Life and Other Inconveniences(68)

At least Riley had been in the dressing room and didn’t hear.

I was no longer relevant to the company I founded.

How many meetings had I granted Beverly to explain my corporate culture, my aesthetic, my hopes for the company? I was proud to have hired her myself out of a very distinguished pool of applicants. Obviously, I’d wanted a woman to take over, and I was doubly proud to pass the baton to an African American woman. One of the stipulations of selling the company had been that I’d choose my successor. The board of directors was wild about her, and profits were higher than ever.

I supposed I hadn’t expected her to make the company so much hers. I didn’t blame her; I admired her. She’d been president of the company for fourteen years; the business was thriving.

But Genevieve London Designs was founded because I’d needed something to walk alongside the Missing. It was founded after I’d crawled out of the cedar closet, so weighted down with grief over my son and husband that I could not even stand. My first designs were sketched in the middle of the nights when I woke up, terrified that Garrison was dead, then stunned when I realized it was true . . . and Sheppard was still out there, unfound. I shoved the Missing aside to do research on leathers and hardware and lining. I toured vacant factories in Newark, wanting my products to be made in America. I started a training program for craftsmanship for at-risk youth at Newark high schools and offered a job to every one of them who finished.

I had been a visionary.

Now I was just an old woman who was no longer needed at the company that bore my name, Googling articles on the best ways to die.

Would Dr. Pinco prescribe me something on which I could overdose? He was clever, that one, and so far had only given me sleeping pills five at a time. How could I ensure that I wouldn’t simply do more damage to myself and end up exactly where I feared I’d be—a vegetative state, tied to a wheelchair or hospital bed in a nursing home? Cutting my wrists sounded ghastly, but if I had enough gin in my system, could I do it? It would be better than a gun, wouldn’t it?

Drowning seemed to be my top choice. A few seconds of panic—ten? twenty?—then surrender. Drowners (who survived, obviously) describe a warm feeling of acceptance. One man even said it was the most wonderful feeling he’d ever experienced. A “lovely sense of peace,” he’d said. I could use a little of that.

Also, drowning could be passed off as accidental, so that if I took out a life insurance policy, the suicide clause wouldn’t be invoked, and I could make Riley the beneficiary. I clicked around on Google for a few minutes. Unfortunately, insurance for a person my age only covered burial costs, and I already had that under my current plan.

If people thought it was an accident, Emma wouldn’t have to experience another suicide. Not that I felt she would mind, really. It was one thing when she was eight and her mother was young and healthy. She had loved her mother. I don’t think she’d flick an eyelash toward my corpse, frankly. One would think I’d locked her in the basement those ten years. So far, she and I had avoided any intimate conversations, which was both a relief and a burden. I supposed I had to say something to her eventually. She’d been quite nosy about my health.

When I read the obituaries, which becomes quite a habit as one ages, I lingered over the descriptions of the final moments. Surrounded by her family, so-and-so went home to her Heavenly Father or After a courageous battle, so-and-so died peacefully at home, her family at her side.

My preferred death would be simply a massive stroke or heart attack, the way Garrison had gone. In that scenario, I’d die here. Maybe even in that same Adirondack chair, looking out over the Sound. Perhaps in bed, wearing the pink silk pajamas with black polka dots. Minuet would be cuddled at my side, looking mournful. No. I didn’t want my dog to suffer.

There it was. The sum of one’s life. I didn’t want my dog to suffer any grief, since my other son was a wastrel. One granddaughter wouldn’t mourn me, and the other wouldn’t know I was gone. My great-granddaughter barely knew me. Donelle would be sad, but she was so matter-of-fact it was hard to picture her saying more than, “Welp, you had a good run, Gen. See you on the other side.”

The person I really wanted holding my hand as I breathed my last was, of course, Sheppard.

Where was he, my little boy? Was he alive? Did he remember the days with me, with us, the love and adoration that infused every moment of his first seven years? Did he feel betrayed and abandoned? Had he cried for me to help him?

The Missing bit down hard, its teeth still razor sharp.

God had failed me. You promised, I thought. You promised I would see him again, and You lied.

Then there was a knock on my door. “Gigi?” It was Riley.

“Come in, dear,” I said, clearing my throat.

She did, wearing one of the outfits we’d bought (taken) in New York. She looked like a true London.

And she had the eyes.

She came over to me and spun around. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” I said. “Iconic.”

Her smile faded. “Are you sad, Gigi?” she asked, putting her hand on my shoulder.

“You need a manicure,” I said. “Your cuticles are a disgrace. A woman of class should always keep her nails tidy.”

“That’s what Mom calls deflective conversation,” she said, not moving her hand. “It’s okay if you don’t want to answer the question, but don’t insult me.”