, really. How does one forget such a detail? Of course I hadn’t forgotten.

  Lapses happened, of course. Here and there, especially when I was thinking about Sheppard. Entire hours could slide past me like rain down a window when I was thinking of my son. Occasionally, I forgot a name, which was completely normal, given that I’d met thousands of people—Genevieve London employees, people in the fashion industry, townspeople, board members, school friends and all the rest.

  But I’d never forgotten quite like that before.

  “Gen, could you get me another?” Donelle said, pushing her glass at me.

  “Remember the days when you worked for me?” I asked fondly.

  “Not really,” she said, and we all laughed, especially Donelle. After all, she was my best friend. Possibly my only true friend, ironically. I’d wanted to fire her a thousand times those first few years—all her questions, her lack of boundaries, the way she took to Clark, magnifying my own neglect.

  But Clark needed someone who cared, and at some point over the years, I stopped resisting Donelle’s friendship. If my mother could have seen it—her daughter, having drinks with the help, especially Donelle’s type (white trash, to put it indelicately, a high school dropout with poor grammar)—she would’ve heartily disapproved.

  But I’d stopped caring. Donelle hadn’t been the best housekeeper, but she’d been here, and she never quit—well, except that one time—and she never asked for more than the generous compensation package I still gave her, even though we now had a cleaning service and such. Donelle wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, after all. She still lived in the servants’ wing with Helga, our cook, and occasionally did something around the house when she wasn’t busy reading or watching her lurid television shows.

  Clark had given her a hideous pink-and-gold crocheted blanket for Christmas. It draped over one’s legs and looked like a mermaid’s tail, and she adored it, exclaiming over the too-bright color, hugging him and kissing him soundly on the cheek.

  Clark had given me a box of Crane’s notecards embossed with a tiny pineapple, which made me roll my eyes. After all, my company made stationery. I’d had my own personalized stationery with my trademark lily of the valley sprig against a pale green background for decades. One would think one’s son would know these things, but every year since he’d been a sophomore at Dartmouth, Clark had given me the same gift, indicating a total lack of thought.

  If I could remember those details, certainly my confusion at the bar meant nothing. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  But then in March, I was coming home from visiting Hope and stopped at Franklin’s General Store—Donelle, who went to Stop & Shop, had failed to pick up any decent cheese. While I was choosing a creamy brie, the owner greeted me by name, and a few minutes later, a sweet young girl with a Franklin’s name badge came up and asked, “Excuse me, but are you really Genevieve London?”

  “I am indeed,” I said.

  “I just love your bags!” she said. “My parents gave me a wallet for my sixteenth birthday, and I’m going to ask for a purse for graduation.”

  “You have wonderful taste,” I said.

  “Would it be too much to ask for a picture?” she said, already fumbling in her pocket.

  “Of course not, dear,” I said, knowing she’d Snapchat and Instagram the photo immediately. The younger demographic was quite taken with me these days. The girl clicked, thanked me again and scurried off to text her friends, no doubt.

  I bought Donelle the insipid Lady Grey tea she loved, added some Carr’s whole wheat crackers and blackberry chutney to go with the brie, and paid. I asked the owner, sotto voce, to send me the name of his enthusiastic employee so I could send her a purse from the new spring line. She’d be thrilled with the bag, and it would create a wave of consumer envy among her peers.

  Then the fog descended, just like that. Suddenly, I didn’t know why I was holding a piece of paper with a stranger’s name on it. If I had paid for my items. Apparently I had, because no one stopped me as I left the store. I recognized my car, because the license plate said LONDON. Starting it was no problem; it was where to go that remained a mystery.

  Where had I been earlier today? To New York? No, that wasn’t right. Or was it? What did I usually do on weekdays? What time of year was it? Was it fall? No, but it was raw and the trees were bare. I’d been visiting someone, but I couldn’t remember who. My mother? It couldn’t have been!

  When I saw someone looking at me, I smiled, waved and backed out carefully. Took a left and hoped it was the right way home.

  It wasn’t. It took me ages to find my way back to Stoningham, and by then it was dark and I was nearly weeping with relief and terror. I didn’t tell Donelle. I simply made a quick martini (with absolutely no problem) and downed it, and after that, I felt much improved.

  A few weeks later, I lost my balance as I walked down the upstairs hall from my bedroom to the front staircase, so much so that my shoulder hit the wall, and the Felrath Hines sketch nearly crashed to the floor, but I grabbed it instinctively and held it hard. My vision blurred, and dizziness washed over me. For a moment, I couldn’t push off the wall and stand up straight.

  Not uncommon for an eighty-five-year-old woman, but uncommon for this one. After all, I had a yoga teacher come to Sheerwater four times a week, long before yoga had become so common. I could stand in tree pose for five minutes and not so much as waver. My posture was perfection. Mother had insisted on ballet for just that reason. “You can always tell breeding by a lady’s posture,” she’d said, and it was true.

  Still rattled, I went to my office, which was in the turreted section of Sheerwater, and had absolutely no difficulty on the stairs. As ever, my office made me feel safe, with its deep blue walls, walnut bookshelves and custom-made desk, and the oil painting of the storm-tossed sea Garrison had given to me as a wedding gift. The cream-colored couch was modern and rounded to suit the turret’s shape, with throw pillows of my own design in shades and patterns of blue. The bright blue and red Persian Heriz rug was an antique, and quite valuable.

  The office reminded me of who I was . . . or who I had been, at any rate.

  Without further ado, I sat at my desk and went to the Mayo Clinic website. I typed in some symptoms—dizziness, blurred vision, weakness. After a pause, I added forgetfulness and a sense of being lost. I would erase my browser history later, in case Donelle was feeling nosy.

  I waited, then perused the list of suggested diseases. Concussive syndrome fit, but I hadn’t had a concussion. Ménière’s disease, which sounded attractive because of the French name, but didn’t quite match. Meningitis . . . surely I’d be feeling worse.

  Brain tumor.

  I pondered that a moment, then clicked on it. In addition to loss of balance, dizziness and forgetfulness, there were a few more sym
ptoms listed.

  Unexplained nausea and vomiting. No, thank goodness.

  Change in the pattern of headaches. I had that, didn’t I? I’d had a ferocious headache last week, rather worse than most. Then again, I’d had to have Charles drive me into New York for a meeting that day . . . such nonsense, more of a photo op at the company headquarters than anything else. Also, Beverly, my successor as CEO, had been terribly busy and let me know it, which I resented. I didn’t like feeling insignificant. I’d thought that was the cause of the headache, but perhaps it was a brain tumor.

  Personality or behavioral changes. That one gave me pause. Lately, I had been feeling rather . . . strange. More nostalgic, not just for my lost boy and husband, but for other people, too. Pondering chances I may have . . . sidestepped.

  I clicked back and referred again to the list of possible ailments. Dementia. Please. I did not have dementia. Parkinson’s . . . no.

  Brain tumor it was, then.

  I sat back in my leather chair and looked at the picture of Garrison on my desk. I didn’t keep one of Sheppard here, as it was too painful to see his face every day. Nor one of Clark, since a photo of my other son would fail to bring a smile to my face or a happy memory to my heart. I had a picture of Hope on the bookcase, of course, her sweet smile brightening my day, but I didn’t keep it on my desk.

  But my husband . . .

  On most days, I’d forgiven him for dying so young. In the past ten or fifteen or seventeen years, I’d felt his loss more acutely. Sometimes, though I would never admit it to anyone, I talked to him.

  “It seems I’ll be with you soon, my darling,” I said now.

  And Sheppard! Suddenly, it was as if my heart lunged in my chest. If Sheppard had died, I would see him again, at last, at last. My true son. My perfect boy. Tears slipped down my cheeks at the thought of holding him again. Would he still be seven? Would he fit so perfectly in my arms, against my side? Would I still smell the sunshine in his hair, the sweet, grassy scent of my darling son?

  For once, the Missing subsided at the thought of my reunion with my baby. My boy.

  I looked away, out at the bright blue sky, the shimmering Sound. The flag stood out stiffly, and the rope clanged against the pole as the wind scraped across the rooftops of Sheerwater.

  I knew what I had to do. I wasn’t going to end my days in diapers, not recognizing Donelle or the Talwars or Minuet. Or Clark.

  Suicide was for the weak, Mother had always told me. Granted, that was before depression was recognized as a serious medical illness, but I had to agree with her, at least partially. How else would I have stayed alive all these years? Because I was strong.

  I’d see Dr. Pinco, that lovely man, and get an idea of my prognosis and how much time I could expect to be myself.

  Though I’d been waiting much of my life to die, I hoped I had a few months left. To prepare. To do it right.

  One more spring, one more summer here. A little time, perhaps, to look back. A few more months to do the things I most enjoyed . . . and perhaps see a few people from my past.

  And then, I’d kill myself. Gracefully, of course. I wasn’t going to make a mess.

  CHAPTER 7

  Emma

  “Are you nervous? You don’t have to be,” I said, clutching my daughter’s hand as the airplane began its descent into Hartford.

  “Maybe she’d be less nervous if you stopped asking if she was nervous,” Pop said from the window seat.

  “I’m not nervous. I’m psyched,” Riley said.

  “Good! Great! Of course you’re not nervous. Why be nervous?”

  “Mom. Chill.” My daughter gave me a look and withdrew her hand from mine.

  We were seated in first class—Genevieve’s initial shot across the bow, showing off with her wallet—in addition to the limo she’d sent to Pop’s little house. For a second, I’d thought Pop wouldn’t get in, but he loved Riley, and he was coming with us. He paid for his own ticket, though.

  My throat was tight—strep, I thought, absentmindedly feeling my glands. Nothing there. Yet. Oh, wait. Maybe there was a small nodule? Lymphoma? I sighed. Calista would slap me right about now; I knew damn well my throat was tight from nerves, not from cancer.

  My daughter cut me a look. She was the only one of us who was thrilled, even though our amenities in first class had been a glass of water pre-takeoff and a snack box. Still, she watched a movie on the tiny screen and had a cup of coffee just because she could. She hadn’t been on her phone. I wasn’t sure if she was in touch with any of her friends—I imagine Mikayla would be keeping a good distance, but what about the other two? Or anyone in her class? Was it healthy that she was avoiding social media, or unhealthy? Either case worried me. And reassured me. And worried me. God, it was hard being a parent!

  My stomach was in knots. (Small bowel obstruction? My mind flashed through the scenario—me in a hospital bed, all-liquid diet, Riley’s face white with worry, Genevieve looking smug. Fine. I didn’t have an SBO and mentally cursed WebMD.)

  No matter what, I had a sinking feeling this visit was a mistake.

  Bradley airport was tiny compared with O’Hare, but bigger than I remembered it from seventeen years ago. We went to baggage claim, and there he was—Charles, Genevieve’s chauffeur, holding an iPad that said LONDON.

  “This is so cool,” Riley said.

  “Hey, Charles,” I said, giving him a hug. He was a bear-shaped man, employed by Genevieve since before I came to live with her. He’d always been so nice.

  “Oh, my goodness,” he said. “Look at you, all grown up! It’s good to see you, Miss London. I mean, Dr. London.”

  “Don’t you dare. It’s Emma to you. This is my grandfather, Paul Riley, and my daughter, Riley London.”

  Charles shook hands with Pop, then turned to Riley. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Miss London.”

  “Whoa. You can call me Riley.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Miss London. Protocol.” He winked and, when our bags came, put them on the cart and walked us out to the sedan. The plates said LONDON3.

  My grandfather cut me a look. “I guess the dragon lady couldn’t be here to meet you in person,” he muttered.

  Charles held the doors for us and then got in himself.

  It was about an hour’s drive to Stoningham, and the Connecticut highway was about as bland as could be until we got past Middletown. Then Connecticut began to show its rural side—the rolling hills and tiny towns with sweet names . . . Middle Haddam, Chester, Deep River, Old Lyme. Riley peppered Charles with questions about where we were, what there was to do in Stoningham, if he’d worked for Genevieve for a long time.

  The trip had already improved her mood. For one, there was no doubt now that she was indeed related to Genevieve London, much to her friends’ surprise. Jenna had even invited Riley over, but Riley told her she had other plans (meaning we stayed home and watched Odd Mom Out). That made me proud, the fact that Riley hadn’t been fooled by her friend’s sudden re-interest. But going to Connecticut for the summer, staying at Sheerwater (yes, I was allowed in its sacred halls once again) . . . that had given my daughter some swagger. And however it had come, she needed it.

  When I called Genevieve back and told her we were coming—including Pop, who would be staying elsewhere—there’d been a long pause. “Thank you,” she finally said.

  “On one condition, Genevieve,” I said. “You do not mention money or inheritance to Riley. Not a whisper, not a hint. I don’t want you dangling your bank accounts in front of my daughter and snatching them away if she uses the wrong fork.”

  “By which I assume you’re referring to the fact that I didn’t fund your teenage folly.”

  “Teenage folly? You mean your great-granddaughter? Yes. This summer isn’t about the money. It’s us giving you a chance to make amends, and you making me Hope’s guardian.”


  “How very gracious you are, my dear,” she said, and I heard a slurp. Five o’clock somewhere.

  But she agreed, and here we were.

  My clients, the ones I saw in person, were fine with me leaving for two months. I’d TheraTalk with most of them; two were about done anyway, and said they’d call me if they needed me. I’d had to give up my office space, though; luckily, a classmate from my PhD program had sublet it. Once I got back, I’d have to find another space, but I’d deal with that later.

  Pop had found himself a little apartment over an antiques shop on Water Street. I was unspeakably grateful that he’d be nearby. He’d always hated Genevieve, who had viewed my mother as insufficient wife material for her wretched son.

  Then again, she had a point. My mother had taken her own life. Maybe Genevieve had sensed something, even back then. She was many things, but she wasn’t stupid.

  We crossed the Connecticut River, then the Thames. “There’s the Coast Guard Academy, Pop,” I said, pointing. He was an Air Force man himself, but he nodded. We went through Mystic, and I remembered going to the aquarium with Jason on a date. Or a field trip, maybe, but we’d held hands. Kissed in the dim light of the myriad fish tanks, and it had felt like the most romantic thing in the world.

  He knew we were coming, of course. He was excited, he’d said on the phone. Talked about being separated, wasn’t sure where things were headed there. The boys couldn’t wait to meet Riley in person, though they knew her from Skype and phone calls.

  My heart leaped into overdrive when, just before we hit Rhode Island, Charles exited the highway and entered the land of stone walls and gracious houses, tall oaks and two-hundred-year-old farms. The woods and fields gave way to narrower streets, and we went over the bridge that led to the borough.

  Welcome to Stoningham, the sign said.