The Mother-in-Law(67)

I nod.

She looks around the space. “It’s nonsensical, all of this, isn’t it? This room was Tom’s idea, obviously. I barely have enough clothes to fill that cabinet.” She points to one of the dozen cabinets in the space. “Tom was always so excessive. More is more. It’s bizarre that I didn’t hate him, isn’t it?” She laughs, not waiting for me to respond. “I should probably move to a smaller place now. It makes no sense, me staying here alone. But now that he’s gone, I’m not sure I can leave. He’s part of this house. I feel him here.”

“I feel him here too,” I say.

Diana looks at me properly. Her lips press together and for an excruciating moment, I think she’s going to lose it. Her lips bend at the edges, her chin puckers. But then, at the eleventh hour, she regains control. “Everyone is looking for me, I suppose,” she says in a freakishly normal voice. “Is that why you came up here? To get me?”

She doesn’t move yet, but I can see she’s readying herself. She’ll wipe her face and straighten her blouse and she’ll go down there and do what she needs to. That, after all, is what Diana does. But she shouldn’t have to, not today. And so I shake my head.

“No one’s even noticed you weren’t there,” I say. “Everything is under control. You stay up here for as long as you need.”

I spend the afternoon, talking to people I’ve never met, taking donations for the MND foundations. (Diana had requested people make donations in lieu of flowers, and while I don’t think she’d meant in cash, I end up with an envelope stuffed with enormous amounts of cash. I make a mental note to figure out how to donate it later.)

I sign for the caterer, and open the back gates when it’s time for them to leave, and then I stand at the drinks area and act as a barmaid myself. Patrick and Nettie have had far too much to drink, and when Nettie comes back for another wine I make her a cup of tea instead, though I doubt she’d drink it.

By 7 P.M., the kids are all asleep upstairs.

By 8 P.M., people are hungry again and I order pizzas.

Diana is still in the walk-in closet, as far as I know. I’ve told everyone that she’s not feeling well and headed off to bed early and while I hoped people would take this as a hint to leave, they don’t seem to be getting it.

At ten P.M., I make a tray of sandwiches and send them around. Nettie is flat-out drunk and Patrick is in a similar state. Ollie is comparatively sober, and once Pete and the rest of his cousins leave, he comes to give me a hand with Nettie.

“Have a sandwich, Nettie,” I tell her. “And shall I make you another cup of tea?”

She shakes her head sullenly. “I want wine.”

“I think you’ve had enough, Nets,” Ollie says. “Anyway, we’re all out of wine.”

“Trust Mum to cheap out on drinks at her own husband’s funeral,” she slurs. I try again to give her a sandwich, roast beef and horseradish, but she pushes it away. “She’s not even down here talking to people! You’d think she’d be a little more respectful of Dad’s memory. She’ll sell the house next, just you wait. Then it will be like Dad was never here.”

“I don’t think she will” I try.

“She will,” Nettie says. “I know my mother. She’ll probably leave her entire estate to the Lost Dogs’ Home.”

I walk away from them, toward the kitchen. I need to unload the dishwasher and Nettie is in no state to talk anyway. I think of Diana up there in that huge room. I wonder if she’s moved since I left her. I make her a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea, and then I head up to her room, let myself in. She’s in the bed now, but her eyes are open. She stares at the wall.

“Most people have left,” I say, resting the plate and mug on her side table. “Patrick and Nettie are still here, but I’ll order them an Uber. The house is tidy, more or less, but I’ll come back and help you vacuum and mop tomorrow.” Diana stares at me, through me. “There’s a sandwich and a cup of tea here, in case you feel like it.”

I wait, but she doesn’t respond, so I turn and walk back down the hallway. I’m just letting myself out when I hear the faint words: “Thank you, dear.”





43: DIANA


THE PAST . . .

It was Tom who insisted that Ollie never know he wasn’t his father. Initially, I’d disagreed with him, but Tom had been adamant.

“I don’t think we should lie to him, Tom. You shouldn’t lie to children.”

“People always say that. But why should it be a blanket rule? Surely it should be more of a risk/benefit analysis? By not telling Ollie, we’d be risking him finding out later and blaming us for his missing out on a relationship with his biological father who, may I add, never wanted him to exist in the first place. But what about the benefits of not telling him? Ollie would believe he was born into a family with two parents that loved each other and wanted him. He’d believe he had a full biological sister. He’d have all that well-adjustedness that children from two-parent families have. Why should we deny him that, just so he can’t blame us later? After all, what are parents for if not to blame for your life’s troubles?”

Tom had been so immovable that ultimately I’d gone along with his wishes. His logic may not have added up but if he was willing to carry the secret to his deathbed for the sake of my son’s adjustment, I didn’t see how I was in a position to argue. It was the decision a father would make, I figured.