Life and Other Inconveniences

by Higgins, Kristan

  “I hate dinner.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Everyone has to eat.”

  She went into the living room, which looked like it should exist in a war-torn country and not peaceful Stoningham. But it was childproofed, and if she dug another chunk of stuffing out of the couch, well, someday he’d get another couch. He put on some music (Bach’s cello concertos, hoping they’d soothe the savage toddler) and opened the fridge.

  Closed it.

  There was a picture of him and Ashley.

  What would she think of his dating Emma? They’d talked about their dying the way smug, healthy young adults do. “I’d want you to find someone else,” he’d said. “But he can’t be better looking than me. Someone like . . . Christopher Walken. So you’d still miss me.”

  “Christopher Walken is smokin’ hot,” she’d said. “I’ll take it. But if I die first, I’m gonna haunt the hell out of you and your new wife.”

  That would be okay, Miller thought now. He wouldn’t mind a visit from his wife.

  “You there, Ash?” he asked softly.

  There was no answer.

  There was no guilt, either. Just that old familiar feeling of missing her, loving her, liking her. She’d been his best friend. His only friend, really. They’d had couples they spent time with, and she’d had friends, being a woman. It was different for men. They had wives.

  Genevieve had become his friend, sort of.

  And Emma definitely was. He had that nanosecond impulse to call Ashley and tell her about Emma and share his happiness, tell his wife he didn’t feel so alone anymore.

  He touched her face in the photo, remembering the freckle to the left of her mouth, her curly, silky hair, the sound of her laugh. He didn’t want to be the widower of Ashley James Finlay, but here he was. He’d wished a million times she hadn’t died, had begged God to bring her back, cursed his life, wished he’d die, and shook in loneliness and fear at raising a child alone.

  But he was doing it. He was getting through.

  And he was falling in love with Emma, and the thought didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt at all.

  Ashley would approve of Emma. Any woman who hadn’t so much as shed a tear when she’d had to shave her entire head because of their daughter was someone Ashley would’ve liked. Had liked, in fact.

  “I love you,” he said to the picture. “I’ll always love you.”

  Then he put the picture back and took out carrots and chicken breasts and started making dinner.

  It wasn’t until a good ten minutes later that he realized he hadn’t heard any noise from the living room.

  “Tess? You doing okay?” he called, washing his hands. He went into the living room. She wasn’t there. “Are you hiding, honey? Remember, you have to tell Daddy if you want to play hide-and-seek.”

  He looked under the couch and behind the curtains.

  She wasn’t there. “Tess? Where are you?”

  No answer.

  Shit.

  He looked in the den and the dining room, then ran upstairs. She wasn’t in her room, or his, or the guest room. Not in the bathroom. Not in the laundry chute, where she’d once hidden, bracing her arms and legs against the sides and scaring the life out of him.

  Not in the closets. “Tess! Tess, answer Daddy!”

  Nothing.

  He ran back down to the kitchen, looked in the pantry, the coat closet, ran down into the cellar, which, the house being old, was dark and smelled like limestone and dirt. “Tess! Answer now!”

  She wasn’t there.

  His panic rose with each stride, and he could hear his voice changing, getting louder, more urgent, unrecognizable.

  Then he saw the light blinking by the living room door. Next to the door was an overturned bowl, a big wooden salad bowl that had been a wedding gift. Tess liked to pretend to make soup in it, and it was sturdy enough that she wouldn’t break it.

  If she stood on it, she’d be tall enough to reach the alarm, which was a four-digit code.

  She was an evil genius. He knew that better than anyone.

  He bolted onto the porch. “Tess!” he yelled. Shit, the road was right there, and it was summer, and cars went past way too fast. “Tess, answer Daddy!”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called 911. “My three-year-old daughter left our house,” he said, running down the street. “I can’t find her.” He managed to give his address. Saw Jim Davies in the front yard. “Have you seen Tess?” he yelled.

  Jim shook his head and came running down. “Need help?

  “Yes. I don’t know where she is. It’s been maybe ten minutes.”

  “Anyplace you think she’d head?” Jim asked. “A friend’s house?”

  “No. Nothing I can think of.”

  “Go around the block. I’ll go in this way,” he said. “Tess! Hey, Tess, honey, want a cookie?”

  Around the block. That was smart. Where the hell were the police? Why was it taking so long?

  What if she drowned? Could she have gotten down to the water that fast? What was he saying? She was a fucking cheetah when it came to getting into trouble.

  The neighborhood looked strange and full of danger. The bushes, the trees, the houses . . . what if his daughter was inside one of them, being molested or murdered? Or both? Jesus Christ, why did he ever have a child? “Tess!” he called, his voice breaking.

  A car passed, and he waved it down. “Be careful!” he barked. “There’s a missing toddler. Look out for her.”

  “Sure thing,” the lady said.

  God. What if she’d been taken? Like Sheppard London, like the daughter in the Liam Neeson movies, like the thousands of kids who went missing every year and who were never found?

  What if, after all he’d been through, his baby was dead right this minute?

  He was running, trying to see everything, under every rhododendron, behind every hedge, every car. His thoughts skittered and slid with panic. “Tess, please, honey,” he said, and he realized he was crying.

  Bebe Leiderman was standing on her porch. “Have you seen Tess?” he asked.

  “Your little girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, no. Want help?”

  “Yes.” He kept running, his heart pumping too hard. God wouldn’t be this cruel, would he?

  He turned again, back onto his own street, past the Quinns’ place, checking their yard. Past the Oliverases, who were having some kind of family celebration, as they did about four times a month.

  “Have you seen Tess?” he yelled. “She ran out of the house.”

  They came down their walk immediately, Joe, his wife, the three adult daughters, asking him questions, but he couldn’t hear anymore; there was ringing in his ears, the roar of blood, his own breath.

  Please. Please.

  There was his own yard, fenced in so it would be safe; joke was on him—

  And there she was, sitting on the front steps, clutching Luigi in her arms, the cat looking beleaguered and limp.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said. “I get out.”

  “Jesus Christ, Tess!” he yelled. “Don’t you ever, ever do that again! Do you hear me?” And then he was holding her, probably too hard, sobbing into her shoulder, bending over because the terror bowed him in half, the noises barking out of him.

  Someone was patting his back . . . Joe Oliveras. “Just twenty years off your life, right? Oh, the times I thought my girls would kill me.”

  “Parenting is not for sissies,” came Bebe’s voice. A couple of people laughed, because apparently there was a small crowd here with him, because they wanted to help, which was nice, but he couldn’t think now. Nothing mattered except that his daughter was safe, alive, and God, he loved her so much, he’d die for her, he’d die without her because the little terror was everything to him. Everything.

/>   The sobs were still wrenching out of him, and he couldn’t seem to let go of her.

  She was safe. She was safe. She was here, and she was safe. She was alive.

  “You squish me, Daddy.”

  He finally pulled back a little, and she looked at him, frowning. “No crying, Daddy.”

  “Tess, you can’t run away like that.” His voice was ragged and hoarse. “What would I do without you?”

  She patted his face with her grubby little hands. “No crying, Daddy,” she repeated. “You okay now.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Riley

  We’re moving to Connecticut permanently. I would be lying if I said that made me anything but incredibly happy. I can see my brothers whenever I want, and my dad. And Jamilah and Hope, too.

  Mom enrolled me in the public school, and I don’t even care that I’ll be the new kid my last year. I mean, yeah, walking into school without knowing anyone will be hard, but better that than going back and trying to scrape together some friends since Mikayla, Jenna and Annabeth ditched me.

  They did try to be friends again over the summer, on Snapchat and Instagram. Like I couldn’t see through that. You look amazing!!! when I posted a picture of myself in New York with Gigi, or legit jealous! and looks so pretty there!!! for one of me and Rav at the July picnic. He posted that one. I didn’t respond to their comments, but I didn’t block them, either. I didn’t care enough to make the effort.

  I’m gonna miss Rav a lot when he leaves at the end of the summer, even though we’re not really a couple. We hold hands sometimes, like at the movies last week. I know there are kids my age who are already having sex and doing things, but that seems far, far away for me. I like the way things are now. We’re friends. We take walks and hikes together, and we’re still young enough to do stupid things like go out to the farthest tip of Gigi’s property and pretend we got stranded on an island. Soon enough, I’ll have to figure out dating and romance and sex and stuff, but not for a good long while. College, maybe. I’m in no hurry. Mom says I’m wise beyond my years.

  The Talwars live in New Haven for most of the year, which is an hour from here, and Rav will be going to some swanky private day school. Saanvi won’t let him go to boarding school. So I do have one friend in Connecticut, and one good friend is better than three shitty friends, that’s for sure.

  Besides, I’m not completely unknown here. I’m Genevieve London’s great-granddaughter, Duncan and Owen’s half sister, Jason Finlay’s daughter, and Jamilah Rochon’s stepdaughter. (She’s using her maiden name since she and Dad are getting a divorce, and she’s as great as ever. We had lunch the other day, just us two.) I’m Paul Riley’s great-granddaughter, and that’s hilarious, because Pop knows more people here than Genevieve, I think. Mr. Popularity. He comes to the house almost every day and bickers with Gigi. It’s almost flirting. He hasn’t said if he’ll stay here in Connecticut with us. Obviously, I’m hoping he’ll stay.

  Mom’s going to keep working at Rose Hill, because the guy who left wants to be a stay-at-home dad. She also is going to rent some office space downtown to see other clients. We’ll stay with Gigi for the time being. I get to see Hope whenever I want, and I’ll be volunteering there when school starts for my senior community service project.

  The only sad part is, Gigi’s not doing great. After that rainstorm when she didn’t know who I was, things seemed to change. She goes to bed earlier and takes more naps, and there are times when I can tell she’s trying not to let on that she’s in one of her fogs. Donelle and I have this way of talking to her when she’s forgetting . . . We ask about old times, because those memories are easier for her to talk about.

  At least Gigi is being nicer to Mom. The way she talks to her now has changed, too.

  I kind of ran out of ways to look for Great-Uncle Sheppard. The only new thing was when I got those age-progression photos—you send in baby pictures of the person, and pictures of relatives, and get a composite of what the person would look like.

  If the photos were right, Sheppard would’ve looked a lot like my grandfather, Clark. Gigi keeps a few pictures of him around. Mom says he’ll come out at Christmas. Big whoop, right? At any rate, I took the doctored photos of Sheppard and did a reverse Google image search on them, hoping the results would pop up with a name or a photo of some sixtysomething-year-old who might’ve been Sheppard. I was thinking CEO or senator or architect, you know? Because he would’ve had a lot going for him, being Gigi and my great-grandfather’s kid.

  The only result that came up was “man smiling.” I guess that was better than nothing. If you’re going to be categorized as something, smiling isn’t so bad. But it made me sad, not ever knowing what happened to him, not being able to run into Gigi’s room and say, “Look! This might be him!” I knew it had been a long shot, but still. She misses him so much. Almost every day, she tells me I have his eyes. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it makes her happy.

  It’s funny how weird this house and situation seemed when I first got here in June. How stiff and tense things were with Mom and Gigi. Now there aren’t any subtle jabs or undercurrents . . . It’s all out in the open.

  “How is the rent-a-friend business going? Does it pay well?” Gigi asked the other night, full of piss and vinegar, as Pop says.

  “Hey, I’m not the bankrupt person sitting at this table,” Mom said. “And yes, it pays pretty well. Want to sign up? You could use it.”

  So we’re doing okay. Better than okay.

  It feels like home.

  CHAPTER 37

  Emma

  The big stroke happened in early October, when the leaves were changing and the sky was heartbreak blue.

  The past two months had been tinted with poignancy, because it was clear Genevieve the Gorgon was fading into Genevieve the little old lady, confused and anxious, still trying to hang on to her pride. She didn’t need diapers, but I had to help her in the shower. Donelle’s toe, which had more problems than just an infected toenail, had to be amputated at long last, so I was taking care of the both of them.

  I did fire Helga. She still lives here at Sheerwater, and still gets paid, but enough was enough. No more gray meat, no more limp green beans, no more ogre in the kitchen. Riley and I had always liked cooking, although now she had a lot of after-school activities and couldn’t help that much. And friends. Nice friends, too. Good kids, and of course they were, because my daughter, who was older and wiser herself, had chosen them. They came over a lot, and Sheerwater was filled with the sound of thumping feet, laughter and music.

  Sometimes, Miller would come over when Kimmy could be convinced to babysit. Miller . . . I loved Miller Finlay. I hadn’t said it to him yet, but he probably knew just the same. He’d told me about the day Tess ran away, his panic, the realization that he loved her with every molecule no matter how much she shrieked, destroyed the house and kicked him. Which, of course, everyone already knew and had known from the start. Parenting isn’t always a peachy-colored glow. Half the time, it’s just showing up and doing your best.

  Some nights, Beth and Jamilah came over, and Jamilah could get Genevieve talking about women in the corporate world, start-ups and fashion, while Beth and I scrolled through Facebook, looking for a father for her future children.

  Genevieve, even when she was with it, was quiet. She’d taken to carrying a picture of Sheppard with her, which broke my heart . . . In it, he stood in Sheerwater’s backyard in the spring, his smile huge, his blond hair cut short. He looked so happy.

  In the evenings, we’d sit in the conservatory or on the screened-in porch and watch the sunset, the dogs milling about, yacking up grass, always rubbing their butts on the carpet, shedding, ever shedding. I didn’t mind. I’d come to love Mac, the poor old guy, and Carmen. Minuet was firmly Genevieve’s dog, and Allegra the wheezy pug had taken to Riley. Valkyrie was Helga’s dog, having the same personality. Don
elle would tap away at her iPad or go to watch TV—I had the feeling that it was too painful for her to see Genevieve’s decline.

  Pop, on the other hand, had gotten to be quite the fixture at the house. When I asked if he planned to stay in Connecticut, he brushed off the question. “Can’t wait to get rid of me?” or “None of your business, little girl.” He’d taken to doing some gardening, digging up the dahlia tubers, cutting back the hydrangeas, even though the yard service still came each week.

  Most nights, though, it was just Gigi and me. The fact that she was no longer infallible (in her own mind) had made her gentler, and I’d never felt closer to her. Some nights, she’d ask if Garrison would be home soon, or she’d call me Melanie, who was her assistant way back when. She got lost in her closet one day, unable to find her way out, and another day, Donelle found her eating dog kibbles, thinking it was cereal. She forgot how to button things and needed me to cut her food for her.

  But she was still Gigi. On her better nights, I’d ask her about her life, her work . . . and Sheppard. For the first time in my life, I got to learn a little bit about my uncle. Sometimes, she’d laugh, recounting his antics, or pride would light up her face as she discussed his talents.

  “You must miss him so much,” I said.

  “It’s been almost sixty years,” she said, “and I think of him more than any other person.” She was quiet a moment. “I never thought I’d die without finding out what happened to him. To see him again . . . or at least to bury him . . .”

  “Oh, Gigi,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  She sniffed, then turned to me, once again the consummate conversationalist. “What about your mother, dear? Do you mourn her still?”

  “Yes. I wish she’d met Riley.”

  “Of course.”

  “She was a good mom. I know it sounds strange to say that, but she was. She tried so hard to make life fun for me. I never really understood what depression took from her.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t do more for her,” Gigi said. “I knew she was unsteady, but I never thought she’d . . . kill herself.”