Life and Other Inconveniences

by Kristan Higgins

  “So . . . you’re broke.” I paused. “Does my father know?”

  “No. He thinks he’ll inherit a fortune.”

  “So you lied to your only living child and bribed me back here by pretending Riley would get something.”

  “A bribe you accepted.”

  “Because I want my child to go to college without being terrified of the debt she’ll rack up. You’re right. I accepted the bribe so she wouldn’t have to do what I did, because I didn’t want her to have to eat ramen noodles and generic macaroni and cheese the way I did. But there’s nothing for her, am I right? You lied, and you’ve been lying all along.”

  She didn’t say anything. “If the bank had allowed me to put aside something for her, I would have.”

  “But they didn’t, and you chose not to share that little bit of information.”

  She looked at her hands. “Correct.”

  “Worse, though, Genevieve . . . for ten years, you made me feel like I was damaged goods because my mother committed suicide. You even predicted I’d kill myself because, in your eyes, having a baby at my age would cause me to spiral into despair. Then you ignored me for seventeen years and lied to me to get me to come back here. Why?”

  “To . . . to see you again. To meet Riley.”

  “How wonderful for you. And now you want me to kill you somehow because getting old is hard. Fuck you.” I stood up. “Did it ever occur to you that your feelings are not the only feelings that matter? How could you do this to me? Because you want to keep up appearances? Because you’re afraid of not being omnipotent anymore? You summoned us out here, made Riley love you and now you’re washing your hands of us. Again.”

  She stood. “Emma, please understand. I don’t want to die wondering who I am. Who you are. I can’t lose my dignity when it’s been the only thing to get me through this wretched life.”

  “You lost a son. It was tragic, but if you were wretched, that was your choice. My mother killed herself, my father abandoned me, I had a baby at eighteen, and I’ve had a beautiful life, no matter how inconvenient or hard it’s been. You wanted me to give up my baby or have an abortion, but look at her now. Look at the two of us and how much we love each other. And now you mean so much to her! How can you decide you’ll end it with her in your life! ‘Hey, kid, nice knowing you, but I’m a little forgetful, so screw you.’”

  “I don’t want her to know me when I’m sitting in diapers, wondering where my mother is! Let her remember me as I was this summer, when I took her shopping.”

  “Shopping? Are you kidding me? She doesn’t love you because you took her shopping, Gigi.” I was so mad I could hardly look at her. “I’m going out. Riley’s going to Jason’s today. Do not speak to her about any of this.”

  I managed not to slam the door.

  CHAPTER 33

  Genevieve

  So that went badly.

  After Emma had stormed off, I went through the motions—shower, hair, clothes, makeup. The routine soothed me. Otherwise, I was a bit numb.

  Obviously, there had been no easy way to tell Emma I had indeed lied—misled, really—about any inheritance for Riley. I had never put a number value on it, and I did have one thing for her that, granted, she could sell, but—

  Oh, hell. I lied. I knew it.

  And of course Emma would be furious about the suicide, but my circumstances were hardly the same as her mother’s. My life was ending. April’s had just been getting started.

  My phone rang, startling me. Mac and Carmen began barking at the sound. I looked at the screen.

  Paul Riley

  “Hello, Paul,” I said, shushing the dogs.

  “You want to get coffee or something?” he said.

  “I’d love to. Do come over.”

  “You come here. I’m sick of your mansion.”

  The man had a gift for irritating me. “And where is here, Paul?”

  He gave me his address, a little apartment over an antiques shop on Water Street. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said.

  It dawned on me that he’d be furious with me, too. I was too tired to care. He’d have to find out one way or the other.

  I walked, as the day was beautiful after the rain. But I’d forgotten how old I was. My head ached, and my hearing was going in and out. My ankle hurt; I’d bruised something last night in the rain, and found myself listing to the right.

  Chances were, I needed a cane. Which could be very regal, I supposed, but I hoped to be dead before I couldn’t walk into town or around Sheerwater’s grounds without assistance.

  By the time I got to Water Street, I was already weary and needed the restroom. My feet burned with nerve pain, and my head was sweaty under my straw hat. The flight of stairs up to his apartment seemed like an Escher painting. I hauled myself up the stairs slowly, remembering college, the endless energy, my dorm room on the fifth floor. The things I once took for granted, just being able to wake up without pain . . . What I wouldn’t give for one more day in that strong, young body!

  “You look like hell,” Paul said as he opened the door.

  “You’re such a rude man.”

  “Come on in. You want coffee or something else?”

  His apartment was furnished with secondhand pieces, but he had a small balcony with a glimpse of the Sound. “Water, please. May I use your bathroom?”

  “There on the left.”

  It was tidy, at least. As I washed my hands, I saw that he was right. I did look like hell. I fluffed my hair, but it did little to help.

  He’d set two glasses of water and two mugs of coffee on the little table on the deck. “Out here okay?” he asked.

  “Lovely.”

  Oh, it felt good to sit, even in the plastic chairs. For a second, I wondered where I was—it wasn’t Sheerwater—but then I was back. I was here with Paul, though I wasn’t sure why I’d sought him out. Not because I forgot; just because he was bound to take this badly.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Not bad. You?”

  “Not good.” I sipped my water, then proceeded to tell him, as concisely as possible, about my situation. Health. Finances. Suicide plan.

  He looked at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “Jesus Christ, lady. You got some nerve, talking to me about suicide.”

  “I know April had a true illness, Paul, and I don’t judge her—”

  “I’m talking about my wife, idiot. You think it was a joy for her to die the way she did? She was in pain for years! Lost a little piece of herself every day. But she found something to smile about every day, too. Every damn day. You’ve got everything—my girls, your friends, your dogs, that ridiculous house—and you want to cut that short. There my wife was, unable to swallow, talk, move, in pain, and she never gave up.”

  “Yes. Well, she was quite the saint, wasn’t she?”

  “No!” he barked. “She was heartbroken and sick and tired. Our daughter killed herself, Genevieve, and we couldn’t even take our granddaughter! You know what that does to a person? It hollows out your heart.”

  “I do know something about grief, Paul.”

  “Yeah. Sure you do. What I’m saying is, that wasn’t the only thing that happened to us. We kept trying. We talked about April, what she’d want for us, and we tried to make her proud of us. You, on the other hand . . . you let your lost boy ruin you. That poor kid’s legacy to you is that you were a miserable bitch all your life.”

  I started to contradict him, then stopped. My throat felt tight, and tears stung behind my eyes. I took a sip of water, then held the coffee mug in my hands. Though it was a beautiful day, I was cold.

  “How did you do it, Paul?” I asked, my voice shaking and thin. “You and Joan. How did you bear to stay alive?”

  He looked away from me abruptly and stared into the distance. Then, surprisingly, he took my h
and. His skin was callused and warm, and I felt a surge of gratitude.

  His voice was quiet when he spoke. “We just did. Some days, it felt like we were walking corpses, but we just kept going.” He sighed. “Some days are still so damn hard. Feels like it all happened yesterday.”

  “I felt like I died the day Sheppard went missing,” I said, and my tears spilled over. “I wish I had. When Garrison died, I hated him for leaving me. That was so long ago! I can’t believe I’ve lasted all these years alone.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Maybe you weren’t as alone as you thought. You’ve got that Donelle. And what’s-her-name. The ogre in the kitchen.”

  “Helga.”

  “You seem to have quite a few friends in this town. And this summer, you have the girls.”

  “Not anymore. I imagine Emma’s going to leave and take Riley with her.”

  “Can you blame her? You asked her to help you kill yourself, you lied about having money to help Riley through college, you didn’t even tell the truth about what’s wrong with you.”

  “No. I can’t blame her a bit.”

  “Getting old and sick . . . it’s not easy,” he said. “But come on, Genevieve. Why should you be any different? You think you’re only worth something when you’re flashing cash and pretending you’re the queen of America. Maybe you’re worth more when you’re not doing that stuff. Even if you forget things and need help. Even if you’re old. There still could be something good in you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that you’re loved. I never understood how you could turn away such a gift.”

  He was talking about Emma.

  “I did love her,” I said.

  “You hid it well.”

  A seagull landed on the railing of the deck, calm and undisturbed by our presence. It looked at the both of us.

  How wonderful to be a seagull! I’d always loved them, so capable in the air and on the water. The way they could glide on the wind, easily adapting to the varying air currents. I never felt they were common at all.

  “I’m so tired,” I said to the bird. He looked as if he understood.

  “Come on inside,” Paul answered. “Have a rest.” He stood up and offered his hand, and I needed it. My knees ached from the walk, and I felt a bit dizzy.

  He brought me to the bedroom, and I slipped off my shoes and lay on my side. He covered me up with a flannel throw, and when he lay down beside me, I wasn’t even surprised.

  “Don’t read anything into this,” he said. “I’m still mad about you lying to my granddaughter.”

  “Our granddaughter,” I said. “By all means, simmer away.”

  He gave a gruff laugh, and put his arm around me, and before I could even process how good it felt, I was asleep.

  CHAPTER 34

  Emma

  I went to see Hope after Genevieve finally told me the truth. I didn’t have to work at Rose Hill, but I wanted to see my sister.

  Emotions sloshed around in my gut like acid—fury, betrayal, hurt.

  Sympathy.

  No, no. Genevieve didn’t deserve that, not yet.

  But as I pulled into Rose Hill, I couldn’t help feeling a little . . . awe, too.

  Genevieve had taken care of Hope forever, and that was huge. My sister would be cared for all her life, and she could stay here, at the only home she’d ever known. Once Genevieve died, my father wouldn’t be able to profit off of her the way he had off of me.

  She paid my father to stay away from me.

  That was either superheroic or utterly shitty. My father hadn’t been horrible, after all. He never beat me or yelled at me. My memories of him in the first eight years of my life were . . . fine. I remember him setting up the sprinkler so I could run through the water . . . I remembered piggyback rides and a fort made out of a cardboard box. I remembered that, after my mom died, he let me stay up watching TV, the two of us wrapped in a blanket. I had loved him.

  I could see that nothing in Clark’s life had prepared him to be responsible for anyone. He couldn’t even take care of himself. I could’ve forgiven him, maybe, if he’d visited more . . . but Genevieve had bribed him to keep his distance. Maybe he would’ve gotten to know me and we would’ve bonded. We could’ve gotten closer as I grew older. Once the pain of my mother’s death faded, maybe he would’ve stepped up.

  The therapist in me asked if there was any evidence to support this scenario.

  No. There wasn’t. He sold me. Genevieve’s money was worth more than his own child. And then he sold the next kid, too. He was too lazy and self-involved to want to care for Hope himself. Her issues were complicated; even the most loving, dedicated, knowledgeable parent would need help, and my father was none of those things. But he had never even tried.

  Hope was on a special swing in the back with one of her aides, smiling faintly at the grass as the breeze blew her messy hair.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” I said, smooching her head. “Hi, Gerry.”

  “You want some alone time with your sis?” he asked.

  “That’d be great. I’ll find you when I have to go.”

  “Alrighty. Miss Hope, I’m leaving you with Emma, okay? See you later, sweet girl.”

  I sat on the empty swing next to her and reached out for her hand. “How’s my darling?” I asked her. “Are you having a good day?” She liked the swing, which looked like a big plastic scoop with straps, specially designed to keep her comfy and safe and unable to fall off.

  Hope and I had had really shitty luck with parents. Her mother had dumped her, our father had dumped us both, and depression had stolen my beautiful mom, its insidious lies telling her I’d be better off without her. But she had loved me. She’d shown that to me every day we had together, and I knew it down to my bone marrow.

  Genevieve wasn’t depressed, not clinically. The idea that she wanted me to help her take her own life twisted like a knife in my stomach.

  Hope made a little cooing sound.

  “What’s that? You want a song? ‘Baby Beluga,’ then?”

  I obliged, and she stole looks at me, smiling a little. There was something magical about my sister. I don’t know how her parents had chosen her name, but it was perfect. She brought out the best in people . . . at least in me. And Genevieve. And Riley, too, though Riley was pretty great all around.

  If Genevieve died—and of course she would—I’d always pictured myself taking Hope back to Downers Grove, a happy little fantasy that had nothing to do with reality. She needed extensive care, and I had a daughter, a job and no home of my own. It wouldn’t be fair to her—Rose Hill was the better place for her.

  But I was her guardian now, even if money was not an issue. Genevieve wasn’t long for the world, one way or the other. There was no cure for vascular dementia.

  “Hey,” came a familiar voice. It was Miller, dressed in jeans and a faded red T-shirt that said Finlay Construction. My heart lifted.

  “Hi. You working here today?”

  “Yep.”

  I smiled, feeling myself blush. “Miller, this is my sister, Hope. Hope, this is my friend Miller.”

  She didn’t lift her gaze from the grass, but when he knelt down to be at eye level, she smiled a little and brought her hands to her chin, showing she was shy but not entirely displeased.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Hope,” he said. He sat down on the swing to my left. “I’m gonna get a lot of flak for this from my crew,” he said.

  “Swinging on the job.”

  “Exactly. With two beautiful girls, no less. How’s your day?” he asked. He gave me a crooked smile that went straight to my heart.

  “Better now. Kind of shitty this morning.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I found out Genevieve’s been lying to me all summer.”

  His eyes widened. “About wha
t?”

  “About everything. Her health, her finances, what Riley was going to inherit. Oh, and she wants me to help her commit suicide.” I tried to keep my tone light and failed miserably.

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. So . . . I’m probably going back home sooner than I thought.”

  He twisted the swing to look at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I think I need to get Riley out of here. Fast.”

  His face was serious, the earlier smile gone without a trace. “Seems like Riley’s pretty good at dealing with people.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s a teenager. And she had a really rough winter. I don’t want her getting crushed by someone else she thought she could depend on.”

  “Genevieve? She loves that kid.”

  “Oh, okay, Miller, I guess you know my grandmother and daughter better than I do. Tell me what I should do, since you’re doling out advice.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “Is this what you shrinks call transference?”

  I looked at the ground and let out a sigh. “Yes. Sorry.”

  “Want me to leave you to sulk?”

  “No.” I swallowed, got up and started braiding Hope’s messy hair. At least it would stay out of her face that way. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He leaned back, hands on the ropes, and stared at the sky. “Guess I was hoping you’d stay in Connecticut.”

  “I have a whole life back in Illinois,” I said.

  “People move.”

  Hope made a little sound, and I stopped fussing with her hair and knelt in front of her. “You okay, sweetheart?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer. She never did, of course. A small lump was rising on her neck—another benign tumor, according to her doctor’s report. No need to operate now. They’d watch it and see how it went. She needed oral surgery this fall, since one of the issues she faced with TS was pitting of her teeth.

  Shouldn’t I be here for that? I loved my sister. She was my responsibility now.

  “It took me a long time to build what I have out there,” I said, more to myself than to him.

  “So what?” Miller said.