Life and Other Inconveniences(39)

“Hope, you have a visitor,” the aide said. She was new.

I went over and knelt down in front of Hope. “Hi, sweetie,” I said, and then her face lit up, and she leaned against me.

“I missed you,” I said, my eyes filling even as I smiled. “Hi, I’m Hope’s sister, Emma,” I said, reaching a hand out to the new aide even as I held Hope.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dakota.” She stood up. “I’ll let you guys have your visit.”

“See you later, Emma,” Caridad said, and both women went out.

Hope was smiling now, humming her happiness in the sweetest way. “How’s my girl?” I asked. “Are you wonderful? You are. You’re a sweet, sweet girl.” I kissed her hair and hugged her close.

Hope had drawn the short stick with her condition. She didn’t talk, and while she could follow some simple instructions, it was clear that she would need to be cared for her entire life, however long or short that might be.

She looked up at me, smiling. Fifteen years old, but she looked much younger. “Who loves you?” I asked. “Guess what? It’s me! I love you, honeybun.”

Her eyes were bluish-green and beautiful, with irises that looked like they were made up of pieces of stained glass. Then, because Hope was a creature of habit and it was kind of our thing, I took her hands in mine and started clapping them and singing “Rubber Duckie” from Sesame Street. Her face lit up.

It was our song, after all.

Beth poked her head in about an hour later, informing me that she had seen only one male and he had failed to meet her criteria for baby daddy. She stayed to roll balls around with Hope and me, then left, giving my sister a kiss on the cheek and me a pat on the head.

I stayed until dinnertime, when Hope went to eat with her fellow residents.

This was definitely one of the best things about the summer, I thought, watching Dakota lead her down the hall, my sister’s gait uneven. I could see Hope as much as I wanted. I’d get Genevieve to make me her guardian. Financially, Genevieve had said, Hope was set for life, and while Genevieve might have done it out of a sense of patrician duty, I had to admit I was grateful.

I stopped to check out the new wing. Jeez Louise, it was going to be gorgeous, according to the architect’s drawing displayed on the door. More residential space, plus the heated, super-salinated pool to increase buoyancy and the benefits of aquatherapy. It would be open to the public on Sundays, too, for a fee. If it was finished this summer, Riley and I could come and float around with Hope.

At the bottom of the sign, under the architectural firm, was another logo.

Finlay Construction was building the addition. Jason hadn’t mentioned that, and he obviously knew my sister lived here.

Well. He had other things on his mind, I guessed. But it was a pretty plum job. The company must be doing well.

I’d have to look into that. A sense of unease settled in my stomach. I didn’t want to have to dig around into Jason’s finances. I knew he wasn’t legally required to pay for college, but still.

I had the uncomfortable feeling he was hiding something.





CHAPTER 13


    Genevieve


A week into their visit and much to my surprise, I found that I quite liked Riley. I hadn’t expected to hate her, of course, but neither had I foreseen that she would be so . . . lively. Intelligent. I certainly hadn’t anticipated that she would be an excellent conversationalist, not with her mother’s own teen years of milksop ways and accusatory sighs. Honestly, Emma had been so morose, and I had little tolerance for people who indulged in self-pity.

Even now, with my fragile medical state, Emma’s resentment was thick enough to taste, like an acrid fog. Aside from dinner each night, I barely saw her. Twice she’d asked for details of my health, which I had no plans to provide. Otherwise, she’d take Riley into town, or swimming in the pool or the Sound. Sometimes I’d hear them in the morning, as they seemed to have a habit of climbing into each other’s beds and talking before breakfast, which made jealousy flare in my stomach.

Sheppard used to come into my bed if Garrison was traveling. When he was very small, he was afraid of his father being away, and I’d cuddle him close and reassure him, and I can still remember how his face would light up when Garrison called, how big the phone looked next to his perfect face as he chattered to his father.

Clark, too, had come into our room occasionally, but after Sheppard went away, I honestly couldn’t bear it, and I’d leave Garrison to do the work of comforting our other son.

That phrase . . . what was it again? Oh, this wretched failing, these holes where words are supposed to be. What was it? That thing people do when the Missing is so huge, so cruel and sharp that even your skin feels as if it’s tearing . . . tearing, yes. Tearing your hair out. That. That’s what I’d wanted to do when Clark came in, fat tears rolling down his face, his lower lip trembling. I’d walk out of the room and go down the hall to the cedar closet, push aside the clothes, sink to the floor and grab fistfuls of my hair and pull until it burned, the scream welling up inside of me.

These memories served no purpose. I had to stop. Just because I was a sick old woman didn’t mean I had to behave like one, lost in the fog of the past, boring people to death with stories of a grief too deep and personal to be voiced. Honestly, I wished other people were more like me. Too many loved ripping off their scabs in public, gleefully shoving their tragedies down the throats of the rest of us. Miller understood, the dear man. He never talked about his wife, and I was grateful. It was the appropriate way to mourn. Stoically.