“No, thanks.”
I get a bottle of ginger ale from the refrigerator and hand it to Liv. Helen’s gaze follows Liv as she takes the bottle and sits at the table.
“Your flight was okay?” Helen asks, turning back to unload the dishwasher.
“Fine.”
“I offered to do some grocery shopping for your mother,” she says. “Stock up the fridge for the next few days.”
“That’s… uh, that’s nice of you,” I say.
“It’s no trouble.”
I watch her as she moves around the kitchen. She looks good—shorter hair, a little rounder, attractive. Beneath my surprise at seeing her again, there’s that old guilt.
Helen and I were supposed to be ideal. That was why I’d married her. A perfect match between a historian and an art historian. Prove to everyone, prove to myself, that my life was snapping together like a jigsaw puzzle, regardless of our family strife. Then the marriage ended up my biggest failure.
“So, Dean.” A bright note enters Helen’s voice as she sorts the clean silverware. “Medieval imagery. Great conference topic. My colleagues at Stanford have been talking about it. Have you seen my proposal?”
“Not yet. It’s gone to the other committee members first. I’m sure it’ll be accepted. They’ll love the interdisciplinary nature of it.”
“What about you?”
“It’s a great subject, sure.”
“I was thinking about icons in particular.” Helen glances at me. “The Pre-Raphaelite vision of the Middle Ages, especially through Keats. And Rossetti’s use of iconography from illuminated manuscripts.”
“You should look at the British Library’s Roman de la Rose manuscript,” I suggest. “I think you’d find a lot of stylistic connections to Defense of Guinevere.”
“I also want to talk about Ruskin’s ideas of vision and perception,” Helen says. “That all relates to the Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic.”
“I imagine that would be influenced by Tennyson and his Arthurian poems,” Liv remarks. “And how perfectionism is disconnected from everyday life, like Guinevere says of Arthur. ‘He is all fault who has no faults at all.’”
Helen just looks at her. Liv shrugs.
“I was a literature major,” she explains.
“Oh.” Helen turns to close the dishwasher.
Liv winks at me. Warmth dissolves more of my unease.
“So should we go to the hospital now?” Liv asks, pushing away from the table.
“Sure.” I put my cup in the sink. “Thanks, Helen.”
“No problem.”
Liv and I get our stuff and go back out to the driveway. I open the car door for her, then settle into the driver’s seat.
“She seems… nice.” Liv sounds like she’s choosing her words with care.
“She’s not a bad person,” I say. “And she was dealt a shitty hand with the miscarriages. She and I were just totally wrong. And that’s one hell of an understatement.” I reach over to pat Liv’s thigh. “Whereas you and I were meant to be.”
That seems to ease any trepidation Liv might have. The last thing I want is for her to worry about Helen, though I know Liv can hold her own if she needs to.
After parking at the hospital, we go inside. White walls, antiseptic smells, an air of sickness. My head fills with memories of my grandfather, his body wasting to skin and bones, the rasping, phlegmy cough. The angry way he faced his impending death.
“Let’s get some flowers.”
Liv’s smooth voice washes away the ugly thoughts. Before I can respond, she turns toward the gift shop and chooses a display of yellow and pink flowers that I’m sure my father will hardly notice.
“Dean, finally.” When we enter the cardiac unit, my sister gets up from one of the vinyl chairs. Paige is a younger version of our mother, all understated polish in some sort of knit dress that probably cost a fortune.
After we exchange a brief hug of greeting, Paige gives Liv a narrow look. I step in front of Liv to deflect it.
“Hello, Olivia.”
“Nice to see you, Paige.”
“You didn’t tell me Helen was at the house,” I tell my sister.
A humorless smile tugs at Paige’s mouth. “Would you have come home if I did?”
Good question.
“How’s Dad?” I ask.
“Sleeping. Mom is in there with him right now.” Paige tilts her head toward the corridor leading to the private rooms. “Room three-eleven.”
Liv and I go to the room. I knock on the door before pushing it open. My mother is sitting in a chair by the window, staring at the opposite wall. She looks the same, dressed in one of her designer suits with elegant, tasteful jewelry, and her face made up flawlessly.
“Oh, Dean.” A look of relief crosses my mother’s face. She rises to give me an embrace that smells like perfume and hairspray. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I look past her. My chest tightens when I see my father lying in the hospital bed. Though we’ve always had either a strained relationship or none at all, he has nevertheless been a big presence in my life—like my grandfather before the cancer diagnosis. Now my father looks pale, weak. Small.