Life and Other Inconveniences

by Higgins, Kristan

  The truth was, Riley was the love of my life now. The terror of being a mother had subsided when she learned to talk, when she got past the Year of Tantrums. Now her sunny, sweet personality was a gift. I was so used to our setup—my daughter, work, school, home life with Pop—that the vision of the little house got harder and harder to picture. Sometimes I’d take it out and dust it off, and try to imagine the day when Jason and I would get married. We were still so young, I told myself. There was no rush.

  And so it went for two more years. Jason would visit, call once a week or so, mostly to talk to Riley, making her laugh and giggle. He’d send those checks. We’d see each other when I visited Hope—two nights in a hotel together. I figured out that talking about the future made him glum, so I only mentioned things that didn’t involve him—what classes I’d be taking next semester, that kind of thing.

  He never invited us to Stoningham. It was just as well, given how horrible his parents had been. Fuck ’em. Same with Genevieve. Not a word, and certainly not a check. So it was just Jason, Riley, Pop, Hope when I could see her, and me. My family. At least we had each other.

  Then, when Jason and I were twenty-four, he came out and asked if we could have dinner in the city without Riley, who was then five.

  “It’s always hard to talk when your grandfather is standing there like the angel of death,” he said.

  True. Pop had never warmed to Jason, but he begrudgingly agreed to babysit; he loved Riley. It was me going out with Jason he didn’t care for.

  Jason made a reservation at Gibsons, and I took my time getting ready, because I didn’t have a lot of chances to eat out. Especially not at an iconic steakhouse. Especially not on a date with the father of my child. I bought a pair of barely used shoes at a secondhand store—black suede with three-inch heels, my first indulgent purchase since becoming a mother. I wore a black dress I’d had since high school and a silver necklace. Put my hair up, because Jason had always loved my neck, back in the olden days when we were teenagers.

  I figured he was going to propose. He didn’t. He did talk about marriage, though. He waited till our appetizers had arrived—shrimp for me, oysters for him, and we were on our second glass of wine. “I’m not sure how to say this, Emma,” he said, and then I knew.

  He’d met someone. She was really smart and nice. I would like her a lot. So would Riley. It was pretty serious. They, uh, they were thinking of getting married. But he wanted my blessing first.

  “It won’t change anything with Riley, of course,” he said, covering my hand with his. I looked down. I’d painted my nails with clear polish this afternoon. They looked strangely nice.

  He was marrying someone else. Jamilah, her name was. I waited for heartache and rage and . . . and . . . well, something.

  “Are you going to want joint custody?” I asked, just before my throat clamped shut. An image of me putting my fiery-haired first grader on a plane flashed in front of me, and then I did feel something. A knife in my heart.

  Jason pulled his hand away. “No! No, of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Such a giver. And yet, I was glad, because for a second, I thought I might stab him if he said yes.

  “I do love you, Em,” he said. “Just not romantically.”

  “Yeah. That’s fine.” I took another bite of shrimp.

  Riley would stay with me. That was all that mattered.

  No house with a stone wall. No blue couch, no puppy, no swing in the backyard. No tulips. The pigeon, who’d flapped intermittently all these years, finally gave up the ghost. I’d known all along that Jason would never come through. It was time to admit it.

  When Jason dropped me off later that night, after I’d had filet mignon and scalloped potatoes and crème brûlée and was slightly drunk from the wine and the dessert martini and more than happy to stick him with the enormous bill, he opted not to come in. “I’ll see you and Riley tomorrow, okay?”

  “You bet,” I said. “Thanks for dinner.”

  I wobbled inside on my unfamiliar heels, kicking them off the second I went through the door. Pop was sitting at the kitchen table, doing the crossword puzzle.

  “You gettin’ married?” he asked.

  “Nope. But Jason is,” I said, sitting down across from him.

  He filled in an answer. “Good,” he said, not looking at me. “You deserve a lot better than that idiot.”

  I swallowed, the first tears of the night finally gathering in my throat.

  “You gonna cry?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s my girl.” He flicked a glance at me, patted my hand. “I need a six-letter word for a work-shy person.”

  “Skiver,” I answered.

  “Smarty-pants,” he muttered, filling it in. “Riley’s staying with us, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Yep.”

  “Go to bed, sweetheart,” he said. “Sleep tight. You’re better off, you know.”

  “I know. Thanks, Pop.”

  I went upstairs, regretting the twenty dollars I’d spent on those shoes, and feeling very, very old.

  Because I was a mother and always had to do what was right for my child, I told myself I’d be friends with Jason, good friends. I’d never give him reason to step further away from Riley. I wouldn’t bad-mouth him to her, I wouldn’t talk about money in front of her, and I’d be cordial and friendly and decent and let Riley love her dad.

  But for that one night, I would let myself cry a little bit, because even though I’d known for a long time that my little house with the blue couch and the yellow tulips was just a fantasy, it had been so precious just the same.

  CHAPTER 18

  Genevieve

  On Friday afternoon three weeks after Emma and Riley had arrived, I was in my yoga studio, trying to hold warrior one without wobbling as my rather handsome trainer instructed me to extend my breath.

  I’d designed the studio myself on the ground floor of Sheerwater some decades ago. Home gym was such an unpleasant term, and besides, I still walked a mile each day (most days) and lifted small hand weights to maintain my bone density. The studio had an open glass wall to the patio. The floors were bamboo, and there was a rice-paper screen that hid the mats, blocks and other accessories. A large bamboo tree sat in the corner. I even had a small statue of the Buddha surrounded by candles and usually played traditional Indian music to honor the art.

  “Warrior two,” John said, and I obeyed. “Deepen your stance.”

  I tried. My knee flared with pain, and I had to adjust. Additionally, I could hear Emma yammering away with her clients, as her office was across the hall from the yoga studio, and we both had the windows open. Idiotic phrases floated to me on the breeze—“Let’s unpack what you just said” and “What do you think it means?”

  It was hard not to roll my eyes. “Let’s call it a day, John,” I said. “Thank you. I’ll meditate without you.”

  “Anything you want, Mrs. London. This is your time.”

  I’m well aware, I wanted to say, but he was a nice young man, and a veteran.

  I had just gone into child’s pose when I heard a sharp rap on the French doors and looked up.

  Ugh. It was that wretched Paul in all his scowling misery. I pushed back into downward-facing dog, then halfway lift, then tree, stretching my arms upward until my cartilage creaked, just to make him wait.

  He rapped again, then opened the door.

  “What, Paul?” I snapped. No namaste for him.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said. His eyes scanned me critically, and really, the man had no manners. I wore a very tasteful outfit—wide-legged, loose-fitting pale gray pants with a tangerine-colored long-sleeved cotton shirt over a white tank top. Fashion was for every moment of life, after all, and Lululemon was so common.

  I took
my water bottle and walked barefoot out of the studio. I had no desire to overhear Emma’s “calls” or have her overhear her grandfather lecturing me, as he was no doubt preparing to do. The grass was delicious and thick under my feet, which had been sore lately. I should’ve had that bunion surgery ten years ago, but there was no point now.

  Without addressing my interrupter, I walked to the beautiful linden tree, which was more than a hundred years old. Under its generous spread of branches were a teak table and two chairs. A pair of chickadees were singing, and the sunshine was warm after a rather chilly week. I breathed in the salt air and tried to regain my peace of mind.

  Paul sat without being invited. He was dressed like the handyman he was, work boots and jeans and a denim shirt over a Cubs T-shirt.

  The buzzing started in my brain.

  The Cubs . . . not the bear type, but something else. Something I used to know and didn’t anymore. There were the Cubs, and there was another group, and they had something to do with . . . with that city. The one on the lake. I felt the cold, fast rise of anxiety. What were the Cubs? Why was Paul wearing a shirt with that word on it? The knowledge lingered at the edge of my brain, but the strange buzzing sound kept interfering with my ability to grasp what it was.

  It didn’t matter, it wasn’t important, I should let it go, Dr. Pinco said. Think of something familiar. My birthday, which was April 5.

  Running? There was something about running and cubs. Not the grizzly bear kind. The noise in my head was deafening.

  Baseball. Got you, damn it, I thought viciously. Baseball. The Cubs were a baseball team, and the White Sox were the other.

  The noise, and my anxiety, slid away.

  Paul Riley was looking at me suspiciously. Had I said something? I didn’t think so.

  “Why are you here, Paul? Visiting Riley, I assume?”

  “She’s with her father today,” he said.

  “Indeed.” Perhaps Riley had told me that. I didn’t remember.

  “Between him pretending to be her father this summer and you taking her to New York to fill her head with nonsense, I’m a bit worried about her.”

  I sighed. “I didn’t fill her head with nonsense. I showed her my company and bought her a few things.”

  “She got her hair cut!”

  “Is that why you’re here? To protest a teenage girl’s hair choices?”

  “It was beautiful hair!”

  “It’s still beautiful. Let her express herself, Paul. Small rebellions will quell bigger rebellions.”

  He leaned back and squinted at me. “Don’t act like you know anything about raising children, Genevieve. From where I sit, I can’t see that you did such a great job with anyone.”

  How dare he? “Right back at you, Paul.” My voice was icy.

  He jolted forward. “Don’t you dare talk about my girl. April had . . . troubles. We tried to help her. And we raised her just fine. She wasn’t spoiled, not like that idiot Clark.”

  Perhaps it was because this was my last summer on earth, but I said, “On Clark, we are agreed. And I know April was troubled. I asked Clark to make sure she got help. Many times.”

  He settled back, his face a mask of pain, and I regretted descending to his level.

  “I did my best with Emma, you know,” I said. “Not that I feel compelled to justify anything to you, but I did.”

  “You could’ve loved her a little more.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Is my lecture finished? I’d like to clean up before cocktail hour.”

  “You really leaving all this to a teenage girl?” he asked, gesturing to the house.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You think it’ll help her, inheriting millions? Because it sure didn’t help your worthless son.”

  “Hi, guys.” Emma walked up. “Still fighting after all these decades?”

  “Hush, you,” Paul said.

  “Are you finished soothing the souls of the self-obsessed?” I asked.

  “I’d happily counsel you for free, Gigi,” she said, unruffled, and I felt a stir of pride that she hadn’t let my barb land. She kissed her grandfather, and the pride turned to envy at their easy bond.

  Once, I’d hoped Emma would be like a daughter to me.

  “It’s funny,” she said, tilting her head as she sat down with us. “I’ve never heard a kind word between you, and yet you both lost children. You both helped raise me. You have so much in common.”

  “And so little at the same time,” I said. Paul huffed in agreement, and for a second, our eyes met in amusement.

  He was a rather nice-looking man, in that blue-collar way. Thick white hair, mustache, gravelly voice.

  Emma’s phone rang. “Another soul to soothe,” she said, giving me a significant look. “Enjoy your chat, and no hitting, you two.”

  She got up and put the phone to her ear. “Dr. London here. Oh, Jim. How are you? What’s going on?”

  Paul’s gaze followed her as she walked away, the pride unmistakable. “Dr. London. That has such a nice sound to it.”

  “She could’ve been a surgeon.”

  “She’s never good enough for you, is she?” he said. “She put herself through three degrees, raised that beautiful kid, and all you do is pick at her. Give her some goddamn credit.”

  “Why are you here again, Paul? Trespassing, was it?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. His eyebrows could use a trim. “Your friend invited me for happy hour.”

  “Cocktail hour. Happy hour is for beer-swilling, nacho-eating troglodytes.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Do you have more than one? Donelle.”

  I stifled a sigh. “How lovely for us all, in that case.”

  He settled against the wooden chair. I had to get new cushions. The wood was too hard for my bones, and though I’d been warm a few minutes ago, I was chilly now in the sea breeze and shade of the big tree.

  Eighty-five years old, my body betraying me by the minute. I wondered if Garrison would even recognize me.

  Paul was taking off his denim shirt. He handed it across the table. “You’re cold,” he said.

  “How very gallant of you, but no thank you. I have many wraps inside.”

  “Well, we’re not inside now, are we? You gonna shiver for the rest of the conversation?”

  “I was hoping against hope that we were finished.”

  “Can you just drop the dragon lady bit? I want to talk to you without the usual bullshit.”

  The breeze stirred again, and so I slid my arms into his shirt and was glad for it.

  “How sick are you?” he asked. “You seem pretty goddamn healthy to me, doing all that yoga and whatnot.”

  “I will be dead by the end of summer,” I said.

  “Why aren’t you getting treatment?”

  “There is no treatment.”

  He looked down. There’d been no treatment for his wife, either. ALS. Such a dreadful end.

  “It’s not easy, getting old, is it?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I came out this summer to make sure the girls would be all right. She won’t admit it, but Emma loves you, even if you don’t deserve it. And I’m begging you, don’t mess with Riley. She’s had a hard year.”

  “She alluded to that. Friend trouble?”

  “She’s not like other girls. She’s better. Got a good heart, that one. And it’ll go unappreciated until she’s older, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you concerned she’s depressed?” I asked.

  “I’ve been on the lookout since she was two.” He swallowed, and without thinking, I leaned forward and covered his hand with mine.

  Two old hands, age spotted and gnarled, his rough, mine wrinkled.

  I took my hand back.
“I quite like Riley,” I said. “She’s a delightful, smart young woman. I won’t mess with her, as you so delicately put it.”

  “Don’t ruin her with money, either. After you’re gone, I mean. Be smart about it.”

  “She won’t be ruined.”

  The baby birds in the hedgerow began their furious twittering as the mother robin came with food. We listened for a second.

  “I was very sorry when your wife died,” I said, apropos of nothing. “And April, of course.”

  He didn’t answer right away. “It’s a terrible thing, to outlive your child. I don’t know how you’ve done it all these years.”

  His words were like a spear in my heart. “We never knew what happened to Sheppard. He may well still be alive.”

  The kindness—and pity—in Paul’s eyes was like a Molotov cocktail on a simmering fire, and I was suddenly furious. How dare he feel sorry for me? My son disappeared. Paul’s daughter had felt so worthless she took her own life.

  Irony slapped me in the face.

  I was hoping to take my own life, too. And soon.

  “Well,” I said, standing up. “I must change for cocktail hour, and I’m sure you’ll want to do the same. See you at five.” I took off his shirt and tossed it on the chair behind me, angry for no good reason.

  CHAPTER 19

  Riley

  I’m gonna find out what happened to Gigi’s son.

  Being sixteen has its advantages. Who else knows how to work the Internet better than a teenager?

  Okay, backing up a little—against my will, I kind of adore Genevieve, even if she kicked Mom out way back when. Let’s face it: My parents were totally stupid, and sure, Mom had it hard, but look at me now. Pretty well adjusted, high honors student, varsity soccer, and if the bitches formerly known as my best friends ditched me, I’m better off without them.

  That sounds really badass, right? I’m faking. The truth is, I miss them. A lot. The old them, before they became a pack of mewling coyotes, as Gigi called them.

  Second thing—I am surrounded by old people here, not counting my brothers, who are wild demons (and I totally love them for it). So I need something to do other than look at Donelle’s big toe and see if her nail fungus is gone yet, and if not, would I smear it with Vicks VapoRub. I’m serious. This happened. The struggle is real. Pop and I went fishing the other day. That killed four hours. He’s working for my father’s company doing handyman stuff. My seventy-eight-year-old grandfather is totally living the midwestern work ethic.