Life and Other Inconveniences(83)

If only I had someone to comfort me, to hold me and tell me I was fine. I knew I had a sickness in my brain. Cancer, perhaps. Where was Garrison? He would tell me . . . but no, he was long dead. Instead, I sat there on a wooden bench that hurt my hips and spine, and watched the girls play with a large ball.

Sisters. Emma and Hope were sisters—half sisters—and they were both my granddaughters. Olivia . . . no, not Olivia . . . what was her name? Olivia was her middle name, I was sure. Riley. That was it. Riley was my great-granddaughter. Emma and she were staying with me for the summer, because I was sick. The man who had driven the car . . . I knew I’d known him a long time, and I employed him. Was he my bodyguard? The notion seemed absurd.

Sweet Hope. She came over to me for a hug, fitting right against me. She smelled so familiar. She laughed with Emma and Riley, too, and as the foggy wisps drifted together, I realized that they’d been to see her. Many times. A tightness clamped around my throat. I couldn’t remember why Emma wouldn’t come see me, but I knew that she hadn’t.

We ate lunch, Emma helping Hope with her food, Riley, too, wiping Hope’s chin when the child laughed and food spilled out. We looked at one of those . . . those holes in the ground that are filled with water for swimming. A constructed lake. A pod? Almost, almost. A pill?

Pool. A pool. We looked at the pool at Rose Hill, where Hope lived.

By the time we were in the car with Charles (for heaven’s sake, of course it was Charles), I’d checked my leather-bound planner (a Genevieve London design, of course, and one of my own making), and seen that we’d had an appointment with Brooklyn Fuller, my attorney, at ten, before spending the day with Hope. It was five o’clock, and for nearly all that time, I’d been out of myself, and lost. No episode before had lasted so long.

Getting home had never been such a relief. Thank goodness I had Charles. What if I’d had to drive myself?

“And how is Miss Hope?” Donelle asked, hobbling in to greet us.

“She’s great,” Emma said. “How’s the toe?”

“Still oozing.”

“I’m afraid I have a terrible headache,” I said, which was the truth. “I’ll take a tray in my room, and, Donelle, would you kindly make me a martini as well?”

“No,” she said. “Because I’m an invalid, can’t you see?”

“I’ll do it,” Riley offered.

“You’re sixteen,” Emma said. “What do you know about making a martini?”

“That’s why the Internet was invented,” she said. “Also, it’s a useful life skill, Mom. I can bartend through college.”

I made my way upstairs slowly, gripping the railing, too tired to talk to anyone anymore.

The mirror showed an old, well-dressed woman who still had her height, though my shoulders were caving inward. Mother would’ve been horrified. Then again, she died when she was sixty-three, so she hadn’t suffered these indignities. Lung cancer, the lucky thing.

Well. Not lucky, I supposed, but lucky that she didn’t have to live so very long. Lucky that it took her weeks to die, not months or years.

Lucky that all her children were by her side in the final moments.





CHAPTER 25


    Riley


Helga made some grayish meat for dinner, so instead of giving that to Gigi, I made scrambled eggs with cheese and sourdough whole-wheat toast that Mom and I got at the farmers’ market the other day. Helga wasn’t happy, but I didn’t really care. From where I sat, she didn’t deserve this job, so screw her.

I buttered the toast carefully, then got a rose from the garden and put it in a little bud vase.

When I was little, I used to play waitress with my mom and Pop. All I could manage was toast with jelly, and they always made such a fuss over it. I kind of missed living with Pop. Maybe I’d sleep over this weekend and we could watch The Hunt for Red October, his favorite movie. I also wanted to go to the library and do some digging about missing children who’d been found in the years after Great-Uncle Sheppard disappeared.

Also, Rav had texted me and said he’d be there on Saturday, so maybe we could hang out. I’d been really chill about it and just texted back saying sounds cool, not sure what our weekend plans are, but probably yes.

He might like me. Even if he was a little bit younger, I didn’t even care. No boy had ever liked me before, and Rav was super good-looking. When he was twenty-five, he’d be drop-dead gorgeous.

I also thought I would bike out to Birch Lake and take a walk around. Not that I was going to trip over a skeleton, but just to kind of immerse myself in the scene. That’s what all the detectives did on the BBC, after all. They stared out and brooded. I’d seen Broadchurch three times and was fairly sure I could pull off a David Tennant–worthy brood.

I slid the eggs on the plate. “I’m available for cooking classes, Helga. If you want to learn the basics.”

I’d say she glared back, but she always glared. Oh, the martini! I made it carefully and added it to the tray—how fun was it to make adult beverages?—and went through the living room. Mom was talking on the phone.

“Headache. And these . . . lapses, where she gets very quiet. No, not that I’ve noticed, anyway. Just quiet. She wouldn’t tell me if she did, and she won’t let me talk to her doctor. Nope, she has a driver. Please, Calista. Of course she does.”