by Swan Huntley
“Yours is perfect for summer,” she said.
We told the technicians we wanted our nails round, not square. We chose colors to match our new bags. “Matchy-matchy today,” Susan said.
I told Susan about how my mother was ruining my life and about the baby clause, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the shop. I felt physically incapable of saying the words. I was so ashamed.
“Do you think you can get pregnant again? The clock is ticking pretty loud.”
“I know.”
“Remember that abortion in your twenties? What was his name?”
I could never remember if it was Jim Stanwick or Jim Stanhope. “Jim.”
“Right. Your eyelashes looked so good after that.”
“I remember. You told me.”
But I didn’t remember much more than that. Both my abortions were blurry when I thought of them now. With Fernando, I’d had it done at eight weeks. That was terrible, because I found out he was leaving me at six and then had to wait. I was so angry at the time. I hated him so much. There was no way I was going to keep it. That thought didn’t even cross my mind. If I felt symptoms then, I drank them away. I’d done the same thing in my twenties. I barely remembered that pregnancy, even though it had lasted sixteen or seventeen weeks. I do remember the abortion was painful. I took painkillers and watched Who’s the Boss? reruns for a week straight. The only good part about it was that I didn’t apply mascara that whole week, and my lashes looked very plentiful and healthy by the end. I probably wouldn’t have noticed this unless Susan had told me. She stood at the end of the couch and said, “I should take a week off mascara! Your eyelashes look so plentiful and healthy!”
“What are you going to do if you can’t have a baby?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“I know.”
“And, holy shit, your mother,” Susan said. “Money to charity is one thing, but when you don’t have enough for yourself?”
“Thank you. Exactly.”
“And she did this right after your dad died? What does that mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“There’s missing information here. And she said nothing when you asked her?”
“Nothing. She’s too out of it now, she won’t tell me.”
“She wouldn’t have told you before either. That woman is a steel fortress.”
This was not the first time Susan had called my mother a steel fortress. “I know.”
“You want me to go and talk to her?”
“No.”
“Why not? It couldn’t hurt.”
“Did I tell you about this piece of paper I found in her bathroom? Look, I’ll show it to you.”
I grabbed my wallet from my purse, handed Susan the scrawl.
Susan read it like she was in grade school, learning to read. “Guilt. Is. Cancer. Your mother wrote this?”
“It’s her handwriting.”
“There’s a skeleton in the closet here.”
“You think?”
“Obviously. Have you looked through her stuff? Where’s her stuff? Where’s all the stuff from the house?”
“In storage.”
“That’s where I would go if I were you.”
I imagined us breaking into the storage unit with flashlights, a pair of caricature Nancy Drews. We would hold the flashlights like dirty foreign objects, trying not to break a nail. “That seems crazy.”
“It’s not crazy. And don’t you want to know what art is left? You might need to sell some of it, if things get bad. Those could be some pricey pieces.”
I watched the technicians silently painting our toes. They were so patient.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”
“Let’s go tomorrow. I think I’m free in the afternoon.” Susan looked at the calendar on her phone. “Yes, free. Let’s do it.”
“I need to figure out how to get in.”
“That shouldn’t be hard.”
“You know,” Susan said, “it’s true.” She was doing her therapist eyes. “Guilt is cancer.”
•
Caroline would have one of the nannies drop off the key to the storage unit in the morning. Spencer had art class in the Village. They would stop by on the way.
“Thanks, Caroline.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Old photos.”
“We already went through that stuff, I thought.”
“I want to go through it again.”
“Catherine.” Her voice sounded heavy.
“What?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
I heard movement. I heard a door close. She whispered, “I think Bob’s cheating on me.”
“Really?”
“I think he’s punishing me for not wanting another child.”
“Oh.”
“As if three isn’t enough.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“No. But it’s probably someone I know. It’s usually someone you know, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. Why do you think he’s cheating on you?”
“I don’t have any proof. It’s just a feeling. Do you think I should bring it up?”
“I don’t know.”
Caroline sighed. She sounded desperate. And I was pretty sure she was hiding in her closet.
I had to say something comforting, so I said, “Why don’t you wait and see how you feel in a few weeks?”
“You’re right.” She sounded very happy to receive this action item. “Okay, I’ll wait. Thanks, sis, you’re the best.”
19
We showed our IDs to the drowsy security guard and took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. Susan had worn jeans and a tactile vest for the occasion. I had worn $300 athletic pants.
As we made our way down the windowless hall, I said, “Caroline thinks Bob’s cheating on her.”
“Gross,” Susan said. “Does she know who it is?”
“No.”
“It’s probably one of his nurses.”
“What?”
“Or the secretary.”
“They’re called administrative assistants now. I told her not to say anything yet.”
“She should find someone for herself.”
“Is that what you would do?”
“Probably.”
We kept walking. “It’s spooky in here,” Susan said. “And it smells rank.”
“I think it’s this one.” I put the key in the lock. The door opened to a large, dark room. I flicked the light.
“Thank God it’s organized.”
It was very organized. The movers had done a good job. Caroline must have tipped them well. She had dealt with the move because I’d been too busy planning my future with Fernando.
“Wow, she got rid of a lot. Did she auction it? There’s barely anything here.”
“Yeah, and gave the proceeds to fucking charity.”
“Fucking charity,” Susan said, stepping past me into the room.
I didn’t recognize much because it was all wrapped in light-blue mover’s blankets, except for the baby grand piano—the shape of that made it obvious. Other than mummified furniture, there was mummified art: tableau after tableau, stacked vertically like records in a record store. In the back were a bunch of clear Rubbermaid bins stacked tall in two columns. Each was diligently labeled. “Elizabeth’s Bells”—that contained Mom’s eccentric aunt’s collection of, obviously, bells, all of which were wrapped in beige packing paper that made them look like just trash. “Elizabeth’s Flowers”—that box contained stacks of pictures Mom had taken of flowers. Someone had inserted wax paper between each one to keep them from sticking together.
“ ‘Bruce Legal’—that looks good,” Susan said. It was at the very bottom of the stack. “Let’s take everything into the hall.”
“Great idea.”
We stood there, hands on our hips, looking at the towers of box
es and not moving.
“Yeah,” Susan said, “you have to get the ones on top. You’re the tall one. God, it smells like a thrift store in here.”
We moved all the Rubbermaids into the hallway. It turned out there were more behind the ones we had initially seen. We moved those, too. We were sweaty by the end. Susan got us waters from the vending machine, and we started opening the boxes.
“Bruce Legal” contained nothing of interest. It was filled with old contracts from his job. “Someone should scan this stuff,” I said.
“If it’s worth scanning. Look at this.” She didn’t hold it up, and I was too far away to see it anyway. “It’s your birth certificate. You weighed nine pounds and two ounces.”
“Is Caroline’s there?”
“No.”
“She must have taken it.”
I moved on to one of the “Miscellaneous” boxes. Seven of the fifteen boxes were labeled “Miscellaneous.”
I found Caroline’s first tooth in a vial, old report cards, notes from Grandma Jane, tons of Christmas cards. At first I lingered. I wanted to take a lot of this stuff home with me. I started making a pile. An hour later I said, “We might have to come back another day to finish.”
“No way,” Susan said. “I’m not coming back here.”
Next I opened “Miscellaneous.” I had a feeling the underline meant something. Mom liked uniformity. There must be a reason one was underlined and the rest were not.
Inside was a black lockbox. Cards and letters had been placed around the box so that from the outside it looked like a paper mess. Of course there was no key.
“Have you seen keys in any of your boxes?”
“No,” Susan said. “What is that?”
“I don’t know.”
I handed her the box. She shook it. Sounded like more papers. She grabbed her keys out of her bag. She inserted a small one, probably her mail key. The box opened.
On the top was a note:
Dear Viewer,
Kindly do not read the contents of this box unless I am dead.
ELIZABETH R. WEST
“This is going to be good.”
Under the note was a journal. Susan opened it and read aloud. “ ‘February 16, 1980. The Harrisons for dinner tonight. We will have lamb. Carmen and I practiced. Better be good. Mrs. Harrison is a food snob.’ ”
“Did she really write that?”
“ ‘February 28, 1980. Steiners for dinner. Ribs and corn bread. Mrs. Steiner is a fat pig from Texas. Carmen is stealing, I know it. Eyes on her. Bruce distant. Seven-year itch? He’s stressed with merger. May need better in-house gardener. Troy makes me uneasy. Caroline more outgoing than Catherine ever was. Catherine shy, self-conscious, sweet. Caroline needs too much attention. I hope I can start loving her more.’ ”
“Let me see that.”
Susan handed me the journal. It felt heavier than I’d imagined. “I hope I can start loving her more.” That was clearly written.
“That’s really sad,” Susan said.
In March 1978, Mom had written, “Catherine prettier than Caroline.”
“That is brutal,” Susan said.
I flipped to the end. We were here to find out about money. I’d read the other stuff later, maybe without Susan around.
“December 8, 2005. Miss Bruce. More than I expected. Even miss his sleep talking. He would not like this, but it’s for the best. Decided to leave this house to charity, not to C + C. Money has made this family and money has ruined it. Bruce spoiled those children. This will give them a taste of real life. Call it kindness. Cowardly, as it will only happen when I’m likely dead. But might not affect them at all, if they are smart. Caroline will be smart, Catherine no. Other motive is possible building named in my honor. Not a gym, I hope.”
Susan looked even more shocked now. “What. The. Hell.”
“ ‘A taste of real life’? What does that mean?”
“It means she grew up poor.”
“So she’d rather give money to a gym than to us?”
“No, she said ‘not a gym.’ ”
“But she’d rather give money to not us. And Caroline will be smart and I won’t be?”
“Well, she was right about that. No offense.”
“Oh my God.”
I lay back on the cement floor.
“Don’t get comfortable here. We need to leave.”
“I can’t believe her.”
“I can’t believe your mom kept a journal. Like, the woman had feelings.”
“Barely.”
“Okay, get up please. We need to get out of here. I’m dying.” Susan started moving the boxes back in. Eventually I got up. I put the black box in my Barneys bag with a few of Mom’s flower pictures and the rest of the pile I had made.
•
William got home that night to find me in my bathrobe drinking white wine and reading the journal. “What’s that?” he asked.
I still don’t know what made me say, “Nothing.” It wasn’t like me to keep things from him. But I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed and horrified that my mother hadn’t embraced William with open arms, and I saw how much that upset him, and I didn’t like seeing him upset. I was protecting him. He didn’t need more details about my dysfunctional family. And the fact that William didn’t like to talk about his past—that made me feel justified in not telling him I had gone to the storage unit to dig up the past. He probably wouldn’t want to know anyway.
I also don’t know why I pretended to cook a dinner I had actually ordered. Maybe embarrassment again. I was embarrassed I didn’t cook. Gwen had probably cooked, so I should cook. I should be better. I should be perfect. If I wasn’t going to be super-rich anymore and if I couldn’t give him a baby, I had to be good in all other ways.
I was sneaky about the dinner lie. I buried the wrappings at the bottom of the trash can. In an effort to make my lie more believable, I even set the greasy chicken on a pan for fifteen minutes and then left the pan conspicuously in the sink to soak.
“What did you use? Tarragon?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said.
“It’s very good.”
“Are you okay?” he asked me.
I was not okay, and I didn’t look okay either: my hair was tangled, half wet. I hadn’t applied body lotion after my shower, a step I only ever skipped when I was feeling really stressed, and I was wearing the huge pair of sweatpants I never wore around William because they were so unsexy.
“I’m a little stressed.”
“About the shop?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told your employees?”
I looked at him. He looked so earnest and good, eating chicken after a long day at work. I felt myself nodding.
“Great,” he said. “How is our wedding coming along?”
“It’s going really well.”
“I’m glad. I can’t wait to marry you.” He ate a dollop of mashed potatoes off his fork. “Oh, I may need to go to Europe in a few weeks. I found out today.”
“Really? For what?”
“We want to build connections in Switzerland, and it makes the most sense for me to go. I have connections there.” William fed Herman a little piece of chicken. “Are you sure nothing else is bothering you, Catherine?”
“I’m just stressed.”
“I’m sorry you’re stressed, honey. But you know, we must push on.” And I remember exactly what he said next. He was neatly carving the white breast of his chicken when he said it, and I remember there was a bloody patch that didn’t seem to bother him at all. “We mustn’t be victims.”
I sighed. “You’re right.”
•
I initiated sex that night. On all fours, I said, “Like this?” I just wanted to feel close to him. I also thought doggie style would make him come more, and that would increase our chances of getting pregnant.
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Yes.”
Marty had made a lube suggestion. It
didn’t help. It was as painful as it always was.
“Kitty!” William moaned.
And then his phone rang—“I’m so sorry, honey, I have to take this”—and he left the room. I stayed in the bed. I didn’t move. I told myself to breathe through the pain. He came back looking handsome and naked with a smile on his face. “Shall we go again? The traditional way?” He swung a leg over me, hovered over my body, kissed my face.
His messy pouf of gray hair. Those sweet, steely eyes. “Yes,” I said.
Afterwards, he collapsed onto the bed, his wet mouth on my ear. “Did you have a nice day? I didn’t ask you before.”
“It was okay. I went to the shop,” I lied. And I told myself to remember what I’d just said, because that was the problem with lying. You couldn’t be a good liar unless you had a good memory. “How was your day?”
“Very good, thanks.”
William draped his strong arm over my stomach. I listened to Herman’s dog snore and thought of all the things I wasn’t telling him. It felt wrong. But I was sick of complaining about my mother. I didn’t want to burden him with that, I didn’t think it was fair. I wanted to figure out what was going on first. For now, he didn’t need to know. An invisible space seemed to bloat with the weight of our silence. Or maybe that was just my imagination. I pulled his arm tighter around me. I told myself that maybe this was part of what it meant to really love someone. You protected the person you loved from the ugly stuff, and you made a bright, beautiful home together that was full of air and light.
20
The next morning I took the black box to the study. I asked Lucia to bring me coffee there. She did, along with some yogurt she’d put in a dish with bananas and blueberries. The high chairs and the music stand stood alone in the center of the room.
“You eat, Miss Catherine,” she said.
“Gracias.”
I sipped the coffee. Lucia was still standing there.
“Yes, Lucia?”
“Is from your mom?” She pointed to the journal.
“Have you seen this before?”
“Yes. From Mrs. West.”
“Yes,” I said, “from her.”
Of course the housekeeper knew more about my own mother than I did. I put my head down and started reading. I didn’t feel like talking anymore. Lucia closed the door quietly behind her.