Life and Other Inconveniences

by Higgins, Kristan

  “Me neither. I swear on your life.”

  “Good.”

  “Did you ever worry I got the depression gene?”

  “Every mother worries, sweetheart.”

  “Did I scare you this past year? Being all moody and glum?”

  I took her hand from my head and held it, still so soft and innocent, in mine. “You did. Depression crossed my mind, of course. But even if you did have clinical depression, the odds are huge that you’d be just fine. We’d deal with it. We’d make sure you had whatever you needed to get through it.”

  “Were you ever depressed?”

  “Sure. Everyone gets depressed. I didn’t have what my mom did, though. Hers was a sickness, and she didn’t get the right medicine. It was more than twenty years ago, and people didn’t know as much as they do now.”

  The thunder boomed right over us, and we both shrieked a little. Then the rain came in a beautiful clamor, so hard it bounced off the glass dome, nearly deafening and lush. We sat cuddled together and breathed in the rich smell of it.

  I was so happy. These were the precious moments I pressed against my heart. Thunderstorm at Sheerwater. Riley’s first word. Braiding her hair. Her oral report on Teddy Roosevelt, which had made both me and her teacher cry. Cuddling in bed on summer mornings.

  I was so lucky.

  “Mom!” Riley said suddenly, jolting up in her seat. “Gigi’s out there!” She pointed.

  And she was right. A flash of lightning showed Genevieve outside at the edge of the yard, down by the stone wall.

  I ran to the door of the conservatory. “Genevieve!” I shouted. “Gigi! What are you doing?”

  She put her hands over her ears as the thunder crashed again.

  “I’ll go get her,” I said to Riley. “Get some towels, okay?”

  I ran across the yard, the rain slapping into me, drenching me, cold on my shaved head. The grass was slick and wet under my feet, and the air smelled sharp and coppery. “Genevieve!” I yelled, and I could see that she was in her pajamas, soaking wet and crying.

  “Gigi, are you okay?” I asked.

  “Where am I?” she asked. “I’m lost!”

  “I’ve got you, Gigi. It’s me, Emma. Come on inside. You’re safe.”

  Her usually sharp blue eyes were wide and scared, darting from side to side in panic. I put my arm around her and guided her in, and when the thunder cracked again, she huddled against me, feeling thin and small.

  When we climbed the steps, she looked at me and did a double take. “Do you have cancer?” she asked.

  “No. Just very short hair.”

  Donelle and Riley were waiting with towels and dry clothes, and Donelle hustled Gigi into the bathroom in the hall. We could hear Donelle murmuring, her tone reassuring, as if she were soothing a child.

  “Will she be okay?” Riley asked.

  “I’ll call her doctor in a few minutes,” I said. “You know what I bet she’d like? Some tea. Can you make a pot, sweetie?”

  “Sure thing, Mom.”

  When Gigi came out of the bathroom, she was dry and in clean pajamas, a robe and slippers.

  “Doing much better now,” Donelle said, pulling a face behind Gigi’s back.

  “Come have a seat, Genevieve,” I said.

  She obeyed without comment, still looking unsure of herself. I wrapped a cashmere throw around her shoulders, because the temperature had dropped precipitously.

  The thunder was more distant now, and the rain steady and full.

  “Here we go,” Riley said in a cheery voice. She held a full tea tray—teapot, creamer, sugar bowl, even a plate of cookies. My daughter was so thoughtful. “Nothing like a midnight snack. Can I pour you some, Gigi?”

  “I take two sugars and no milk,” she said. “Thank you, dear.”

  “Do you know who this is?” I asked gently, putting my hand on Riley’s shoulder.

  “Of course. She’s . . . she’s a darling girl.”

  Riley glanced at me, then back at Gigi. “You got that right.” She poured a cup and stirred in the sugar. “Here you go. Nice and hot.”

  “I’m sorry if you have cancer,” she said to me.

  “She doesn’t,” Riley said. “Remember, Gigi? She just got her hair cut really short. Tess put the beaters in her hair and turned on the mixer.”

  Genevieve nodded, but it was clear she wasn’t following.

  Donelle gestured for me to come closer. “You need to call her doctor, Emma,” she said. “I got his personal cell number. Here.” She thrust her phone in my hand. “I’m not allowed to talk to you about it. Sworn to silence and all that.”

  Dr. Pinco’s line was already ringing. “Hello?” he said.

  I walked into the breakfast room so Genevieve wouldn’t overhear me. “Hi, Dr. Pinco. It’s Emma London, Genevieve’s granddaughter. I’m so sorry to call this late.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I gave her this number for a reason. How is she?”

  “Well,” I said, “she’s confused. We found her out on the lawn just now, and she didn’t know where she was. She was really scared. I don’t think she remembered how to get in the house.”

  He made a sympathetic hum. “That’s par for the course, I’m afraid.”

  “She doesn’t know who my daughter is, even though we’ve been here all summer.”

  “That’s pretty normal for patients with vascular dementia.”

  “She—what? Vascular dementia? What are you talking about? I thought she had cancer. A brain tumor.”

  Dr. Pinco was quiet for a moment. “Do you have medical power of attorney?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t discuss this with you. She hasn’t given me permission.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” I said. “I don’t think she knows who I am right now.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was kind. “It’s my best guess that Genevieve will be more lucid in a little while. I suggest you talk to her then, and see if you can get her permission to talk to me about her situation. You’re next of kin, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Well . . . my father is, technically, but he’s not around.”

  “Call me tomorrow,” he said.

  I hung up.

  Genevieve didn’t have cancer. Or a brain tumor.

  She had been lying since she first called me.

  * * *

  * * *

  In the morning, I got up early, went down to the kitchen and told Helga to take the day off.

  “You’re not my boss,” she said.

  “Get out of this house, Helga, or I will throw away everything in this kitchen past its expiration date, and you’ll have nothing to cook with.”

  “Expiration dates are for the weak.”

  “Have a lovely day. Don’t come back before six.”

  When she was gone, I made oatmeal, added some blueberries and cream, made a cappuccino and put it all on a tray, then carried it upstairs to Gigi’s room. Riley was still asleep.

  My grandmother had calmed down after her tea last night, but I don’t think she’d been altogether clear even when she went to bed. When I’d tucked her in, I called Calista, who gave me the rundown on vascular dementia. Based on what I told her, Calista guessed that Genevieve had had a series of small strokes—TIAs, she called them, which stood for transient ischemic attacks. The TIAs cleared up on their own, but they were often linked with dementia.

  “Will it kill her?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to say. It could lead to a bigger event—a real stroke, so she needs to be getting treatment. But we don’t have a grip on dementia yet. There are drugs that will slow it down, but it’s a tough one. It depends on what kind of dementia—Alzheimer’s, Lewy body, frontotemporal—but in a nutshell, dementia means brain function is deteriorating. It can be slow, or it
can be really drastic.”

  “She’s sharp as a tack most of the time.”

  Calista sighed. “Yeah. But almost without fail, we see a decline in cognitive function. And once it digs in, it tends to pick up speed.”

  It explained quite a few moments this summer, when I’d thought Genevieve was just lost in her thoughts. Donelle covered for her, but looking back, yep.

  Always too proud for her own good.

  I knocked on her door and pushed it open. I hadn’t been in her room all summer—I’d had no reason to come in here—but, as ever, I was struck by the elegance of Genevieve. The walls were pale gray, the comforter pure white, and over the bed hung a gorgeous modern painting—splashes of riotous color. Maybe a Jackson Pollock.

  Genevieve was sitting on her couch, looking out at the Sound, a book opened on her lap. A regular Katharine Hepburn she was, the blue of her couch, the smoky gray of her silk robe. Minuet sat snuggled next to her, bright eyes shining.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Hello, Emma. Here to gloat?” So she was back. Minuet wagged in greeting, at least.

  “I brought you breakfast.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Well, I wanted to.” I sat down in the easy chair across from her. “And I want to talk about last night.”

  “Yes, I’m very sorry. I must’ve had a nightmare. Please don’t make that face. I know how you love to exaggerate, but I simply had a very vivid dream.”

  “Or the brain tumor flared up?”

  “Perhaps.” She stroked Minuet’s tiny head.

  “Or you have dementia.”

  Genevieve twitched.

  “Please be honest with me, Genevieve. I think I deserve that, and lying is beneath you.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “Very well. Yes. I’ve had a few small episodes of . . . forgetfulness. I got lost a time or two. After doing some research, I thought it was a brain tumor.”

  “But it’s not, is it?”

  “No.” She lifted her chin. “You’re right. It’s dementia. Vascular dementia. Dr. Pinco suspects I’ve had a few small strokes as well. I believe that’s what happened last night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  “Oh, Emma,” she said, setting down her cup and looking right at me. “Don’t you know me at all by now? A brain tumor sounds far more noble and tragic than anything as mundane and humiliating as dementia.” She raised an eyebrow at me, and I couldn’t help a small smile. It was always about how things looked for her. She was nothing if not consistent.

  “So what’s your prognosis?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer for a minute. Toyed with her oatmeal. “I don’t want to die without my faculties,” she finally said. “I’ve seen it happen to a couple of friends, and it’s a horrible, humiliating way to die.” Her gaze dropped back to Minuet. “We euthanize dogs when their discomfort becomes too great. It’s a pity we don’t do it with people.”

  I had a sudden, hard tingling in my feet. “You’re hardly a dog, Genevieve.”

  She looked at me. “Nevertheless, it’s not my intention to die in a nursing home, drooling and abandoned.”

  “Nor would you.” The tingling was worse. It was a fire alarm of intuition.

  “I plan on taking my own life, Emma.”

  I was standing before I knew I moved. Minuet barked. “What did you say?” I demanded.

  “I’m not going to die in inches. I’ll take matters into my own hands and just . . . end things when the time is right.”

  I was shaking uncontrollably. “No, you won’t! You can’t! Suicide is selfish! Doesn’t that sound familiar? How many times did you say that to me, Genevieve?”

  “I was wrong,” she said. “It’s actually quite generous. I was hoping—”

  “For ten years, you told me that my mother was selfish and weak.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Oh, yes, you did! You did, Genevieve!”

  “I tried to get your mother treatment, Emma.”

  “How good of you! How incredibly kind! But you still treated me like tainted goods because of her. But now you’re all in favor? How dare you!”

  “I was hoping you’d help me.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I yelled. “I’m not going to help you kill yourself! It’s against the law! I’m not going to jail for you! Are you insane? Is that why you’re leaving Riley all your money? Are you trying to . . . to . . . commit murder for hire or something? You think you can bribe me into killing you? And just what did you have in mind, huh? I just hold you underwater till you drown? Shoot you in the head?”

  She said nothing, and I paced back and forth. “You’re . . . you have no right to even discuss this with me, Genevieve. Suicide. My God! There’s not enough money in the world to make me even think about it. My mother committed suicide, and now you’re going to do the same thing? What about Riley? She loves you! You think your money will make up for that?”

  She remained silent, not looking at me.

  The tingling in my feet was abruptly worse.

  “About Riley’s inheritance,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing.”

  I blinked. “You’re seriously leaving all this to my father? He’ll spend it in six months.”

  “I mean, there’s nothing to leave anyone.”

  I snorted. “Right. That Jackson Pollock over there is worthless. This house is a hovel. You’re a worldwide brand! You own an apartment in the city, you have an entire closet for your jewelry, that diamond alone that would choke your dog—”

  “Take a breath, Emma,” she said. “You’re getting hysterical. And it’s a Karel Appel, not a Pollock.”

  “Are you actually debating art with me right now?”

  Yeah, okay, she had a point, I was yelling, and my face was hot. I took a deep, slow breath and let it out. Repeated the action. “Do go on, Genevieve.” My jaw ached, I was clenching it so hard.

  She sighed. “It would take all day to explain the nuances.”

  “Try.”

  “I am. Please refrain from interrupting, and I’ll be more successful, I’m quite sure.” She gave me her patented rich-woman ice glare and continued. “One would think that with the amount of money I had at one point in my life, I would be rich forever. That’s simply not true. For one, there was your father. Once he’d depleted his trust fund, I subsidized his . . . follies.”

  “When did he blow through his trust fund? That was millions of dollars.”

  “Yes, it was, but he managed to spend it nonetheless. That was back when your mother was still alive. Then, once he brought you here, I . . .” She pressed her lips together.

  “You what, Genevieve?” I ground out.

  “I paid him to stay away from you.”

  It was my turn to flinch.

  My father sold me. He sold me. I thought he just never wanted me, but it turned out there was money in it for him.

  For some reason, that made it worse. My throat was suddenly tight, and—shit. I wanted my mother. She hadn’t sold me. She left me, but she’d loved me. I knew that.

  My father just took cash.

  “I bet he didn’t argue,” I said.

  “No,” she answered quietly. “He did not. I would apologize, Emma, but I’m not sorry. He was a wretched father, and husband. He failed your mother, and I didn’t want him to fail you.”

  Not that Gigi had been warm and loving, mind you. My eyes were stinging. “Go on.”

  “When you left, I cut him off, but he’d required a great deal. I sold Genevieve London Designs, and I made a hefty profit. But then Hope was born, and I was afraid of what would happen to her. So I set up a trust for her, which will keep her well cared for all her life. And I resumed bribing your father to keep his distance.”

  I had always
known my father was a loser. I never thought of him as vile until now.

  “I still had money, of course,” Genevieve said. “I sold the apartment in Manhattan. I had a share of Genevieve London stock, and I sold that as well.”

  “So why is there nothing?”

  She looked out the window. “I invested it with a brilliant fund manager. I don’t remember his name. Buddy? Bennie? The . . . the pony scheme.”

  “Ponzi.”

  “Yes. I’m sure you remember the news. I wasn’t the only one. Everyone was fooled.”

  “I’m surprised you were.”

  “Well, I was. I was ruined. The new CEO of Genevieve London wanted nothing to do with the actual Genevieve London, and I was too old for anyone else to hire me. Or so I was told. ‘We want someone with a fresh point of view,’ they said. Or ‘You should just relax and enjoy life now, Mrs. London.’ Condescending idiots.”

  “But still, Genevieve. I can’t believe you put everything in one investment. You have artwork, antiques, jewelry. You must’ve had savings.”

  “I had savings, you’re right. But I had to make sure Hope would be cared for, so I endowed Rose Hill so that they could provide for adults as well as children.”

  I drew in a slow breath. That would’ve required a lot of money. More than I could imagine.

  Genevieve looked out the window. “The rest, your father drained in bits and pieces. Bribes from me, I suppose, to keep him away from Hope. As for the artwork, your grandfather and I made arrangements to donate our collection to the Metropolitan ages ago. All the great families do. And honestly, I don’t have that much of value. Less than half a million.”

  I rolled my eyes. Half a million. Such a pittance. Rich people sucked.

  “You still have Sheerwater,” I said.

  Her eyes grew shiny, but she raised her chin. “No,” she said, and my stomach sank. “It’s reverse-mortgaged, and so are its contents. My jewelry will be sold on my death. I arranged for Charles, Helga and Donelle to stay on until I pass away, and I get an allowance until my death to continue living at my current standards.”

  I put my hand over my mouth. Be a good person, Emma, I told myself. Be kind.

  I was tired of being kind.