Life and Other Inconveniences(75)

With a pointed sigh, I obeyed.

“Why are you always picking fights with her?” Donelle asked. “Give her a break, Gen.”

“Who invited Jason?” Genevieve snapped, ignoring her. “Your grandfather is one thing. Your impregnator is another. He ruined your life. I don’t want him as a guest in my home. Especially after the way his mother treated you. Such a climber, that woman.”

“First of all,” I said, my voice tight, “if Riley’s father isn’t welcome here, you’re going to have to be the one to tell her. Secondly, he didn’t ruin my life. He gave me Riley, who is everything to me, and someone even you seem to care about. And thirdly, I agree with you about Courtney, but she was taking her cues from you, Genevieve. You kicked me out first, after all.”

“Boom,” said Donelle. “She got you there, Gen.”

“You needed to learn a thing or two,” she said.

“And lastly, though you seem damn healthy to me, you’re allegedly dying. You’ve been playing with me for weeks now. I want to talk to your doctor, and if you don’t sign over Hope’s guardianship by the end of the week, Riley and I are going back home.”

“This is your home.”

“No, Genevieve, it’s not. You made sure of that. Now, I’m going for a walk,” I said. “Good night, Donelle. Genevieve, sleep well in your casket.”

Donelle cackled. “Casket! Like you’re a vampire, Gen. You’re funny, Emma.”

“You so enjoy judging me, don’t you, Emma?” Genevieve said, her voice deceptively calm. “And yet I took you in after your mother killed herself and your father didn’t want you, and those other grandparents with whom you wanted to stay were too overwhelmed. I gave you every opportunity, and you threw it out the window in order to have sex with some ridiculous, shallow boy. I did nothing wrong.”

Where had that speech come from? The honest emotion in it seemed out of character for my grandmother. Had she really forgotten what she said? How she had all but cursed me? I looked at her for a long moment. Was there a point in arguing with her? Would she really care about anything I had to say? Should I try now, while Donelle was idly peeling her moldy toenail and holding shards of it up to the light?

“Well?” my grandmother said. “Speak your mind or take your walk.”

“I just wanted you to love me, Gigi,” I said, surprising myself with the words.

“Love is overrated,” she said.

I took a slow breath. “It’s ironic,” I said. “You lost a child, and years later, you were given one. I wasn’t Sheppard, but I was scared and lost and afraid, just the way he was.”

“Do not bring up my son,” she hissed.

I let the silence sit there until she finally looked away.

“I’ll take that walk now,” I said. “Good night.”





CHAPTER 22


    Emma


I remembered some things about the day my mother died with perfect recall. It was raining, and I finally got to use my new umbrella—pale pink with hundreds of brilliant butterflies and flowers on it. My mom had bought it for me as a going-back-to-school present, and then it didn’t rain for twenty-seven days. Otherwise, third grade had been perfect so far, and I’d already gone on three playdates and I sat with the nice girls every single lunch and was learning double Dutch at recess.

Then, finally, it did rain, and I always wondered if the rain was connected somehow to what happened later. I woke up that morning elated, the rain hissing through the leaves outside my window. Everything was normal; Daddy was away, and Mommy let me have Cap’n Crunch for breakfast and didn’t even make me eat a banana. I remembered that she zipped up my raincoat and handed me my backpack. “And don’t forget your pretty umbrella!” she said. She hugged me extra long. Or maybe I made that part up. Maybe I just hoped she hugged me extra long.

I think I said, “I love you.” I didn’t specifically recall that part, but the memory is there. I did love my mother, and we told each other that a lot. Every day, the same as I did with Riley.

I remembered the stiff plastic of my slicker and the new smell of my umbrella. I remembered that I had peanut butter and honey for lunch, and I ate with Rachel and Taylor. On the way home from school, I sat with Drake Fitzgerald from down the street, who was a year older than I was and very nice, even though he was a boy. Our bus stopped at the end of our dead-end street, and half a dozen kids got out, which was why I was allowed to walk the half block home by myself.

As the other kids scattered and ran because of the rain, I took my time. A gust of wind caught my umbrella, and for a second, I thought I’d blow away, whisked into the dark, wet sky, carried above the clouds, over Lake Michigan, and what a fun and happy adventure that would be! I wanted to have adventures, like the girl who got the seven-league boots, like Pippi Longstocking, like the cousins in The Wolves of Willoughby Chase.

I remember all those thoughts.

Mommy always told me to come right home from the bus stop, but that was silly. I wasn’t little anymore, after all. I was eight, almost eight and a half. Besides, she almost always waited for me on the front steps. I didn’t see her there today—the rain, probably—but I was a big kid compared to the kindergarteners, who were so tiny. The rain made such a loud patter on my umbrella, and the air smelled like copper. Rainwater gurgled in the gutters, carrying the first of the fall leaves along on a happy ride. The weather, my new coat, my beautiful, fancy umbrella. All the other girls in my class had loved it. Even Jake Nydvorst had said it was pretty.