Selling Scarlett

chapter Eight

~ELIZABETH~

It takes me almost an hour to drive to Napa, and the whole time, I feel like I'm in a trance. It's early afternoon on a chilly, gray day when I park my car in the cul-de-sac at the end of Brison Way and walk half a block to the massive gray stone home behind the pointy, black iron gates. Surprisingly, the gates are open, so I walk down the long, cement drive and up the pale staircase Cross jumped off so many times when we were kids.

I hold my fist over the door, wanting to knock with all my might, but decide to ring the bell instead. Seconds pass before one of the massive doors swings open and I find myself staring into the eyes of an unfamiliar, gray-haired housekeeper.

I stand up a little straighter and pretend I'm wearing a designer business suit. “I'm here to talk to Derinda Carlson.”

The housekeeper frowns at me, then puckers her lips and shakes her head. "Mrs. Carlson is unavailable."

I press my lips tightly together. There's no way in hell I'm leaving here without speaking to Cross's mother. "Look, ma'am, I'm a family friend.” I nod behind me. “I recognize her BMW and I know she's here this weekend. Tell her it's one of Cross's friends. I have something of his."

I don't, of course, but I'm hoping curiosity will draw Derinda to the door. I haven't seen much of her since I left for college, but I remember she used to be a vibrant, funny woman—if a little cowed by her powerful husband.

I spend the few minutes I'm kept waiting sending out pleas to the universe. Please let her come to the door. Please help Cross.

I'm almost surprised when the door opens again and she's standing there in front of me. When we were in high school, Derinda Carlson was thin, elegant, and well-dressed, with vibrant blue eyes and short, stylish blonde hair. I remember her sorting through papers as she drew up house plans, but she would always make sure the housekeepers kept Cross, Suri, and I well-fed, and the few times she greeted me upon arrival, she was always kind and smiling.

This woman is much different. Still dressed stylishly in an ice blue pant suit, Derinda has definitely aged. I can tell because her face looks ridiculously smooth, and the areas around her mouth and eyebrows don't move much as she looks me up and down. Her pale blonde hair, swept up in a casual up-do, bobs a little as her eyes travel from my moccasins to my hair, which is probably a mess.

Her arms are hanging at her sides, but I notice her hands are splayed and stiff, even as she bends her mouth into a sour-lemon smile and nods slightly at me. “Elizabeth, how can I help you?”

Tears flood my eyes as I think about Cross, with a tube down his throat and all that gauze around his head. My voice cracks as I struggle not to sob. “Why is he in that awful place?”

She frowns, and lines appear—well-worn tracks she can’t completely hide. "We can't insure him anymore. Drake is paid by taxpayers these days.”

My face says I’m not buying it, and Derinda’s frown deepens. “I really don't need to justify anything to you, but do you have any idea how much the facility he was in cost?"

"No."

"Four thousand dollars every night he’s there. That's after insurance pays a percentage."

I blink, stunned that these things matter. "He was waking up! He talked to me."

She's shaking her head briskly, like she can't stand to hear my words. "There's been no response for months."

“This was days ago! I told the nurse. It's probably on the cameras! They were doing that therapy on his brain and it was working. I could tell!”

Derinda shakes her head. “We love our son, Elizabeth. We just simply can’t afford it.”

I want to call her on her bullshit. Governor Carlson was a prominent litigator before he entered politics. And they certainly aren’t acting like they love him. I want to tell her she’s full of shit, that I know she never visits, but all that will get me is a door slammed in my face.

I change the subject. "What happened in the ambulance?"

She opens her mouth, pauses as she fixes me with an even stare. "They're not sure. He was on so many different medicines..." The corner of her mouth tucks down, like we're talking about a broken vase.

"He had a stroke,” I snap. “You don't know why?"

"There are no whys, Elizabeth. Don't you think I'd be crazy if I sat around asking why any of this happened. Maybe you can tell me. You were there that night."

I clench my jaw. I want so much—so much—to tell her how their estrangement impacted Cross. How he'd lost weight and closed in on himself. How he spent most of the time he wasn't working at my Mom's house all alone.

My eyes simmer with angry tears. "They said he had the stroke because he was in pain. That sounds like someone's fault."

Her mouth draws up like a rotten fruit. "They shouldn't be discussing this with you."

I ignore her. "He was waking up. Why did you move him? He was doing well."

"He has no idea where he is, and he isn't doing anything, Elizabeth. I know it hurts, but it's time to be realistic. Cross is gone, and he's never coming back again.”

I flinch, but I remind myself that she's the one who's misinformed, not me. "I'm telling you, he talked to me the other day. Just ask Nanette or anyone who's there. I don't get why you don't seem to know this!"

Derinda’s face is hard when she says. "You love him, so you want him to get better. I love him, too, but palliative care is the best we can do for him now. We must also be prepared for his condition to…deteriorate."

I feel my heart go cold as stone. "They said that?"

"It's too soon to tell, but with what happened..."

"With what happened, you're just giving up? That place in L.A. is not the best. Not even close! He won't get well in that hellhole. He needs to go back to the place in Napa!"

Her eyes go cold, and I can tell I've crossed a line. "You have no idea what's best for him—"

“I think I'm the only one who cares what's best for him!” I whirl around and fly down the driveway before she has a chance to shut the door.


I drive to a park and spend the next half-hour crying again, reliving every detail of that night. It doesn't help. There's one detail I can't reason away, I can't forget, I can't ignore, and that's this: He was upset—because of me—when he left. It didn’t matter if that was fair, or if he had upset me, too. I hurt Cross bad enough to make him climb onto his bike half-drunk, and even if it was his choice, even if he made the wrong one, I was the precipitating event. I was the catalyst. And I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get over it.