Oh, no.
The words swam before my eyes. The too-familiar panic rose fast and hard in me, pulling me under like a riptide. The buzzing was deafening. Was it really in my head, or was there a fire alarm or . . . or . . . something? The other women didn’t look perturbed. Why was I here? Where was I? Why was the black woman looking at me?
“Gigi?”
I glanced at the young woman to my right. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Y-yes.”
She looked at me another minute. I knew her, but her name wouldn’t come to me. The black woman . . . I didn’t know her. She was a complete stranger! Why were we here? Were they about to take me somewhere? Was I going to the . . . the . . . the place where they put old people? The jail? The asylum? What was it called? The kennel? It was like a kennel for old people, and I was old, wasn’t I? There were age spots on my hands, and I was very tired, and from the corner of my eye, I could see that my hair was white. White! When I’d always been blond before.
Tears came to my eyes. I hated this. I hated being afraid.
The white woman squeezed my shoulder, her eyes kind. She’d take care of me, I knew instinctively.
“I think we’ll finish this at home, Brooklyn,” she said, and the name meant nothing to me. Were we in Brooklyn? Why? “It gets a little emotional whenever we have to make a decision about Hope.”
Why was she talking about hope? What were we hoping for? Or dreading? Because I felt filled with dread.
The black woman said something, and the white woman answered, but I couldn’t hear properly.
We got up, and I remembered to take my handbag. I was dressed well, at any rate. For some reason, that reassured me. If I was going to the home—the nursing home, that was it—at least I looked put together.
In the waiting room were two other people who both stood when we came out. “I totally killed Charles with ‘zygote,’ Mom,” said the girl.
“It’s true. I’m dead,” said the man.
“Yay for AP Biology,” said the kind woman. Emily. That was her name. Or, no, not quite.
Those were jokes. I didn’t understand why they were funny, but at least I could hear again. I pretended to smile, terrified that someone would find out. I knew to pretend I wasn’t confused. I smiled at the redheaded girl, feeling fond of her, and swallowed the panic. I hoped they wouldn’t hurt me. I was fairly sure they wouldn’t, but I felt like crying just the same.
This would pass. This would pass. Someone had told me that; I had to believe it was true.
“Ready to see Hope?” the redheaded girl asked.
“I am,” I said, and let her take my hand and show me hope, whatever that looked like.
* * *
* * *
At some point, I started to come back to myself. I had faked my way through the minutes (or hours) that spooled out, and little slices of the world came back into their rightful place. I knew Rose Hill, and then suddenly knew the names of the three girls—Emma, Hope, Riley. Catching and holding on to the information was like trying to knit together wisps of drifting fog. Was Emma their mother? No, not quite right. Emma was Hope’s brother. No, stupid, not brother! The other one! The girl version of brother.
My hands looked so old! Were they really mine? Those rings were familiar, the diamond engagement ring, the simple gold band, a wide, plain silver ring on the other hand that looked out of place on these wrinkled, crooked fingers. How embarrassing, that chic and stylish ring having to sit on that old finger! I wanted to cry. The horrid buzzing ebbed and flowed, sometimes drowning out other sounds. I wanted to scream, “How can a person think with that noise?”
If only I had someone to comfort me, to hold me and tell me I was fine. I knew I had a sickness in my brain. Cancer, perhaps. Where was Garrison? He would tell me . . . but no, he was long dead. Instead, I sat there on a wooden bench that hurt my hips and spine, and watched the girls play with a large ball.
Sisters. Emma and Hope were sisters—half sisters—and they were both my granddaughters. Olivia . . . no, not Olivia . . . what was her name? Olivia was her middle name, I was sure. Riley. That was it. Riley was my great-granddaughter. Emma and she were staying with me for the summer, because I was sick. The man who had driven the car . . . I knew I’d known him a long time, and I employed him. Was he my bodyguard? The notion seemed absurd.
Sweet Hope. She came over to me for a hug, fitting right against me. She smelled so familiar. She laughed with Emma and Riley, too, and as the foggy wisps drifted together, I realized that they’d been to see her. Many times. A tightness clamped around my throat. I couldn’t remember why Emma wouldn’t come see me, but I knew that she hadn’t.
We ate lunch, Emma helping Hope with her food, Riley, too, wiping Hope’s chin when the child laughed and food spilled out. We looked at one of those . . . those holes in the ground that are filled with water for swimming. A constructed lake. A pod? Almost, almost. A pill?
Pool. A pool. We looked at the pool at Rose Hill, where Hope lived.
By the time we were in the car with Charles (for heaven’s sake, of course it was Charles), I’d checked my leather-bound planner (a Genevieve London design, of course, and one of my own making), and seen that we’d had an appointment with Brooklyn Fuller, my attorney, at ten, before spending the day with Hope. It was five o’clock, and for nearly all that time, I’d been out of myself, and lost. No episode before had lasted so long.
Getting home had never been such a relief. Thank goodness I had Charles. What if I’d had to drive myself?
“And how is Miss Hope?” Donelle asked, hobbling in to greet us.
“She’s great,” Emma said. “How’s the toe?”
“Still oozing.”
“I’m afraid I have a terrible headache,” I said, which was the truth. “I’ll take a tray in my room, and, Donelle, would you kindly make me a martini as well?”
“No,” she said. “Because I’m an invalid, can’t you see?”
“I’ll do it,” Riley offered.
“You’re sixteen,” Emma said. “What do you know about making a martini?”
“That’s why the Internet was invented,” she said. “Also, it’s a useful life skill, Mom. I can bartend through college.”
I made my way upstairs slowly, gripping the railing, too tired to talk to anyone anymore.
The mirror showed an old, well-dressed woman who still had her height, though my shoulders were caving inward. Mother would’ve been horrified. Then again, she died when she was sixty-three, so she hadn’t suffered these indignities. Lung cancer, the lucky thing.
Well. Not lucky, I supposed, but lucky that she didn’t have to live so very long. Lucky that it took her weeks to die, not months or years.
Lucky that all her children were by her side in the final moments.
CHAPTER 25
Riley
Helga made some grayish meat for dinner, so instead of giving that to Gigi, I made scrambled eggs with cheese and sourdough whole-wheat toast that Mom and I got at the farmers’ market the other day. Helga wasn’t happy, but I didn’t really care. From where I sat, she didn’t deserve this job, so screw her.
I buttered the toast carefully, then got a rose from the garden and put it in a little bud vase.
When I was little, I used to play waitress with my mom and Pop. All I could manage was toast with jelly, and they always made such a fuss over it. I kind of missed living with Pop. Maybe I’d sleep over this weekend and we could watch The Hunt for Red October, his favorite movie. I also wanted to go to the library and do some digging about missing children who’d been found in the years after Great-Uncle Sheppard disappeared.
Also, Rav had texted me and said he’d be there on Saturday, so maybe we could hang out. I’d been really chill about it and just texted back saying sounds cool, not sure what our weekend plans are, but proba
bly yes.
He might like me. Even if he was a little bit younger, I didn’t even care. No boy had ever liked me before, and Rav was super good-looking. When he was twenty-five, he’d be drop-dead gorgeous.
I also thought I would bike out to Birch Lake and take a walk around. Not that I was going to trip over a skeleton, but just to kind of immerse myself in the scene. That’s what all the detectives did on the BBC, after all. They stared out and brooded. I’d seen Broadchurch three times and was fairly sure I could pull off a David Tennant–worthy brood.
I slid the eggs on the plate. “I’m available for cooking classes, Helga. If you want to learn the basics.”
I’d say she glared back, but she always glared. Oh, the martini! I made it carefully and added it to the tray—how fun was it to make adult beverages?—and went through the living room. Mom was talking on the phone.
“Headache. And these . . . lapses, where she gets very quiet. No, not that I’ve noticed, anyway. Just quiet. She wouldn’t tell me if she did, and she won’t let me talk to her doctor. Nope, she has a driver. Please, Calista. Of course she does.”
So Mom was doing some digging of her own. She saw me and waved. I smiled back and kept going through to Gigi’s private staircase. (Who invented things like that?) Calista was Mom’s best friend back home, and a neurologist. She was fabulous. One of those adults who didn’t talk down to me about med school and said I could shadow her when I was eighteen if I still wanted to be a doctor. I sort of did. It was hard to say; when you’re good in math and science, everyone thinks medicine, right? Mom said there are a thousand things I could do, and I shouldn’t pigeonhole myself into any one thing until I was older.
I told you she was kind of perfect. Most kids who are smart in Downers Grove (and everywhere) have parents who are hovering over them, writing their college essays and seeing a shrink if the kids don’t make high honors. My mom just said to do your best and be happy.
Come to think of it, I was really happy these days. Maybe I’d go into fashion. Follow in Genevieve’s footsteps. Start the Riley London line, which, come on, how cool did that sound?
Down the long hall of the master wing to Genevieve’s bedroom. The door was closed almost all the way, and I knocked with my elbow and went in.
Gigi was sitting in a chair by the window, looking at a photo album.
“Dinner is served,” I said, setting the tray on the table next to her.
“Oh, aren’t you a dear,” she said, sounding a lot better than earlier. She looked at the tray, with its cloth napkin and flower and my dorky little note that said Feel better, Gigi! “This is lovely! How kind you are, Riley.” She smiled up at me, and I felt myself blushing, dorkishly proud.
“Well. You seemed down before. At Rose Hill.”
Her gaze flickered. “A bit, yes. I’ve been Hope’s guardian all her life. I worry about her.”
“My mom will take good care of her, Gigi. And so will I.”
“She’s your aunt, isn’t she? How strange.”
“We visit every year. Mom goes twice a year.”
“I know. That’s very good of her, especially given her father’s lack of attention. I would understand if she had nothing to do with Hope.”
“Then you don’t know my mom at all.”
“Touché, darling, and good for you for standing up for your mother. Sit down, dear.”
I sat in the comfy chair opposite her. The sky outside was pure blue, and the leaves on the fat maple tree were still. It was hot today, but never too hot here by the water. Gigi took a bite of her toast, then cut into the omelet. She ate the European way, fork in her left hand, knife in her right. It looked very classy, and it made sense, rather than switching back and forth the way we Americans did.
“Is it hard, knowing you’re going to die?” I asked. “Sorry. Is that rude?”
She took a sip of her martini. “Delicious, dear. And yes, it’s a bit prying.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“I appreciate your interest.” Another bite of toast, a dab of her lips with the napkin. “Yes. It’s hard. On the one hand, I’ve had a remarkable life. On the other, I lost two people I held most precious, and the idea of seeing them again is . . .” Her voice grew husky. “Rather wonderful.”
“Are you scared?”
She handed me a piece of toast, and I took a bite. “Yes. I am. Not so much of dying, but of how it will be in the last hours. Or days.”
“My mom’s friend? Calista? She’s a neurologist. I bet she could tell you what it’s like. Maybe give you a second opinion, too.”
“I don’t need another opinion, dear, but it’s a kind thought.”
“I don’t want you to die, Gigi. I’m just getting to know you.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Yes. And for that, I’m very, very sorry. You’re a lovely person, and I’m quite grateful to have you this summer.”
“Right back at you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a lovely person, too. Sort of.” I smiled so she knew it was a joke. She arched an eyebrow at me and continued eating. Ate the whole omelet, but only half a piece of toast, so I ate the rest.
“Watch out for carbohydrates, dear,” she said. “They’ll catch up with you. You’re naturally slender, and an athlete as well, but even so.”
Like healthy eating hadn’t been drilled into my head since I was six. “Good advice,” I said.
“Do try to speak in complete sentences, dear. One sounds so much more cultured when one does.”
“That was excellent advice, Great-Grandmamma,” I said, over-enunciating. “Thank you terribly much!”
Gigi laughed, then looked out the window for a few beats, her smile fading. “I don’t suppose your DNA sites have turned anything up.”
“No, which is a total disappointment,” I said. “But I do have some questions, if that’s all right with you.”
“Go ahead, dear.”
“What do you think happened that day?”
She sighed, then sipped her drink. “They’d been fishing,” she said. “Garrison was putting the poles and tackle box back in the car, and he turned around and Sheppard was just . . . gone. It was so unlike him, too. He was a remarkable child, Riley. So attentive and smart. And charming! He could speak so well for a little boy, and yet he had this innocence about him that was utterly . . . pure.”
“So for him to wander off . . .”
“Very uncharacteristic. Something must have caught his attention. Maybe he forgot something—his shoes or a lure or a book, and went back for it.”
“Did you ever wonder if . . . well, if . . .” No. That was way too harsh.
“If my husband hurt him?”
I nodded.
“Of course I did. I had to. The police asked immediately, and when a few days had passed and we still hadn’t found a trace of him, I asked him myself.”
“What did he say?”
“He was ruined, Riley. Sheppard’s loss ruined him. But I had to ask.” She took a long breath. “He didn’t hurt Sheppard. Nothing ever indicated that, and I knew it in my bones.”
“I guess he was force-adopted,” I said.
“That’s my hope.” She sat there, her hands playing with the sash of her robe. “Once upon a time, I made a bargain with God. I could bear the loss of Sheppard and Garrison if only I could know what happened. If only I could see my son, or bury him, I could get through life and take care of Clark, and I wouldn’t kill myself or become a drunk. But here I am, at the end of my life, and God has not held up his end.”
I was quiet for a minute. “I think you’re pretty amazing, Gigi,” I said. “And I’m sorry it’s been so hard.”
“I wasn’t a very good mother to my other son,” she said. “Clark. Your grandfather. Maybe that’s why God didn’t help me. I tried, but . . . I was dead,
too, you see.”
“I’m sure you did your best,” I whispered, because I was crying a little bit.
“It wasn’t very good,” she admitted. “I just threw money at him. Sent him away to school the minute I could, and kept throwing money at him to keep him happy. I should’ve made sure his wife was under a doctor’s care. I knew she was struggling. I just didn’t know how much.”
“Well. Neither did her own parents. And you’re not God, Gigi. Even if you think you are some days.”
She snorted a little. “Shall we change the subject? Tell me about young Aarav. I saw the two of you got on quite well.”
And so, for another half hour, I talked to her about boys, how I’d never been kissed, wasn’t sure I wanted to be, how some girls said I was a lesbian but I didn’t think so, even though I would be okay with that if I was. I told her about school and my former friends, about Mom and how hard she worked and how much I loved her, and all the things we did together, and how Pop was the best.
“You should come visit us in Illinois,” I said. “I have a trundle bed. I’ll sleep on the pullout, and you can have my bed. It’s really comfy.”
She reached out and put her hand on my knee. “Thank you,” she said, and I hugged her then, resting my head on her bony shoulder.
Because everyone needs a hug. Even—especially—a mean old lady who didn’t know how to be with people.
CHAPTER 26
Emma
By week five of my stay in Connecticut, things were settling into a rhythm. Genevieve had granted me the use of one of her cars, an aging but once-sporty Mercedes. I needed it, since I’d started at Rose Hill and had been seeing two families who were dealing with all the emotional issues that went along with needing this facility.
I’d found out a few other things, too.
Rose Hill was endowed so that, like the famous St. Jude’s children’s hospital, no family would ever be turned away because of the inability to pay.
“But of course, you knew that already,” said Tom, the executive director, with a wink. “We are quite grateful to”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“anonymous.”
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