The Dollhouse(85)

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you think you could be overcompensating for what happened to you at the network?”

She bristled at his presumption. “No. Of course not. These are two different stories.”

“Maybe. But hear me out. Before, you were afraid to go forward because you didn’t have all the information.”

“Yes. I waited, but the story got away from me anyway. Maybe if I’d shown some guts, like Gloria, I wouldn’t have been made the scapegoat. Maybe I should have been more willing to go out on a limb.”

“And so that’s what you’re doing here. You’re being aggressive, pushing boundaries and rules in order to get the full story. But you may never have it. This old lady, whoever she is, may never tell you what really happened. Maybe the unfinished business between Sam and Esme and Darby should stay that way.”

“I don’t think so. I want to put the pieces of the puzzle together. For Darby’s sake.”

“Esme’s sake.”

“You know what I mean. Don’t you want to find out what happened?”

“I do, but I’m not about to go breaking the law to do it. Tyler was right to kill the story.”

“Tyler’s an idiot. This story has legs.”

“You’re not much smarter than he is right now, as far as I can see.”

“Very nice.” Rose gritted her teeth. She didn’t have to take this. She’d had enough of men telling her what to do and when to do it.

“I can’t believe you don’t see what a tightrope you’re walking on.” Jason had turned red; a vein pulsed on his forehead. “You’re way too caught up in the story. Step back, take a break. And move out of here now.” He held his hands out, palms facing out. “If you don’t, I’m done.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t want anything to do with this. You’re digging yourself into a huge hole. You need to move out of here and get on with your own life.”

If only there was a life to move on to.




At seven thirty that evening, while reading out loud from Stephen Hawking’s latest, Rose looked up to discover her father had passed away. He gave no sign, no warning, not even a raspy breath. One moment he was there, and the next, he was gone. She was unprepared for the suddenness of the ending. The nurses said he’d been doing well that day, had opened his eyes once or twice. She’d pictured his death in her imagination already: He’d shift back into consciousness, focus on her, and even if he didn’t say a word, they’d have one last connection.

But that didn’t happen.

Maddy was by her side not long after receiving her anguished call, murmuring all the right things. Rose fell into her arms.

“I don’t know, did I do the right thing? Maybe I should have kept him in his home longer, moved in with him and found an aide to help during the day.” Had he been happy at all, in the recesses of his cloudy mind? She couldn’t say the thought out loud, and burst into tears.

Maddy handed her a tissue. “You did what had to be done, and he loved you dearly. Don’t second-guess yourself.”

“I can’t help it.” The full weight of his fear and confusion fell upon her with a brutal force. She didn’t do enough, she let herself get sidetracked by work and Griff. Just as her mother had disappeared one day, her father had as well.

All her life she’d been terrified that her father would disappear the way her mother had. That feeling had dissipated as she headed into her teens, but she’d replayed the same game with Griff. Hoping if she said the right thing or presented herself properly, he’d never abandon her.

But they all had, in one way or another. Stella was right. In the end, she was alone. Not even Jason would bother with her, now that he’d learned the truth about her craziness.

She wished she could disappear as well, leave all the pain and solitude behind. She imagined the fall off the terrace of the Barbizon. The drop would take mere seconds. A rush of air and then a burst of pain. Then nothing. What had gone through Darby’s mind during the descent? What were her regrets?

Rose’s were obvious. She regretted everything to do with her father. Each decision had been made carefully, but there was no way of knowing if any of them had been correct. He’d gotten sick, he’d fallen, he’d died. The narrative arc was all there. They might have happened no matter what she’d done. But she could have done more. She should have done more.

She couldn’t even remember the last real conversation they’d had, before he’d become muddled and angry. How she wished she could rewind the video of her life and watch just that snippet. To see if she’d smiled at him, or touched his hand, or done anything to show him how much she loved him.

She held his hand now, and cried.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT



New York City, 2016


Arrangements were made; kind words were said by the nurses and doctors who’d tended to Rose’s father over the past few years. His normally easygoing nature had turned obstinate and changed as his disease had progressed, so it wasn’t surprising how few of his former friends showed up to his memorial service. The nursing home sent flowers, as did one or two of the students he’d stayed in touch with.