Molly’s entire family, in fact, was off-limits. They were like a cult, one that did not accept disciples or converts. They had been through a lot as a family, it had drawn them together, but what family hadn’t been through a lot? Well, every family has its myth, she supposed. The myth Freddie’s family told itself was one of freedom. Her sisters and brothers were scattered across the globe, all of them—with the exception of Freddie—too independent and too far away to notice that their father wrecked the car three times in six months, or at least too far away (one hoped not too independent) to do anything about it.
The Bergmans, on the other hand, were a clan, tight knit and suspicious of strangers. They were tribal and closed, bound by blood. They were one, the world the other. Freddie was used to them now, used to their insular ferocity. She didn’t often make the mistake of even implicit disapproval. There were worse things than loyalty and family love in this world. Sometimes she envied Molly her certainty, the way the atheist sometimes envies the believer.
“I know Daniel works very hard,” she said. “I know he’s incredibly busy. I love your brother, I think he’s wonderful to your parents, and to us. I didn’t mean anything, Molly. Really.”
She did mean something, that Daniel was a son not a daughter, and they both knew it, but it wasn’t his fault, and they both knew that, too.
“He can’t be there every second,” Molly said.
But neither could Molly, even if she was the daughter, Freddie thought, and the unspoken words hung between them.
“I could change my ticket, go to New York a week early. I could Skype my classes, right? I have to keep an eye on those two crazy old people. Check on their medications, clear up their bills, talk to the doctors, hire someone to come in, something. I have to do something.”
“They won’t let you hire anyone.”
“I know.”
“Maybe it’s really time to start thinking about—”
“I’m one hundred percent sure you’re not going to say what you’re about to say, because no one is sending my father anywhere, okay? He would hate it. He’d be so confused. So please don’t even mention it.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, I already tried talking to Mom about it.”
Freddie laughed again.
“She said he had a home.”
“I wonder,” Freddie said, “what would happen if they called them ‘nursing hotels,’ instead of ‘nursing homes,’ if people would be more receptive.”
“You’d still get infections.”
“Like a cruise ship.”
Now and then Freddie wished someone would send her to a Home. Assisted Living—couldn’t everyone use a little assistance in living? Three meals a day—nice comfort food, too. And a room of your own. You would be retired, of course, so you could read novels all day long without feeling guilty, assuming you could still see through the inoperable cataracts you might, at that age, have developed. Really, if people were sent to old-age homes at a younger age, they would get so much more out of them.
Freddie had already moved her own father into three different assisted-living facilities. The first time, he went to the Motion Picture Home in the Valley, an inviting-looking place with its gardens and neat paths and scattered terraces and benches, though no one could walk on its neat paths or sit on its benches or gaze at the fat roses from the terrace. It was simply too hot, it was always much too hot. Her father had been lucky to get in, though, hot or not—there was always a long waiting list. He was an actor, Duncan Hughes—a minor actor you might see in a party scene of a romantic comedy with Doris Day and Rock Hudson, lifting his martini glass above people’s heads as he squeezed through the crowd and made a few humorous comments to the stars. He had been dapper and not quite dashing when he was young. Now his face showed the good life he had attempted to live. Decades of professional disappointment, as well as his attempts to comfort himself in that disappointment, had left their mark on his florid drinker’s face.
Duncan had always attributed failure to bad luck. He was a believer in luck and had never reconciled himself to not having any. But at last, Freddie thought, he had hit the jackpot, not one he had expected, certainly not one he had dreamed of, but a jackpot nonetheless: the Motion Picture Home.
Duncan’s memory had started to go even earlier. He had managed to sign with a new agent, however, a chatty man who operated out of a disreputable-looking office in a strip mall. It wasn’t as if Duncan Hughes would get any parts, Freddie knew that. He wouldn’t be able to remember his cues, much less his lines. But having an agent meant he could still hope for roles, which provided some continuity for him, as hoping for roles, Freddie thought uncharitably, had always been a dominant part of his life. And perhaps having an agent might keep her father sitting safely by the phone rather than driving all over town to open auditions. When he drove to auditions these days, he tended to total the car. The bottle of rye he kept on the passenger seat didn’t help.
So on the day, a year ago, when Freddie got a call from her father asking if she could drive him to the airport, her first reaction had been relief—her father had finally agreed that he shouldn’t drive! He was asking for help! He was reaching out! But then the rest of the request hit her.
“The airport? Why are you going to the airport, Dad?”
“To catch a plane, obviously.”
“Where is the plane going?”