The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(78)

Oh God, just like Becky had said. Tablets of stone. Advice from beyond the grave.

I was an anxious child, with parents who didn’t like me. My father wanted a big, brave boy, and my mother wanted my father to be happy. I learned very early on how to cover up, and cover up well. I was terrified of the other kids at school, even more than the teachers. So I kept my head down, got all A’s, didn’t make eye contact, and ran home every night to do homework and read. I rode that horse all the way through college. I don’t have a single friend from those days, and when my parents died, I didn’t know enough about them to write a eulogy. I asked a neighbor to do it.

Eventually, I discovered drinking, and that helped, right up until it didn’t. It certainly helped me achieve my primary goal, which was to avoid feeling uncomfortable at all costs. Difficult feelings? Drink and get numb. Painful relationship? Drink and leave. Children who need me, or whose mothers needed me? Drink, leave, and pretend it was for their benefit. I was a real loser, Nina, as I’m sure your brother and sisters have told you.

Ultimately, after Archie’s mom, Rosie, died, my life fell apart completely. On the surface it was better than ever. The firm was thriving, my bank account was enormous, I had beautiful girlfriends and lovely cars and no joy at all. I drank myself to sleep and hoped I didn’t dream.

Then I got lucky: Eliza walked into the middle of this disaster and pulled me out. She helped me stop drinking, she helped me get into therapy, she helped me start over. There was something about her, a deep reservoir of calm and confidence I could cling to. For the first time it was acceptable to simply be me. But there was nothing she could do to fix the crap I’d left in my wake, and I’ll admit it: It was easier for me to walk away than it would have been to go back and make it all right. I could see how much damage I had done, but I told myself it was too late, anyway. The truth is I was scared of my own kids, and how angry they were, so I hid on the other side of town.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t enjoy being alone; there’s a lot to be said for it. But if you’re choosing to be alone because you’re scared of other people, resist that fear. Trust people with your truth, and bravely tell them you’re not brave at all.

Finally, hold on to the family you’ve suddenly acquired; they’re my real gift to you. And you, dear Nina, are my gift to them.



He signed it,

Love, Dad



Well, damn, thought Nina. I guess I left the window open; there’s rain all over my face.





Twenty-seven




In which Nina delivers a letter.

Lydia lived in Santa Monica, which would normally be enough reason to avoid her all on its own. But now Nina had a mission, so the next day she crossed the 405 for the second time in a week, and made her glacial way down Olympic Boulevard.

Santa Monica is literally a separate city from Los Angeles, albeit one with no perceptible border or an inch of physical separation. It even has its own weather. Cooler, foggier, more, you know, coastal. It has fierce devotees who regard the East side of LA with the same disdain Nina had for the West side, but as they tended to be richer, more opinionated, and deeply into things like crystals and colonic irrigation, Nina didn’t worry about it.

Lydia lived on 16th Street, in a nice residential neighborhood, where presumably she could wreak havoc with her neighbor’s peace and quiet. Nina’s intention was to drop off the letter and walk away as swiftly as possible, but as she approached the front door, it opened and Lydia stood there.

“Are you coming to kill me?”

Nina stopped, halfway up the path. This woman was seriously off her rocker, but she couldn’t help admiring her bold welcoming of possible death.

“Yes, Lydia,” she said. “I am going to kill you using this deadly envelope, and then I am going to feast on your entrails.”

“Paper actually has a great deal of strength, if properly folded.”

“I’m aware of that. There’s something called buckypaper, which has a tensile strength greater than steel.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes at Nina. “How do you know that?”

“I read.” Nina held up the envelope. “This, however, is a regular envelope, which I haven’t treated with poison or booby-trapped in any way. I found it in the car your grandfather left me, and it’s addressed to you.” She shrugged. “I am merely the messenger, so, you know, don’t shoot me.”

A cat had appeared in the doorway, next to Lydia. It decided to irritate its owner by walking down the pathway and greeting the visitor. It was extremely friendly and looked like a leopard.

“Is this a Bengal?” asked Nina, bending to stroke its head.

“Yes,” said Lydia, watching from the door.

The cat had grown tired of being petted and now sat next to Nina’s feet and started washing itself.

“What’s its name?”

“Euclid.”

“The founder of geometry?”

“No, Euclid O’Hara, who works at the pizza joint on Montana.” Lydia snorted. “Yes, the father of geometry.” She turned, suddenly, and went into the house. “Come on, then, come in.”

Nina started walking in.

“Bring the cat,” said Lydia, from somewhere in the house, but the cat was already coming. Cats hate to miss anything.