Life and Other Inconveniences

by Higgins, Kristan

  I stayed until dinnertime, when Hope went to eat with her fellow residents.

  This was definitely one of the best things about the summer, I thought, watching Dakota lead her down the hall, my sister’s gait uneven. I could see Hope as much as I wanted. I’d get Genevieve to make me her guardian. Financially, Genevieve had said, Hope was set for life, and while Genevieve might have done it out of a sense of patrician duty, I had to admit I was grateful.

  I stopped to check out the new wing. Jeez Louise, it was going to be gorgeous, according to the architect’s drawing displayed on the door. More residential space, plus the heated, super-salinated pool to increase buoyancy and the benefits of aquatherapy. It would be open to the public on Sundays, too, for a fee. If it was finished this summer, Riley and I could come and float around with Hope.

  At the bottom of the sign, under the architectural firm, was another logo.

  Finlay Construction was building the addition. Jason hadn’t mentioned that, and he obviously knew my sister lived here.

  Well. He had other things on his mind, I guessed. But it was a pretty plum job. The company must be doing well.

  I’d have to look into that. A sense of unease settled in my stomach. I didn’t want to have to dig around into Jason’s finances. I knew he wasn’t legally required to pay for college, but still.

  I had the uncomfortable feeling he was hiding something.

  CHAPTER 13

  Genevieve

  A week into their visit and much to my surprise, I found that I quite liked Riley. I hadn’t expected to hate her, of course, but neither had I foreseen that she would be so . . . lively. Intelligent. I certainly hadn’t anticipated that she would be an excellent conversationalist, not with her mother’s own teen years of milksop ways and accusatory sighs. Honestly, Emma had been so morose, and I had little tolerance for people who indulged in self-pity.

  Even now, with my fragile medical state, Emma’s resentment was thick enough to taste, like an acrid fog. Aside from dinner each night, I barely saw her. Twice she’d asked for details of my health, which I had no plans to provide. Otherwise, she’d take Riley into town, or swimming in the pool or the Sound. Sometimes I’d hear them in the morning, as they seemed to have a habit of climbing into each other’s beds and talking before breakfast, which made jealousy flare in my stomach.

  Sheppard used to come into my bed if Garrison was traveling. When he was very small, he was afraid of his father being away, and I’d cuddle him close and reassure him, and I can still remember how his face would light up when Garrison called, how big the phone looked next to his perfect face as he chattered to his father.

  Clark, too, had come into our room occasionally, but after Sheppard went away, I honestly couldn’t bear it, and I’d leave Garrison to do the work of comforting our other son.

  That phrase . . . what was it again? Oh, this wretched failing, these holes where words are supposed to be. What was it? That thing people do when the Missing is so huge, so cruel and sharp that even your skin feels as if it’s tearing . . . tearing, yes. Tearing your hair out. That. That’s what I’d wanted to do when Clark came in, fat tears rolling down his face, his lower lip trembling. I’d walk out of the room and go down the hall to the cedar closet, push aside the clothes, sink to the floor and grab fistfuls of my hair and pull until it burned, the scream welling up inside of me.

  These memories served no purpose. I had to stop. Just because I was a sick old woman didn’t mean I had to behave like one, lost in the fog of the past, boring people to death with stories of a grief too deep and personal to be voiced. Honestly, I wished other people were more like me. Too many loved ripping off their scabs in public, gleefully shoving their tragedies down the throats of the rest of us. Miller understood, the dear man. He never talked about his wife, and I was grateful. It was the appropriate way to mourn. Stoically.

  Today, Riley was with that Jason, which I supposed was fine. At least he’d owned up to fatherhood, though he certainly hadn’t offered to marry Emma, which would’ve been the right thing to do. In my generation, if one was irresponsible enough to get pregnant out of wedlock, one married and dealt with it. Not that Jason had been a prize, mind you. But neither did I want Emma to be a single mother.

  I got dressed with care, as I did every day. Those yoga-pants women or, worse, those who proudly touted the fact that they were in their pajamas all day . . . I did not understand them. Today, since the weather was fine, I wore a crisp white blouse, cream trousers, sassy patent-leather orange heels of my own design and a red-, orange- and blue-printed silk scarf from my spring collection a decade ago. A classic scarf was every woman’s friend.

  Too bad Emma didn’t care about things like clothes. Style was one’s invitation to the world to judge you. Her invitation said, Ignore me. Solid colors, usually in shades of blue. Jeans. Most days, she didn’t wear jewelry, and her hair, which was an ordinary color, length and style, was often pulled into a ponytail. I yearned to make her over, but those days were gone. Even when she was sixteen and I took her to a salon in Manhattan, she barely cared.

  Riley, at least, had a little flair. Not the kind I personally enjoyed, but I’d called Beverly and told her we were coming into the showroom later this week, and my great-granddaughter was to be treated like royalty (by which I meant she was to be allowed to take whatever she wanted). Beverly had paused before answering, but then said, “Of course.” Which was the least she could do.

  “Donelle!” I called, picking up my handbag (bottle-green tweed with brown leather accents). “Are you ready?”

  “I’ve been ready for an hour,” she called from the kitchen. She and Helga straightened up from their whispering as I came in.

  “Very well, let’s go, then,” I said. It irked me that Helga and Donelle were friends. I supposed I couldn’t blame Donelle, since she, too, had been the help once, but Helga was such a dour thing, both in looks and personality. “Have a lovely morning, Helga. We won’t need lunch, but please include asparagus on tonight’s menu. My granddaughter enjoys it.”

  “Your great-granddaughter,” Helga said, sticking her tongue in her cheek most unattractively. It was a reprimand, perhaps her way of telling me I’d slipped, or chastising me for caring more what Riley liked than Emma. Not that Emma and Helga had been fast friends back in the day, mind you.

  “Asparagus, Helga,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Donelle and I got into the car and headed out of town. Already, traffic was picking up for the summer season. Someone waved to me at the corner of Water and Bank Streets, and I waved back, unsure whether I didn’t recognize him because he was someone I barely knew, or because of my condition.

  I drove to Palmer Farm, which had been owned by the same family for generations and was now being sold into lots for tacky, poorly made McMansions and the new-money people who would inhabit them. Then again, I didn’t know what would happen to Sheerwater once I died, did I? The thought made my chest ache sharply. The house had been in Garrison’s family for a century. I’d completely redecorated it three times. It was part of me. One of the best parts.

  I turned off the road into the drive that led to the gracious old farmhouse, now empty. Had this property been in the historical district, I would’ve fought to keep it pristine, perhaps making it into a park for the town, or at least conservation land. But the greedy Palmer descendants had no attachment to it and could only see the benefit to their bank accounts. No one lived here, and no one had for the past ten years, ever since Jacob Palmer had gone to that dreadful nursing home. He’d finally died last winter, thank God. Dementia was a horrible thing to endure.

  Visiting him each month had only reinforced my resolve to die on my own terms.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Donelle said as I parked the car behind the old stone barn.

  “Oh, hush. Practice makes perfect.”

  “Think about what you ju
st said.”

  “I’m simply scouting locations, Donelle. As you well know.”

  “For your suicide.”

  “Yes. For my suicide.” And what could be a more lovely place than a field on a high summer day, the blue sky deep azure?

  “How can you do that to that poor girl?”

  “Riley barely knows me.”

  “I was talking about Emma.”

  “I doubt she’ll miss me,” I said.

  “Her mother committed suicide, dummy.” Donelle scowled. “And what about Clark? How’s he going to take this, huh?”

  I sighed. “When they learn about my condition, they’ll understand. Perhaps even be grateful.”

  “Grateful that you shot yourself in the head?”

  “Not in the head, Donelle! I would never do that.” I paused. “In the heart.” I didn’t want a ghoulish scene, after all. The first responders in Stoningham were all volunteers. I’d heard that Archie Baker fainted at a car accident last week. A gunshot to the head would ruin him.

  A bullet to the heart. It couldn’t hurt more than Sheppard’s disappearance, and all the agonizing hours since then. I might not die right away, according to the answers I found on the Internet. (I shuddered to think I was relying on Google for my end-of-life decisions, but assisted suicide was still illegal, unfortunately.) But a gunshot wound to the heart would do the trick. I’d be in shock, and I’d bleed out quickly. If it hurt, it wouldn’t for long.

  I took a thick flannel blanket out of the trunk, removed my pumps and slid on my wellies, which I’d brought for just this reason. Donelle and I walked up the hill to where a lovely maple tree was in full leaf. Birds sang and fluttered, and the wind rustled through the long grass. I shook out the blanket and lowered myself to the ground, trying to ignore the pain in my hip, my wrists, my left knee. I should’ve used the bathroom one more time before leaving the house. Old age was such an indignity. The ground was uneven with roots, and they stuck into my spine. I might even bruise. Next time, I’d bring padding of some sort, if this did prove to be the spot. There was no reason for me to be more uncomfortable than necessary, even in my final moments.

  Donelle lay next to me, grunting a little. It took her longer to get settled, but when she was finally done muttering and sighing, the loveliness of the setting enveloped us. The dappled sun warmed my legs, and the breeze was gentle and kind.

  “Not a bad place to die,” Donelle admitted. “Which doesn’t mean I approve, obviously.”

  I tried to imagine coming out here, alone, with my .38 Special. I’d have to set things up so I’d fall onto a forgiving surface, making it easy for the coroner to tell what happened. The blanket would be ruined, of course, but I deserved to die on something nice. How much blood would pool under me? Would I have a few seconds, staring at the sky? Would I see my body from above? I’d want to die on a sunny day, when the sky was the same color as Sheppard’s eyes.

  The same color as Riley’s, too.

  “What if a bird craps on you?” Donelle asked.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. “Must you?”

  “You know what I read? You’ll shit yourself. Your bowels just liquefy and that’s how you’ll be remembered. Genevieve London, lying in her poop. The fire department boys will talk about the smell of shit and blood, and everyone will know. That’s not what you want, is it?”

  What was the phrase the young people used? “You’re really killing my buzz, Donelle.”

  “Of course I am! I’m your best friend! I don’t want you to shoot yourself! What will happen to me, huh?”

  “You’ll be fine. There’s some money set aside for you and Charles and Helga.”

  “Oh, fuck you,” she said.

  “Language, please.”

  “Fuck that! You can’t kill yourself, Gen. You really can’t. It’s not the worst thing in the world, getting old, is it?”

  “It is this way. I’d rather shit myself, as you so delicately put it, once, rather than daily as my brain rots away when tied into a wheelchair in some kennel.”

  Donelle snorted. “Like we’d let that happen to you.”

  I looked at her. It was true, she was my best friend. I didn’t have a lot of friends, not like Donelle. My throat tightened.

  “This will break Hope’s heart,” Donelle said, playing the ace up her sleeve.

  I couldn’t think about Hope. “She won’t know. You’ll visit her, won’t you?”

  “She’ll know.” Tears were leaking out of Donelle’s eyes, slipping into her gray hair.

  I took her hand. “I’m dying. It’s already started. I need you to be on my side with this, Donelle. Someone has to understand.”

  “When are you gonna talk to Emma?”

  “Soon. I don’t know.”

  “Tell her the truth. Don’t die under this tree, Gen.”

  The truth was, I didn’t want to. I wanted to slip away, to fall asleep gently, without pain, surrounded by my loved ones . . . well, by Donelle. Emma. Clark, if he had to be there.

  That wasn’t many. Losing Sheppard had cut me off from loving people. Who else would be there for me? Miller? The Drs. Talwar? There had been my lovely assistant who’d been so capable and respectful for so many years, ever cheerful and efficient. Melissa, who went by Mel. Would she come? It probably wasn’t appropriate to ask her, but she’d been such a lovely woman. I’d wished frequently that Emma had been more like her, working with me, my right hand. Then again, Emma was the one who’d thrown it all away.

  Whom else did I love? What was love, anyway?

  It would be nice, perhaps, if Riley were there at the end, if it wouldn’t be too traumatic. She seemed both innocent for her age and in possession of an old soul.

  Her name was growing on me.

  Perhaps over these next few weeks, I’d have another chance to love a child, albeit a teenager. Perhaps, this time, I could get it right.

  * * *

  * * *

  I had finally pried permission from Emma to bring Riley to New York, and the day after my scouting mission, we were all set to go. Suspicion still bubbled out of Emma like a toxic steam; I was afraid she’d insist on coming (though she could do with a makeover). Frankly, I didn’t want her to come. Riley seemed to like me, and having her mother there, poisoning the atmosphere, would make the day subpar. Also, I imagined Beverly would lecture me for bringing in two people to raid the showroom. Sometimes, I think she forgot just who founded this company. The company was called Genevieve London Designs, not Beverly . . . Beverly . . .

  I’d forgotten her last name. Panic swirled in my stomach. Jenkins? No, no, that wasn’t it, though the name was familiar. James? Jennings?

  I glanced around. This was my bedroom. I was home. Why was I here? What was I supposed to be doing? Was it bedtime?

  There was an abrupt static in my brain, like a poorly tuned radio station. I was standing in front of my mirror. I was dressed. Should I put on my nightgown? Why was I standing here? Was everyone else already asleep?

  I started to unbutton my blouse, but my fingers were clumsy. They didn’t seem to be mine, even. Was that my ring? Were these my hands? They looked so old!

  There was a noise in the hall. “Who’s there?” I called, abruptly terrified. My voice sounded loud.

  “It’s me, Gigi. How do I look?”

  A girl stood in my doorway. Her eyes were . . . they were so blue. Like someone else’s eyes. Someone I’d loved.

  Someone I’d loved very much. A boy. A little boy with blond hair. Sh . . . Sheh . . . Sheppard. My mind grabbed onto the name like a lifeline, and it was as if I were swimming up toward the light. Sheppard was my son. He’d gone away. A long time ago.

  This girl was his child. No. His . . . niece? That was almost right. I had another son, not as good as the first. Clark. This was Clark’s child. Grandchild.

  She had
a last name for a first name. She had red hair like someone else, someone who had died.

  Then I was back. Riley stood before me. Red hair like Emma’s mother. Emma, my granddaughter.

  All the pieces fell into place, and I knew where I was. It was morning. We were going to New York so I could show my great-granddaughter my empire.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “I was thinking of something else. What did you say, dear?”

  She smiled. “How do I look? Is this okay for the trip?”

  “Well. Hm.” She wore the same cheap black dress she’d had on the first night here. (See? I could remember everything now, brain tumor or not.) Over that, a denim jacket. Brown leather sandals. Her hair was in a ponytail. “You definitely have a sense of style,” I said generously, “but why don’t we take a look in my closet? Do you mind?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d love that!”

  My granddaughter—great-granddaughter, rather—was tall and slim (thankfully, she took after me in that regard, and not her mother, who wasn’t exactly slender and was four inches shorter than I).

  Though my earlier fog was gone, my heart still pounded. I took a deep breath, trying not to let Riley hear. We walked through my bedroom and into the hall that led to the bathroom and dressing room.

  “Now this is a closet,” she said as we went in.

  “Dressing room, dear.” It was, complete with an ivory couch, jewelry cabinet (with safe), ten racks and twenty drawers.

  “Dressing room. So cool.”

  “Clothes are important. The way we dress is an invitation for how we want others to view us,” I said, which Vogue had used as a headline when they interviewed me ten or twelve years ago. Or fifteen years. A long time ago, back when I was still at the top of my game.

  Riley fondled the sleeve of a silk dress. “People must view you as, I don’t know, Khaleesi or something.”