The Mother-in-Law(65)

Tom’s illness has put a temporary halt on the family issues. We’ve all been working well together as a team—taking him to appointments, dropping off meals, driving across town to pick up various pieces of equipment designed to make him a little more comfortable. But everyone is brokenhearted. I am brokenhearted. I can’t fathom this family without him.

I watch Diana, intermittently wiping the corners of his mouth. She says something to him and his eyes crinkle up and his lips twist, and I know he’s trying to smile. The rest of us, we’ll be brokenhearted after Tom dies, but it will be worse for Diana. I’m not sure what will happen to her. I don’t know how she’ll go on.





41: LUCY


THE PRESENT . . .

“Is Ollie under arrest?” Nettie asks me.

She’s on my living room floor surrounded by Legos, while Patrick engages the kids in an epic game of tag that involves pools of lava and cushions you have to stand on to stop your feet from getting burned. When the lady in active wear identified Ollie as being at Diana’s house the day she died, and Jones said she wanted to talk to Ollie back at headquarters, I called Nettie to see if she could help with the kids. (I never would have asked her a favor for myself, but I knew Nettie would be there for the kids and I certainly needed her help.)

“No, he’s just answering some questions. He’ll be back in a little while.”

But in fact, I have no idea if this is true. Ollie wasn’t under arrest when he left with Jones and Ahmed, but for all I know he is now. And I don’t know if he’ll be back in five minutes or five hours. The only thing I do know is that he was wearing a blue-and-white checked shirt the day Diana died . . . and that he came home from work early even though he wasn’t unwell.

Now, I’m wondering why.

Nettie’s face is drawn and worried. Nettie is the younger sister, younger by six years, but she has always seemed older. And despite our issues, I know she loves her brother.

“Are you okay?” I ask her, and her eyes immediately begin to well. I sweep the Legos to the side and kneel on the floor beside her.

“I’m sorry.” She produces a tissue from her shirtsleeve and dabs at her eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me . . . there’s just a lot going on.”

I hover awkwardly beside her. Once I would have hugged Nettie, but as we are no longer in that place, I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder instead. I’m caught off guard when she throws her arms around my neck in response.

“Shhh,” I say. “It’s all right.”

But it’s not all right. None of it is. My heart bleeds for Nettie. Even without everything else going on . . . I still remember the rawness of losing my mother like it was yesterday. It occurs to me that Nettie and I have this in common now. She is older than I was when Mum died, obviously, but I doubt there is a loss in the universe more profound than a daughter losing her mother.

“Sorry,” Nettie says, sitting back and wiping her face.

“Please. Don’t apologize.”

“It’s just . . . being here. The kids. The toys . . . it’s just hard, you know. It just reminds me of . . . what I’m not going to have.”

“What your not going to . . . ?” It takes me a moment to understand. She’s not upset about her mother. She’s not even upset about Ollie. She’s upset about . . . her fertility.

I shift away from her.

“I thought you were upset about your mother. About Ollie being called in for questioning.”

“Oh, everyone’s been called in!” Nettie waves her hand dismissively. “It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal? Didn’t the police tell you about the cushion? Didn’t they tell you they think someone might have smothered Diana?”

Nettie starts picking up Legos, putting them into the basket absently. “At the stage of life I’m in,” she says, her voice cracking, “I thought there’d be Legos all over my floor. Scribble on the walls. I thought I’d be spending my weekends at school carnivals and ballet lessons. You have everything I want, Lucy.”

I look at her. Really look. Physically, she’s right in front of me, but emotionally she is somewhere else. It occurs to me that she’s been somewhere else for a while.

“I really thought you’d help me,” she says, then dissolves into tears.

“Nettie . . .” I sense movement in the corner of the room and Patrick steps forward. Something gives me the idea that he’s been standing there a while.

“I think I should take Nettie home,” he says.

Patrick gathers up Nettie’s bag and her coat and for the first time I wonder how it must be for him, living with Nettie’s baby obsession. That kind of thing had to take its toll on a person.

“Why don’t you both stay here a while?” I say. “I could make . . . some tea?”

Nettie gets to her feet, her gaze miles away.

“Patrick’s right,” she says robotically. “We should go.”





42: LUCY


THE PAST . . .

“Head on inside,” I say. “There are refreshments in the back room.”

I stand at the grand double-doors of Tom and Diana’s home, ferrying mourners inside in small groups. Tom’s funeral was at St. Joan of Arc, the church on the corner, so most of the guests decided to walk down to the house, even some of the elderly ones. The day is crisp and bright, with beating sunshine that everyone suggests is Tom’s doing, and maybe it is. If there is an afterlife, Ollie had said in his eulogy, Tom would have certainly made an entrance, demanding the best of everything, including the sunshine.