Life and Other Inconveniences(114)

“Yeah. Sure you do. What I’m saying is, that wasn’t the only thing that happened to us. We kept trying. We talked about April, what she’d want for us, and we tried to make her proud of us. You, on the other hand . . . you let your lost boy ruin you. That poor kid’s legacy to you is that you were a miserable bitch all your life.”

I started to contradict him, then stopped. My throat felt tight, and tears stung behind my eyes. I took a sip of water, then held the coffee mug in my hands. Though it was a beautiful day, I was cold.

“How did you do it, Paul?” I asked, my voice shaking and thin. “You and Joan. How did you bear to stay alive?”

He looked away from me abruptly and stared into the distance. Then, surprisingly, he took my hand. His skin was callused and warm, and I felt a surge of gratitude.

His voice was quiet when he spoke. “We just did. Some days, it felt like we were walking corpses, but we just kept going.” He sighed. “Some days are still so damn hard. Feels like it all happened yesterday.”

“I felt like I died the day Sheppard went missing,” I said, and my tears spilled over. “I wish I had. When Garrison died, I hated him for leaving me. That was so long ago! I can’t believe I’ve lasted all these years alone.”

He squeezed my hand. “Maybe you weren’t as alone as you thought. You’ve got that Donelle. And what’s-her-name. The ogre in the kitchen.”

“Helga.”

“You seem to have quite a few friends in this town. And this summer, you have the girls.”

“Not anymore. I imagine Emma’s going to leave and take Riley with her.”

“Can you blame her? You asked her to help you kill yourself, you lied about having money to help Riley through college, you didn’t even tell the truth about what’s wrong with you.”

“No. I can’t blame her a bit.”

“Getting old and sick . . . it’s not easy,” he said. “But come on, Genevieve. Why should you be any different? You think you’re only worth something when you’re flashing cash and pretending you’re the queen of America. Maybe you’re worth more when you’re not doing that stuff. Even if you forget things and need help. Even if you’re old. There still could be something good in you.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that you’re loved. I never understood how you could turn away such a gift.”

He was talking about Emma.

“I did love her,” I said.

“You hid it well.”

A seagull landed on the railing of the deck, calm and undisturbed by our presence. It looked at the both of us.

How wonderful to be a seagull! I’d always loved them, so capable in the air and on the water. The way they could glide on the wind, easily adapting to the varying air currents. I never felt they were common at all.

“I’m so tired,” I said to the bird. He looked as if he understood.

“Come on inside,” Paul answered. “Have a rest.” He stood up and offered his hand, and I needed it. My knees ached from the walk, and I felt a bit dizzy.

He brought me to the bedroom, and I slipped off my shoes and lay on my side. He covered me up with a flannel throw, and when he lay down beside me, I wasn’t even surprised.

“Don’t read anything into this,” he said. “I’m still mad about you lying to my granddaughter.”

“Our granddaughter,” I said. “By all means, simmer away.”

He gave a gruff laugh, and put his arm around me, and before I could even process how good it felt, I was asleep.





CHAPTER 34


    Emma


I went to see Hope after Genevieve finally told me the truth. I didn’t have to work at Rose Hill, but I wanted to see my sister.

Emotions sloshed around in my gut like acid—fury, betrayal, hurt.

Sympathy.

No, no. Genevieve didn’t deserve that, not yet.

But as I pulled into Rose Hill, I couldn’t help feeling a little . . . awe, too.

Genevieve had taken care of Hope forever, and that was huge. My sister would be cared for all her life, and she could stay here, at the only home she’d ever known. Once Genevieve died, my father wouldn’t be able to profit off of her the way he had off of me.

She paid my father to stay away from me.

That was either superheroic or utterly shitty. My father hadn’t been horrible, after all. He never beat me or yelled at me. My memories of him in the first eight years of my life were . . . fine. I remember him setting up the sprinkler so I could run through the water . . . I remembered piggyback rides and a fort made out of a cardboard box. I remembered that, after my mom died, he let me stay up watching TV, the two of us wrapped in a blanket. I had loved him.

I could see that nothing in Clark’s life had prepared him to be responsible for anyone. He couldn’t even take care of himself. I could’ve forgiven him, maybe, if he’d visited more . . . but Genevieve had bribed him to keep his distance. Maybe he would’ve gotten to know me and we would’ve bonded. We could’ve gotten closer as I grew older. Once the pain of my mother’s death faded, maybe he would’ve stepped up.

The therapist in me asked if there was any evidence to support this scenario.

No. There wasn’t. He sold me. Genevieve’s money was worth more than his own child. And then he sold the next kid, too. He was too lazy and self-involved to want to care for Hope himself. Her issues were complicated; even the most loving, dedicated, knowledgeable parent would need help, and my father was none of those things. But he had never even tried.