Good as Dead(14)

I tried to imagine what “way more” might look like. A boat? A beach house? A private jet? I guess there were always things to want, holes to fill, people to compare yourself to. But I’d never longed for a fancy life. I never watched those makeover shows or fantasized about prancing around in designer shoes. They had already given us more than I knew what to do with.

“It’s a very nice bag,” I said. “Thank you.” I wanted to say more, tell her how proud I was of her for being strong for both of us, but I couldn’t find words. It was like there was this thick fog between us now, and every time I opened my mouth, I choked on it. Our little island had endured its share of storms—a missed curfew, a bad grade, a pair of stolen gold hoop earrings—but we had always been able to talk things through. But the accident had cast us out to sea. My daughter was drifting away, and I had no idea how to navigate the ocean of space between us.

I watched Savannah as she arranged her things in her oversize tote—notebooks, makeup, phone, wallet. I wanted her to have nice things, but I also wanted her to learn the value of hard work, to know the sense of accomplishment that came from saving up for something.

Christmas was coming. I usually started shopping for her right around the start of the school year. I loved snooping around for clues about what she might like, then surprising her with a gift she’d think was beyond our means, but that I’d found at an outlet mall or online. That look on her face when she unwrapped it was always my favorite gift. As I watched her tuck the last few items into her $2,000 tote, I wondered why rich people bothered doing Christmas at all. What’s the point when you can just buy whatever you want? Maybe it was selfish, but it made me sad to think I had nothing left to give her.

“Look!” she exclaimed. “Everything fits!” Sadness balled in my throat as I thought about what values—or lack of values—I was imparting to my daughter. Yes, Savannah had agreed to this arrangement when I was on a breathing tube, but I could have stopped it. I could have told Brooks Brothers to fuck off, that we’d rather live under the freeway than take his blood money. But I didn’t. Because I was too scared of what would happen when the checks bounced and the food ran out and Savannah and I had nothing to live on but grief and regret.

I remembered my Sunday school teacher talking about how so many things in life are both a blessing and a curse—how mountains do not rise without earthquakes, how the tragedy of the original sin gave us the blessing of free choice. Even the crucifixion of Christ himself was both—he was murdered! But his death allowed him to rise and live forever as our savior.

I thought about what my life had become. A bottomless bank account was a hell of a blessing. But living a lie was the worst kind of curse.

My personal blessing and curse pulled at each other like two pit bulls tearing at a bone. I had a sour feeling in my stomach that was growing more putrid every day. It was only a matter of time until those warring dogs pulled me to pieces.

But in the meantime, I had Louis Vuitton.





EVAN


Three months ago

“You want a drink?” Jack asked me as he poured himself a stiff one. He was a tequila drinker—that night it was Patrón Silver in a glass rimmed with lime.

“No, thank you,” I said. I often drank with him during our late-night meetings, but given the seriousness of what just transpired, it didn’t feel appropriate.

“Well I need one,” he said, then sank into the deep leather chair across from me. He was not a large man, and the oversize chair made him look almost childlike. At fifty, he was still incredibly fit. He wore his shirts a size too small to show off well-defined biceps and pecs. Sometimes he was so scheduled we would do our meetings in the wee hours of the morning, while he was working out in his private gym. I would sit awkwardly on a bench, tablet in hand, breathing in the pungent smell of eucalyptus swirled with rubber. But that night we were in his private sitting room, letting cozy Italian leather provide comfort we didn’t deserve.

“Where are we with everything?” he asked.

“I spoke to the woman today,” I began. I explained how we had caught a bit of a break that the teenager inserted herself in the process, as she seemed to have a more flexible moral compass than her mother. I hinted that summoning the surgeon had been a stroke of genius, because he was expensive, and the daughter wanted her mom to have the best. I didn’t tell him how I had lain awake that night hating myself for doing this, because lawyers are supposed to be dispassionate, and my feelings were irrelevant.

“The woman, Holly,” I continued, “she pushed back a little, but I think she’ll settle into the arrangement.”

Jack nodded, then peered down into his glass for a long, mournful beat. I wondered if he was waiting for me to say something more. When he finally spoke, his voice was somber.

“What was it like at the scene? Y’know, after?”

The fact that I’d made it to the scene before they had loaded Holly into the ambulance was nothing short of a miracle. I don’t live anywhere near the valley neighborhood where the collision occurred, but I happened to be in the area at a lunch with a local developer. LA had a terrible housing shortage, and Jack had asked me to look for opportunities to invest in affordable housing because, as he liked to say, It can’t always be about making money. When I got the urgent call, I had just paid the check and was walking to my car.