Life and Other Inconveniences(113)

“You lost a son. It was tragic, but if you were wretched, that was your choice. My mother killed herself, my father abandoned me, I had a baby at eighteen, and I’ve had a beautiful life, no matter how inconvenient or hard it’s been. You wanted me to give up my baby or have an abortion, but look at her now. Look at the two of us and how much we love each other. And now you mean so much to her! How can you decide you’ll end it with her in your life! ‘Hey, kid, nice knowing you, but I’m a little forgetful, so screw you.’”

“I don’t want her to know me when I’m sitting in diapers, wondering where my mother is! Let her remember me as I was this summer, when I took her shopping.”

“Shopping? Are you kidding me? She doesn’t love you because you took her shopping, Gigi.” I was so mad I could hardly look at her. “I’m going out. Riley’s going to Jason’s today. Do not speak to her about any of this.”

I managed not to slam the door.





CHAPTER 33


    Genevieve


So that went badly.

After Emma had stormed off, I went through the motions—shower, hair, clothes, makeup. The routine soothed me. Otherwise, I was a bit numb.

Obviously, there had been no easy way to tell Emma I had indeed lied—misled, really—about any inheritance for Riley. I had never put a number value on it, and I did have one thing for her that, granted, she could sell, but—

Oh, hell. I lied. I knew it.

And of course Emma would be furious about the suicide, but my circumstances were hardly the same as her mother’s. My life was ending. April’s had just been getting started.

My phone rang, startling me. Mac and Carmen began barking at the sound. I looked at the screen.

Paul Riley

“Hello, Paul,” I said, shushing the dogs.

“You want to get coffee or something?” he said.

“I’d love to. Do come over.”

“You come here. I’m sick of your mansion.”

The man had a gift for irritating me. “And where is here, Paul?”

He gave me his address, a little apartment over an antiques shop on Water Street. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said.

It dawned on me that he’d be furious with me, too. I was too tired to care. He’d have to find out one way or the other.

I walked, as the day was beautiful after the rain. But I’d forgotten how old I was. My head ached, and my hearing was going in and out. My ankle hurt; I’d bruised something last night in the rain, and found myself listing to the right.

Chances were, I needed a cane. Which could be very regal, I supposed, but I hoped to be dead before I couldn’t walk into town or around Sheerwater’s grounds without assistance.

By the time I got to Water Street, I was already weary and needed the restroom. My feet burned with nerve pain, and my head was sweaty under my straw hat. The flight of stairs up to his apartment seemed like an Escher painting. I hauled myself up the stairs slowly, remembering college, the endless energy, my dorm room on the fifth floor. The things I once took for granted, just being able to wake up without pain . . . What I wouldn’t give for one more day in that strong, young body!

“You look like hell,” Paul said as he opened the door.

“You’re such a rude man.”

“Come on in. You want coffee or something else?”

His apartment was furnished with secondhand pieces, but he had a small balcony with a glimpse of the Sound. “Water, please. May I use your bathroom?”

“There on the left.”

It was tidy, at least. As I washed my hands, I saw that he was right. I did look like hell. I fluffed my hair, but it did little to help.

He’d set two glasses of water and two mugs of coffee on the little table on the deck. “Out here okay?” he asked.

“Lovely.”

Oh, it felt good to sit, even in the plastic chairs. For a second, I wondered where I was—it wasn’t Sheerwater—but then I was back. I was here with Paul, though I wasn’t sure why I’d sought him out. Not because I forgot; just because he was bound to take this badly.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Not bad. You?”

“Not good.” I sipped my water, then proceeded to tell him, as concisely as possible, about my situation. Health. Finances. Suicide plan.

He looked at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “Jesus Christ, lady. You got some nerve, talking to me about suicide.”

“I know April had a true illness, Paul, and I don’t judge her—”

“I’m talking about my wife, idiot. You think it was a joy for her to die the way she did? She was in pain for years! Lost a little piece of herself every day. But she found something to smile about every day, too. Every damn day. You’ve got everything—my girls, your friends, your dogs, that ridiculous house—and you want to cut that short. There my wife was, unable to swallow, talk, move, in pain, and she never gave up.”

“Yes. Well, she was quite the saint, wasn’t she?”

“No!” he barked. “She was heartbroken and sick and tired. Our daughter killed herself, Genevieve, and we couldn’t even take our granddaughter! You know what that does to a person? It hollows out your heart.”

“I do know something about grief, Paul.”