—
Luna and Griff were still a couple and still in love, by both accounts. But there wasn’t much time for them to be together. Griff’s first year at the law firm required eighty hours a week. Before Tom’s diagnosis, Luna would take the train to Manhattan every other weekend. Griff’s visits home to see his dad cut into some of that. Sometimes Luna would meet Griff in Boston, see the entire clan, but she always felt uneasy in that house. It could have been the looming death, Luna’s general discomfort with Vera, or the weirdness of being under the same roof as Owen while sleeping with his brother.
Then Luna found out she was pregnant. Her plan was to deal with it without telling a soul. Casey came home early one day and heard Luna crying.
“What happened?” Casey asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Luna said.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” Casey asked.
It was a wild guess. Luna’s shocked expression answered the question.
“Oh fuck. You are,” Casey said. “Wait, are you sure? You should see a doctor.” She sat down on Luna’s bed, dispensing tissues.
“I’m sure.”
“What are you going to do?” Casey asked.
“What do you think?” Luna said.
The answer was so plain to her, she couldn’t believe Casey would even ask.
“Have you talked to Griff?”
Luna sat up in bed and glared at Casey. Casey winced under Luna’s feral advance.
“If you say one word to anyone, I swear, Casey, I will—”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence; the threat was established. Casey knew not to cross Luna.
“I won’t say a word. Have you made the appointment?”
“A week from Monday,” Luna said.
“Okay,” Casey said. “I’ll come with you.”
Mason didn’t know what the hell was going on. Casey had sworn her silence. Even if she hadn’t, she knew Mason was a crap liar. But because of Mason’s sensitive nature, he couldn’t get used to the overall feeling in the house. There was so much pain behind Luna’s door. Mason only wanted to help. Since Luna so rarely emerged from her room, Mason took to bringing her things. Coffee in the morning. Toast a few hours later. Soup or sandwiches around lunchtime. Water. He’d place a mug or plate next to her door and knock quietly, alerting Luna to the delivery. One of those times he was hovering near her door, he heard Luna on the phone.
“Why can’t I do it now? It’s my choice. What would I need to do to make it happen?” she said. “I can’t wait eight more years. It’s not about that. It’s better for society—I understand what you’re saying, but it’s my body.”
Mason spent the whole day trying to figure out what was going on with Luna. Then he had an idea.
“Is Luna donating an organ?” Mason asked Casey.
Casey inquired how Mason arrived at such a hypothesis. He explained the one-sided conversation. The eight-years remark stumped Casey as well. Mason insisted that’s what Luna had said.
* * *
—
By mid-July, Owen, Griff, and Vera came to realize that the doctor’s original prognosis was not just optimistic but unrealistic. In early August, Vera asked the doctor how much time Tom had. The doctor said six months. A week later, Tom was dead.
It was Owen who made the discovery. As usual, he got up, started the coffee, and walked down the hallway to check on his dad.
“Morning, Dad,” Owen said, as he opened the door.
Owen sensed it right away. His dad was a loud breather, generally. Owen stepped closer to investigate. He poked his dad and jumped back. Tom didn’t move. Then Owen saw the empty bottle of pills on the nightstand. Owen couldn’t figure out how his dad would have gotten the pills, since they were locked up.
When Owen turned around, his mother was standing there. He startled. He felt his heart thumping. Why was he so jumpy?
“Mom,” he said. “Dad’s—”
“I know,” Vera said. “He died last night. Doesn’t he seem at peace?”
Owen wasn’t expecting his mother to be so tranquil. It wasn’t really her style. Owen stared, slack-jawed, and said, “What?”
Vera turned Owen around, so he was facing Tom. “See? He’s no longer in pain.”
“Okay,” Owen said.
“Do you want some time alone with him?”
“Why?” Owen said, his voice cracking in panic.
“To say goodbye,” said Vera.
“No. I’m good,” Owen said, rushing out of the room.
Later, when his mother was meeting with an undertaker, Owen found the key to the lockbox and opened it. He found another prescription of Oxy. Only a few pills were left. He snapped a photo of the almost-empty bottle and another of the bottle on his dad’s nightstand. Owen knew his mother was getting weekly refills. Doctors aren’t stingy with pain meds in terminal cases. Owen suspected that Vera was keeping a few for herself. But it didn’t track, when he thought about it. His mom had been unusually lucid. She wasn’t even drinking that much. Owen could always tell when Vera was altered. He logged on to her computer—Vera used the same password for everything—and checked the prescription-order history. He cross-checked the orders against the spreadsheet they used to keep track of his father’s meds. There was a surplus, which Owen couldn’t find anywhere in the house. If you asked Owen to explain how he came to the conclusion that his mother had hastened his father’s death, he couldn’t tell you. He just knew.
Vera made the call to her older son, and Griff drove back to Boston late that night. Owen had just assumed he would bring Luna with him. When Griff walked in the front door, Owen hugged his brother then stepped outside, anticipating her arrival. The street was empty. Owen reentered the house.
“Where’s Luna?” Owen asked.
“She had an appointment or something,” Griff said. “She’ll come out for the funeral.”
* * *