Life and Other Inconveniences(82)

“And, Emma, these are for you. A petition for temporary guardianship here, and appointment as a trustee here.” She passed more papers across her impressive tiger maple desk. “The Department of Developmental Disabilities will have to do a study, so they’ll be contacting you to schedule that.”

“Got it. I’ve been asked to help on some of those back in Chicago.”

“Fantastic. Where’d you get your degree?”

“Rosalind Franklin’s where I got my doctorate. My undergrad and master’s were at Chicago State.”

“My cousin got her MD at Rosalind Franklin. She’s a pediatrician in Milwaukee now.”

“What a great field,” Emma said, looking up with a smile.

How very pleasant that they were bonding. I gave Brooklyn a frosty look, which she correctly interpreted as let’s get back to the issues.

She cleared her throat. “So you’re familiar with the process, Dr. London, which makes everything easier. Genevieve, has Hope’s father waived his parental rights?”

“No,” I said. I’d been unable to convince him to do that.

“He’s never even been to see her,” Emma said, and really, did she have to air our family secrets? Clark was an idiot and a terrible father, yes. Nevertheless, Emma didn’t have to hang from her cross and shout it out to the world.

“I just want to make sure he won’t be able to access Hope’s trust,” Emma continued. “Or any inheritance she might be getting. Can he contest my grandmother’s will?”

Brooklyn’s head jerked back the slightest bit. She glanced at me. “Uh . . . no, everything is ironclad regarding Hope’s trust. And I don’t . . . foresee a problem with anything else.”

“Great. Thank you.” She turned her attention back to the papers.

I looked down as well.

Oh, no.

The words swam before my eyes. The too-familiar panic rose fast and hard in me, pulling me under like a riptide. The buzzing was deafening. Was it really in my head, or was there a fire alarm or . . . or . . . something? The other women didn’t look perturbed. Why was I here? Where was I? Why was the black woman looking at me?

“Gigi?”

I glanced at the young woman to my right. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

“Y-yes.”

She looked at me another minute. I knew her, but her name wouldn’t come to me. The black woman . . . I didn’t know her. She was a complete stranger! Why were we here? Were they about to take me somewhere? Was I going to the . . . the . . . the place where they put old people? The jail? The asylum? What was it called? The kennel? It was like a kennel for old people, and I was old, wasn’t I? There were age spots on my hands, and I was very tired, and from the corner of my eye, I could see that my hair was white. White! When I’d always been blond before.

Tears came to my eyes. I hated this. I hated being afraid.

The white woman squeezed my shoulder, her eyes kind. She’d take care of me, I knew instinctively.

“I think we’ll finish this at home, Brooklyn,” she said, and the name meant nothing to me. Were we in Brooklyn? Why? “It gets a little emotional whenever we have to make a decision about Hope.”

Why was she talking about hope? What were we hoping for? Or dreading? Because I felt filled with dread.

The black woman said something, and the white woman answered, but I couldn’t hear properly.

We got up, and I remembered to take my handbag. I was dressed well, at any rate. For some reason, that reassured me. If I was going to the home—the nursing home, that was it—at least I looked put together.

In the waiting room were two other people who both stood when we came out. “I totally killed Charles with ‘zygote,’ Mom,” said the girl.

“It’s true. I’m dead,” said the man.

“Yay for AP Biology,” said the kind woman. Emily. That was her name. Or, no, not quite.

Those were jokes. I didn’t understand why they were funny, but at least I could hear again. I pretended to smile, terrified that someone would find out. I knew to pretend I wasn’t confused. I smiled at the redheaded girl, feeling fond of her, and swallowed the panic. I hoped they wouldn’t hurt me. I was fairly sure they wouldn’t, but I felt like crying just the same.

This would pass. This would pass. Someone had told me that; I had to believe it was true.

“Ready to see Hope?” the redheaded girl asked.

“I am,” I said, and let her take my hand and show me hope, whatever that looked like.



* * *




*

At some point, I started to come back to myself. I had faked my way through the minutes (or hours) that spooled out, and little slices of the world came back into their rightful place. I knew Rose Hill, and then suddenly knew the names of the three girls—Emma, Hope, Riley. Catching and holding on to the information was like trying to knit together wisps of drifting fog. Was Emma their mother? No, not quite right. Emma was Hope’s brother. No, stupid, not brother! The other one! The girl version of brother.

My hands looked so old! Were they really mine? Those rings were familiar, the diamond engagement ring, the simple gold band, a wide, plain silver ring on the other hand that looked out of place on these wrinkled, crooked fingers. How embarrassing, that chic and stylish ring having to sit on that old finger! I wanted to cry. The horrid buzzing ebbed and flowed, sometimes drowning out other sounds. I wanted to scream, “How can a person think with that noise?”