Life and Other Inconveniences(69)

How different she was from Emma, who, at that age, would’ve left the room or cried.

Then again, Riley had a mother who loved her and, from what I’d judged, had raised her well. Very well.

“I am a little sad,” I said, patting her hand. “Thank you for caring.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

How could I tell a teenager about the Missing? Looking into her blue, blue eyes was hard enough. Sheppard blue. I had an entire line of blue purses and accessories, but none had ever captured the perfection of his eyes. Of Riley’s eyes.

“No, dear. Tell me why you’re all dressed up. Are you going out with friends?”

A look of confusion crossed her face. “No, Gigi. It’s cocktail hour.”

“Is it?” I sensed I was supposed to know something about it.

Then the buzzing began in my head, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if it was winter or spring. Had someone just asked me something? What had I been doing? Why did I feel so . . . sad?

A large dog nudged my hand. It was rather ugly and didn’t smell very good. “We should have this beast washed, shouldn’t we?” I asked . . . ah . . . I asked the girl.

Her name was gone. Completely gone, and yet I knew I was supposed to know her.

April? No, it was the month of April. Wasn’t it? I glanced out the windows. All the leaves were on the trees, so it must be later than April. May. June. August?

“He’s so pretty,” she said, kneeling down. “Aren’t you, Mac?”

Mac. The dog’s name was Mac, and apparently, he lived here with me, which was strange, because I didn’t even like dogs. Mac. Mac. Don’t forget his name. Mac. Mack. Macintosh.

Why was I thinking of a computer?

I no longer remembered the dog’s name. He might’ve been this girl’s dog. He might’ve been mine.

“Don’t slobber on me, boy,” the girl said. “These clothes are way more than you can afford.” She looked up at me, and I felt a rush of love for the freckles smattered on her nose. Could she be my niece? Didn’t my sister have a daughter? “Are you ready?” she asked. “I love your outfit.”

Which outfit was I wearing? I glanced down. It was a three-piece white ensemble, with wide-legged pants, a silk blouse and a flowing white sweater with subtle silver trim.

I didn’t remember the outfit. Was it new? I had no recollection of buying it. Was it even mine? When had I gotten dressed? I wasn’t sure where we were going.

There didn’t seem to be anything in my brain, no thoughts to hold on to. I felt like clutching this girl and begging her to help me, but something prevented me from saying anything.

“I’m ready,” I said, and let the girl take my hand and lead me out of the bedroom, which, I assumed, was mine. It was lovely but unfamiliar. Down a long hall. There was a painting there . . . an oil abstract, purple and cream.

Wait. I knew that painting, I did. I’d bought it at auction because the colors had been so rich and lovely, the shapes so organic and comforting, almost like gentle flame . . .

It was a Peter Lobello, that was it. I’d bought it when I was dating Gerard, the appraiser for Christie’s. I’d paid $35,000 for it, and that was some time ago.

And this redheaded girl was Riley, Emma’s little girl. April’s granddaughter. That’s why April was stuck in my head; she’d had red hair also. I felt a ridiculous sense of triumph at putting the pieces together.

Mostly, though, I was simply grateful to be back in my own head again.

Dr. Pinco had told me that, at first, these spells would pass. But as my condition worsened, it would become a permanent state.

I could deal with pain. I’d proven that for decades.

But losing myself . . . that was unbearable. I didn’t want this girl to pity me.

I might love her, after all.

Tomorrow, I’d go for a swim and test the waters, literally and figuratively.





CHAPTER 21


    Emma


When Miller called to say he couldn’t get a sitter for his daughter and would therefore miss cocktail hour, I told him to bring her.

“She’s going through a rough patch,” he said. “It’d be better if we stayed home.”

“Oh, come on. I love kids. My daughter does, too. She babysits all the time back home.” There was no answer. “Unless you don’t want to come,” I added.

“No, I’d like to. I love Genevieve. But Tess is a handful.”

“We’ll double-team her,” I promised, though my brain paused on the phrase I love Genevieve. “Triple-team, even.”

“Okay. Thanks, Emma.” I thought I heard a smile in his voice.

Miller’s story had stayed in my head. Donelle, who knew everything that went on in town and didn’t view gossip as a moral failing, as Genevieve did, had told me that Ashley died in childbirth. “Just like Tyrion Lannister’s mother,” she said. “Or Sybil on Downton Abbey. I saw that coming, I tell you.”

“Ashley? Was she sick?”

“I’m talking about Sybil. The second she had a headache, I was like, ‘Oh, she’s a goner.’” Donelle stretched. “I don’t know the deets on Miller’s wife. Your grandmother won’t let me ask.”