Life and Other Inconveniences(41)

I took a thick flannel blanket out of the trunk, removed my pumps and slid on my wellies, which I’d brought for just this reason. Donelle and I walked up the hill to where a lovely maple tree was in full leaf. Birds sang and fluttered, and the wind rustled through the long grass. I shook out the blanket and lowered myself to the ground, trying to ignore the pain in my hip, my wrists, my left knee. I should’ve used the bathroom one more time before leaving the house. Old age was such an indignity. The ground was uneven with roots, and they stuck into my spine. I might even bruise. Next time, I’d bring padding of some sort, if this did prove to be the spot. There was no reason for me to be more uncomfortable than necessary, even in my final moments.

Donelle lay next to me, grunting a little. It took her longer to get settled, but when she was finally done muttering and sighing, the loveliness of the setting enveloped us. The dappled sun warmed my legs, and the breeze was gentle and kind.

“Not a bad place to die,” Donelle admitted. “Which doesn’t mean I approve, obviously.”

I tried to imagine coming out here, alone, with my .38 Special. I’d have to set things up so I’d fall onto a forgiving surface, making it easy for the coroner to tell what happened. The blanket would be ruined, of course, but I deserved to die on something nice. How much blood would pool under me? Would I have a few seconds, staring at the sky? Would I see my body from above? I’d want to die on a sunny day, when the sky was the same color as Sheppard’s eyes.

The same color as Riley’s, too.

“What if a bird craps on you?” Donelle asked.

I closed my eyes and sighed. “Must you?”

“You know what I read? You’ll shit yourself. Your bowels just liquefy and that’s how you’ll be remembered. Genevieve London, lying in her poop. The fire department boys will talk about the smell of shit and blood, and everyone will know. That’s not what you want, is it?”

What was the phrase the young people used? “You’re really killing my buzz, Donelle.”

“Of course I am! I’m your best friend! I don’t want you to shoot yourself! What will happen to me, huh?”

“You’ll be fine. There’s some money set aside for you and Charles and Helga.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she said.

“Language, please.”

“Fuck that! You can’t kill yourself, Gen. You really can’t. It’s not the worst thing in the world, getting old, is it?”

“It is this way. I’d rather shit myself, as you so delicately put it, once, rather than daily as my brain rots away when tied into a wheelchair in some kennel.”

Donelle snorted. “Like we’d let that happen to you.”

I looked at her. It was true, she was my best friend. I didn’t have a lot of friends, not like Donelle. My throat tightened.

“This will break Hope’s heart,” Donelle said, playing the ace up her sleeve.

I couldn’t think about Hope. “She won’t know. You’ll visit her, won’t you?”

“She’ll know.” Tears were leaking out of Donelle’s eyes, slipping into her gray hair.

I took her hand. “I’m dying. It’s already started. I need you to be on my side with this, Donelle. Someone has to understand.”

“When are you gonna talk to Emma?”

“Soon. I don’t know.”

“Tell her the truth. Don’t die under this tree, Gen.”

The truth was, I didn’t want to. I wanted to slip away, to fall asleep gently, without pain, surrounded by my loved ones . . . well, by Donelle. Emma. Clark, if he had to be there.

That wasn’t many. Losing Sheppard had cut me off from loving people. Who else would be there for me? Miller? The Drs. Talwar? There had been my lovely assistant who’d been so capable and respectful for so many years, ever cheerful and efficient. Melissa, who went by Mel. Would she come? It probably wasn’t appropriate to ask her, but she’d been such a lovely woman. I’d wished frequently that Emma had been more like her, working with me, my right hand. Then again, Emma was the one who’d thrown it all away.

Whom else did I love? What was love, anyway?

It would be nice, perhaps, if Riley were there at the end, if it wouldn’t be too traumatic. She seemed both innocent for her age and in possession of an old soul.

Her name was growing on me.

Perhaps over these next few weeks, I’d have another chance to love a child, albeit a teenager. Perhaps, this time, I could get it right.



* * *




*

I had finally pried permission from Emma to bring Riley to New York, and the day after my scouting mission, we were all set to go. Suspicion still bubbled out of Emma like a toxic steam; I was afraid she’d insist on coming (though she could do with a makeover). Frankly, I didn’t want her to come. Riley seemed to like me, and having her mother there, poisoning the atmosphere, would make the day subpar. Also, I imagined Beverly would lecture me for bringing in two people to raid the showroom. Sometimes, I think she forgot just who founded this company. The company was called Genevieve London Designs, not Beverly . . . Beverly . . .

I’d forgotten her last name. Panic swirled in my stomach. Jenkins? No, no, that wasn’t it, though the name was familiar. James? Jennings?

I glanced around. This was my bedroom. I was home. Why was I here? What was I supposed to be doing? Was it bedtime?