“Denzel, my man!” he said, jumping up to shake the actor’s hand. “Clark London. Great to see you again.”
“You too,” the actor said with a courteous nod as he continued into the restaurant with his people.
“Take care!” Clark called, then regretted it. But it was okay. It was great! He’d met Denzel Washington! They’d talked. They were both in the hotel on business, and they’d talked, so this was definitely a step in the right direction. He found himself saying to strangers at the various bars he frequented, “Denzel and I were talking a few days ago at the Bel-Air when we had drinks . . .” And they had had drinks. Not together, but practically.
He loved it. Stayed away for three weeks. When he came home, April was different. Her eyes told him she knew what he’d been doing. He lied, said the consulting had been just fine, and guess what? The books had been optioned and were going into production soon . . . He and Denzel Washington—yes, really—had talked about him playing the lead role of, um, Pierre (April knew nothing about what he had or hadn’t written).
“Is there any money associated with this?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, yeah. I’ll have the check this week.”
Her face changed. “Clark, that’s great,” she said, hugging him. So he had to take a huge chunk of money out of his trust fund—Jesus, the fines they charged, it was robbery—and gave it to his wife. “My advance,” he said.
That turned out to be a big fucking mistake. April spent the money—just about all of it—on an experimental treatment for her mother at the Mayo Clinic, and for about a year, Joan felt better and could walk again. But she gradually slipped back, and when they tried the treatment again, it didn’t work, and Joan was back to dying and the money was gone. Clark guessed he could see why April would do that—desperation, whatever—but it was a waste just the same.
Another trip was required for sure. And another after that, and another after that. Since he’d lied and given her the money, April wasn’t as suspicious, so why not? Plus, she’d spent the money the way she wanted to . . . on her mother. It was his turn now.
The women . . . God! The tennis moms from the club were one thing, but he’d have to see them again, and it could be awkward. But the Portuguese woman who’d stayed in the suite across from his and knocked on his door, stark naked? The French woman who came up to him at a bar and said, “Would you like to fuck me?” in that dead-sexy accent?
Maybe he’d write a travel column for the New York Times or Condé Nast. “Where to Get Laid in Europe.” “The Best Places to Eat in Scandinavia.” “The Most Beautiful Women in the World.” “Best Cocktails on the Continent.” Hey, that last one was a good one. He’d have to pitch that to an editor or something.
When Clark took the occasional look at his trust fund, he’d flinch a little. Traveling first class to, say, Australia could run in the tens of thousands of dollars, let alone doing all the things he liked to do. Five-star hotels and restaurants. Spas. Golf. Scuba diving. Sometimes he’d make friends or be invited to join a group of people, and he loved picking up the tab. He’d rent a boat and throw a party, and it felt so good, having friends. Sometimes he’d “entertain” a woman (his little term for cheating) and sometimes, sure, he paid for it. Nothing like a high-class whore.
But the money, which had once been self-sustaining because of royalties or interest or other financial things he’d never tried to understand, was shrinking with alarming speed.
Well. There was always more if he needed it. Genevieve wouldn’t let her son and grandchild live in squalor. She wouldn’t expect him to travel coach. Maybe he’d even work for her. Sales or something. The fact that he’d already failed at that wasn’t important. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
When Clark was home, he tried to be a good father, but it really wasn’t for him. He read a few books at bedtime, gave Emma piggyback rides, bought her a trampoline for the backyard, which April made him take down when Emma cut her head falling off it. The kid was cute and nice, though she really did look like April’s side of the family. She had blond hair, at least. That she got from him.
But April . . . Jesus, she was kind of a train wreck. Her mother got worse and worse, her father was heartbroken and trying not to show it, and April was a mess. He told her to go to a shrink, get on some meds, whatever she needed. He’d sit with her on the couch every night for a few weeks between trips, watching stupid television shows, fold the laundry to show he cared, take her out for dinner, and she’d cheer up a bit. Or not. Then the itch would become too great to ignore, and off he’d go again.
“Babe, I have to. It’s important.”
He couldn’t wait to get out of there. After all, he was Clark London. He grew up in a mansion on the water. Their little neighborhood had lost its charm and become boring. Ordinary. And he wasn’t. He was his father’s son, or so he liked to think. Garrison London would’ve wanted Clark to have everything, see everything, especially because of what happened to Sheppard. Clark deserved the best things in life. His father would’ve insisted.
Joan got worse, in and out of care facilities. It was sad. One time, she got pneumonia and almost died, and let’s be honest, Clark was kind of hoping it would just end. His father-in-law was stoic, at least. But April would go wild with grief, crying, literally pulling out her hair, and it was fucking scary.
“Honey, you know she’s going to die,” he said, and she punched him in the face. Why? What was wrong with her? Joan would die. April had to get used to the idea.
He sent her away to a spa in Arizona that had yoga and shit and told her to rest and relax, then called his mother and told her April had been checked into a psychiatric facility.
“Good,” Genevieve said. “She worries me.”
“Can you come out, Mother?” he asked. “Emma would love to see you.”
“Fine. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
She was horrified by the state of the house, the mess, the grubbiness that Clark had stopped noticing. By the end of her first day there, she’d hired painters, a garden service and a cleaning lady, and had ordered meals from a local caterer. Clark couldn’t help thinking this was exactly what April should’ve done with the money he gave her.
He told her the facility was expensive. “I’m sure it will be worth it,” she said, and thank God, she wrote out a fat check.
In a rare moment of admiration, he said, “You never fell apart like this, and things were a lot worse for you.”
She gave him an inscrutable look. “Thank you,” she said. “But we’re not all as strong as we’d like to be.”
Translation: Your wife is weak and useless. Clark agreed.
After two weeks, April came home, Genevieve left and things were a little better. But there was still something off. They hadn’t had sex in ages. Maybe more than a year, now that Clark thought of it. He’d had sex, of course. Just not with April.
April’s regular doctor prescribed antidepressants. That helped. She took good care of Emma, and Emma was a happy enough kid.
But the sunshiny, fun, optimistic girl he’d met and married was a long way off from this pale, tired version who only seemed happy from 3:35 to 8:00 p.m. . . . the hours when Emma was home and not asleep. Weekends were tough, because April was in overdrive—make a fort! do crafts! go ice skating!—and it exhausted her. He told her to take it easy, that Emma would be fine just reading or watching TV.
“I have to make up for you,” she snarled.
They never talked anymore. She didn’t ask when the movie of his (unpublished, unwritten) book would come out. Sometimes he would catch her looking out the window, and her eyes were so sad it made him want a divorce.
Yeah. A divorce. That would help. She’d get a big fat settlement (from Genevieve, because the trust fund was, hello, almost gone). Free from April’s moods, he’d really come into his own. Write that book, or get that job as a
travel columnist, penning witty observations from faraway places.
When he couldn’t take home another minute, Clark booked a trip to Seattle. Such an awesome, artsy city, a place where he really belonged, not like flat, predictable Chicago. A week there, he told April. Scouting sets. Yes, he had to go; he was a consulting producer.
The city smelled so good, all that seafood, the fresh air from the Pacific, the dark, rich scent of freshly ground coffee. He booked himself into the Fairmont Olympic, told the bartender he was a movie producer, and found himself with a bunch of new friends, a lot of good weed and seemingly endless possibilities. He was thirty-four, and he felt both young and mature in this city of perpetual men-children. It was the money, he decided. His success, or at least the perception of his success. His last name. His legacy.
At the last minute, Clark decided to change his flight, choosing a ten p.m. flight instead of the morning flight he’d scheduled. Just one more day before he went back home, one more round of sex with Moira, a street artist who, aside from not shaving anywhere—not even armpits—was stunning (and a wild, furry animal in bed). So what if he came home at night instead of at noon?
It was one day. Hours, really. He’d tell April that his flight was canceled or, better, his cab had a flat tire, because she couldn’t track that one. But he wouldn’t call her, because then she’d be mad or sad or depressed or all three, and he just didn’t want to hear it. He’d been gone twelve days; what was twelve more hours? He totally deserved some extra fun.
So he stayed.
Obviously, if he had known his wife was planning to commit suicide, he would’ve come home earlier. It was horrible that Emma had been the one to find her. Horrible. So selfish of April, he was surprised. Yeah, yeah, if he hadn’t bumped his flight for one more fuck with Moira, he would’ve been there to find her, but April should’ve planned on something coming up.
Her note said she couldn’t keep going, and she wanted to leave when Emma would still have good memories of her. That she was sorry but this was the only choice she had. That Emma would be better off without her. That she couldn’t let her daughter watch her fade away, and the fading just wouldn’t stop. That she’d been drowning, and dying felt like a life raft. It was as if she didn’t exist anymore, and she was terrified something would happen to Emma and she wouldn’t be able to help her. That, by April dying, Emma would be safer, and though she’d be sad now, it would be better for her in the long run. Her parents would understand, and her father needed to focus on her mother now, and she was so sorry.
No mention of Clark.
What the fuck was he supposed to do with that? Talk about having the rug yanked out from under you! His wife had been suicidal, and she hadn’t even said anything? Who did that? Oh, and now Paul was telling him she’d struggled with depression since she was a teenager. Nice to know now, after ten goddamn years of marriage!
That’s when his father-in-law punched him in the face, and God, it hurt!
“Maybe if you’d been around more, you would’ve noticed,” Paul growled, shaking his hand. “You think she didn’t know what you were doing out there, when you were supposedly writing a book or making a movie or any one of your damn lies?”
So. His fault again, same as he’d been blamed for not being the one who went away.
A month of single parenthood, a tear-stained little kid with snarls in her hair, the Rileys’ palpable grief for April and hatred for Clark . . . it was impossible. A widowed father who had to do everything? Being the parent was hard! Emma was supposed to see a shrink and go to the regular doctor and get shots and do projects for school, and she was a Girl Scout and also played soccer. (Did eight-year-olds really have to do this much?) Then there was the homework, the laundry, the notes from the teachers talking about how Emma was struggling, the school counselor who wanted to talk, the other moms who had loved April. There were groceries and cooking and cleaning up and bills and taxes to be paid and, frankly, fuck it.
This was not who he was. This was not good for anyone. If his mother-in-law hadn’t been shriveling away; if the Rileys had had any money; if they hadn’t been so fucking sad and ruined, maybe Clark would’ve left Emma with them. Maybe, if Paul hadn’t punched him in the face, he would have, even with Joan dying in bits and pieces. If he could’ve hired a nanny, a cleaning service, a chef, a lawn service and not have to do the grunt work of life, maybe he would’ve kept his child.
The money, unfortunately, was gone. Millions and millions of dollars, squandered in ten years.
But Genevieve . . . she had an endless supply. If she was taking care of Emma, maybe she’d soften toward him and give him some more. Yeah, Genevieve would see that Emma was a good kid. Maybe she’d put him on the payroll or, better yet, just cut him a check. She had piles of it, the hateful old bag.
Emma would be happier in Connecticut, at Sheerwater. Fucking huge house, staff, the pool, the Sound . . . better than the little shitbox where her other grandparents lived. They could visit her if they wanted to.
It worked. Genevieve gave him money and off he went again. Was it hard to say goodbye to Emma? Sure, but that would pass. He knew he was supposed to feel more for her. He just didn’t. He blamed Genevieve. How many shrinks would agree that she’d basically ruined him after Shep died?
He came back at Christmas to collect his check and see his daughter and be criticized by his mother and see Donelle, who told him Emma was a good kid and he was right, it was better for her here.
Even so, he felt ashamed. To drown out that feeling, that echo of not good enough, he did what he always did. Traveled. Drank. Lied. Avoiding thoughts of his daughter became habit. Days passed without his thinking of her. She became a small fact in his big life.
But sometimes, in the middle of the night, he’d remember his own father, and how Garrison had made him feel safe and loved and . . . enough.
Clark had given his child away.
Then he did it again.
Years later, millions later, when apparently he was a grandfather, he had another daughter. And this one . . . she was sick. She had problems. Bad problems. He was a middle-aged man, for Christ’s sake! He hadn’t been equipped to take care of a regular baby, let alone Hope with all those issues and needs and special care. The money it would take to keep her healthy and safe was a gut punch. Even with the allowance from his mother, he didn’t have it.
But Genevieve did. Always her weapon, the mighty checkbook. Back he went, and it was horrible, telling her about Hope, her prognosis, telling her that he needed her money again, knowing he had failed on every front a man could. He cried as his mother looked at him in disgust.
It didn’t matter. Hope would be cared for. The mother, Kellianne, who had clearly seen Clark as a meal ticket and lied about birth control, was more than happy to sign away her maternal rights.
Funny that he had sobbed uncontrollably when they took Hope to Rose Hill. That he finally knew what love felt like, and it sucked, literally sucked the soul out of you.
He had failed Emma years ago, and Emma had become a cliché, a teenage mother, living with Paul Riley in Chicago. He failed Hope months after she was born. Oh, it would’ve been great to think that finally he could’ve become a gentle, kind, selfless man, caring for his special-needs child.
But he just couldn’t, not after all the years in his emotional wasteland.
That just wasn’t how life worked.
CHAPTER 17
Emma
Ialways thought Jason and I would get married. Right up until he told me he was engaged, I thought we’d be husband and wife.
Color me stupid.
We’d dated from the age of sixteen, starting at the tail end of our sophomore year, losing our virginities to each other over the next Christmas break. By then, I was so in love I could barely see straight. Every night, I fell asleep with the phone tucked against my ear. Every day, my heart walloped
in my chest at the sight of him. He was so happy all the time. So sweet and fun, up for anything from rock climbing to swimming in the Sound to watching Brat Pack movies from the ’80s. More than anything, Jason was blissfully . . . uncomplicated.
Given my family history, there was a lot to be said for that. My memories of my mother told me she’d been happy, so they obviously couldn’t be trusted. I hated and loved my mother so much that it was hard to think about her . . . the woman who had sung during my baths, made the best forts, colored with me for hours and then one day decided to kill herself and let her eight-year-old child find her body.
My father had seemed like a good enough dad when she was alive. Granted, he was away a lot, but he’d bring me toys from his travels, give me the occasional piggyback ride . . . but when I needed him the most, he simply dumped me at his mother’s. When he came to visit every Christmas for his annual twenty-four-hour visit, most of his time was spent arguing with his mother and sighing when he looked at me. After the initial year of waiting for him to come get me, I realized he wasn’t . . . and by then, I didn’t want him to.
The day my mother died, my father had been delayed at the airport or something. He didn’t get home until hours after our neighbor Mrs. Fitzgerald made me call 911, and I was in shock. Pop had gone to the morgue, and Grammy had me wrapped in a blanket, and she and Mrs. Fitzgerald were talking in gentle voices.
Then my father came home.
Rather than take me in his arms and comfort me, he just fell apart, making the worst day of my life that much worse. To see him sobbing, shaking, crying so hard snot ran down his face, saying, “I’m sorry, April, I’m sorry!” when even I knew that she couldn’t hear him. Later, when I heard the term drama queen, I always thought of my father in that moment.
Life and Other Inconveniences Page 18