Life and Other Inconveniences(21)

I sat back in my leather chair and looked at the picture of Garrison on my desk. I didn’t keep one of Sheppard here, as it was too painful to see his face every day. Nor one of Clark, since a photo of my other son would fail to bring a smile to my face or a happy memory to my heart. I had a picture of Hope on the bookcase, of course, her sweet smile brightening my day, but I didn’t keep it on my desk.

But my husband . . .

On most days, I’d forgiven him for dying so young. In the past ten or fifteen or seventeen years, I’d felt his loss more acutely. Sometimes, though I would never admit it to anyone, I talked to him.

“It seems I’ll be with you soon, my darling,” I said now.

And Sheppard! Suddenly, it was as if my heart lunged in my chest. If Sheppard had died, I would see him again, at last, at last. My true son. My perfect boy. Tears slipped down my cheeks at the thought of holding him again. Would he still be seven? Would he fit so perfectly in my arms, against my side? Would I still smell the sunshine in his hair, the sweet, grassy scent of my darling son?

For once, the Missing subsided at the thought of my reunion with my baby. My boy.

I looked away, out at the bright blue sky, the shimmering Sound. The flag stood out stiffly, and the rope clanged against the pole as the wind scraped across the rooftops of Sheerwater.

I knew what I had to do. I wasn’t going to end my days in diapers, not recognizing Donelle or the Talwars or Minuet. Or Clark.

Suicide was for the weak, Mother had always told me. Granted, that was before depression was recognized as a serious medical illness, but I had to agree with her, at least partially. How else would I have stayed alive all these years? Because I was strong.

I’d see Dr. Pinco, that lovely man, and get an idea of my prognosis and how much time I could expect to be myself.

Though I’d been waiting much of my life to die, I hoped I had a few months left. To prepare. To do it right.

One more spring, one more summer here. A little time, perhaps, to look back. A few more months to do the things I most enjoyed . . . and perhaps see a few people from my past.

And then, I’d kill myself. Gracefully, of course. I wasn’t going to make a mess.





CHAPTER 7


    Emma


“Are you nervous? You don’t have to be,” I said, clutching my daughter’s hand as the airplane began its descent into Hartford.

“Maybe she’d be less nervous if you stopped asking if she was nervous,” Pop said from the window seat.

“I’m not nervous. I’m psyched,” Riley said.

“Good! Great! Of course you’re not nervous. Why be nervous?”

“Mom. Chill.” My daughter gave me a look and withdrew her hand from mine.

We were seated in first class—Genevieve’s initial shot across the bow, showing off with her wallet—in addition to the limo she’d sent to Pop’s little house. For a second, I’d thought Pop wouldn’t get in, but he loved Riley, and he was coming with us. He paid for his own ticket, though.

My throat was tight—strep, I thought, absentmindedly feeling my glands. Nothing there. Yet. Oh, wait. Maybe there was a small nodule? Lymphoma? I sighed. Calista would slap me right about now; I knew damn well my throat was tight from nerves, not from cancer.

My daughter cut me a look. She was the only one of us who was thrilled, even though our amenities in first class had been a glass of water pre-takeoff and a snack box. Still, she watched a movie on the tiny screen and had a cup of coffee just because she could. She hadn’t been on her phone. I wasn’t sure if she was in touch with any of her friends—I imagine Mikayla would be keeping a good distance, but what about the other two? Or anyone in her class? Was it healthy that she was avoiding social media, or unhealthy? Either case worried me. And reassured me. And worried me. God, it was hard being a parent!

My stomach was in knots. (Small bowel obstruction? My mind flashed through the scenario—me in a hospital bed, all-liquid diet, Riley’s face white with worry, Genevieve looking smug. Fine. I didn’t have an SBO and mentally cursed WebMD.)

No matter what, I had a sinking feeling this visit was a mistake.

Bradley airport was tiny compared with O’Hare, but bigger than I remembered it from seventeen years ago. We went to baggage claim, and there he was—Charles, Genevieve’s chauffeur, holding an iPad that said LONDON.

“This is so cool,” Riley said.

“Hey, Charles,” I said, giving him a hug. He was a bear-shaped man, employed by Genevieve since before I came to live with her. He’d always been so nice.

“Oh, my goodness,” he said. “Look at you, all grown up! It’s good to see you, Miss London. I mean, Dr. London.”

“Don’t you dare. It’s Emma to you. This is my grandfather, Paul Riley, and my daughter, Riley London.”

Charles shook hands with Pop, then turned to Riley. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Miss London.”

“Whoa. You can call me Riley.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Miss London. Protocol.” He winked and, when our bags came, put them on the cart and walked us out to the sedan. The plates said LONDON3.

My grandfather cut me a look. “I guess the dragon lady couldn’t be here to meet you in person,” he muttered.

Charles held the doors for us and then got in himself.