“What if he got a disease or something? Stacy needs to know.”
“Are you out of your damned mind? It’s none of our business, Maddy. Besides the fact that it could cost me my job.”
“Your job? That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Yes … my job that supports this family.”
Her eyes cut into me. “I support this family too.”
She wished she didn’t know more than I wished I hadn’t told her. At least once a day we fought about what to do.
“It couldn’t have been a one-time thing,” she’d blurt randomly, when I thought the topic was dead. “You don’t just say, ‘Hey, it’s Tuesday and I’m on the road, I’m going to try out this whole hooker thing.’” Then the next day, “What if Jason has another child somewhere?”
“I’m sure he was smart about it,” I’d reply, trying to end the conversation but never succeeding.
“Smart about it? Smart about getting a hooker? There’s an oxymoron for you.”
I’d sigh and offer the same line I’d been touting for years without success. “You need to learn how to let other people tend to their own problems. It’s not your job to fix everything.” I blamed that propensity on her mother. Janine never addressed anything, so Meg and Maddy never let anything go. It was a rebellion of sorts.
She was uneasy every time I had a business trip with Jason after that. She couldn’t shake the story; it hit too close to home. Eventually, I was promoted above him and our friendship dissolved, but I often think about that night. I never had Maddy’s intuitive talent. She always held an element of mystery for me, and I liked it that way. I never felt bored. With the suicide everyone wants to know what was happening behind closed doors. I think they’d be surprised to discover I’m wondering the same thing. I was so rarely here.
When I got home from the hospital the day she died, there was a to-do list on the counter. I showed it to the police as undeniable proof her death was accidental. The officer read the list and said, “You can take this as whatever you want, sir, but there’s no evidence to suggest anyone was with her, certainly no signs of a struggle, and no reason for her to go out on the roof in the first place. The investigation is over.” He handed it back to me. “Maybe the list was for you.”
In case he was right, I did everything on it—buying ingredients I had no idea how to use, refilling every bathroom with toilet paper, replacing the kitchen sponge. When I was done, I decided she left it so I’d appreciate the effort that went into making our lives run smoothly. She left it so I would walk in her shoes, even once. But getting a grocery list didn’t scratch the surface. It’s days like today, Eve’s birthday, when I can’t even make it through dinner without my own selfish distractions ruining the moment, that I finally appreciate the life she breathed into this house. She carried the weight of me and Eve’s happiness.
“Shit,” I say, breaking up the silence. “I forgot a cake.”
Eve doesn’t look up from her plate. “A cake wouldn’t help.”
“No, I guess not.” I get the bag off the counter and scour for fortune cookies. Even though I ordered for three out of habit, there’s only one in the bag.
“Let’s share the fate of whatever it says,” Eve suggests. I throw it to her. When she cracks it open, the message catches us both by surprise: The only way forward is through.
I clear my throat. “You know, Eve, they say that the time we’re going through right now, after the funeral is over and everyone else has moved on, is the toughest part of grieving.”
“Yeah, well, I think that’s complete bullshit.” I half-laugh, which she finds encouraging enough to continue. “Every day sucks in some new way. It’ll never end.”
I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, but I nod in agreement. How can I pretend there’s a bright side here? Acknowledging that everything sucks is technically progress, at least we’re agreeing.
We part for bed with a simple hug. I swallow hard, realizing that Eve and I haven’t made physical contact since the day of the funeral. I could compete on a reality show for the world’s shittiest dad. Eve has faced this disaster in total isolation. I have a daughter who is bold and smart and I cannot take any of the credit.
CHAPTER SIX
Madeline
The downstairs of Rory’s town house has been converted into hospice care for her mother, Linda. Yesterday, as they sat on the couch watching TV, Linda looked up to the ceiling, hands in the air, and said, “Come and get it.” Rory slapped her mother’s arm and said it wasn’t funny, but they both knew she did it for Rory’s sake, to prepare her. Death leaves Linda thinking of nothing but her daughter’s future. Her thoughts often parallel my own.
I worry about Linda’s sorrow when she’s welcomed by no one, greeted only by air, but question whether Linda’s death will be the same as mine. Even now, as she sleeps, her breath releases with an indecipherable whisper, like she’s already conversing with people on the other side. If I focus my energy, I sense their presence, and though I fail to interpret the dialogue, the effort draws me farther from the ground below, the way it did during Eve’s accident. However slowly, I’m ascending.
The curtains stay drawn while Linda sleeps, which is now most of the day. To respect her failing appetite and growing sensitivity to smells, Rory and the day nurse, Greta, consume only benign food. Linda wakes to them murmuring about dinner. “Eat something plentiful, you two,” Linda begs.
Rory grins. “No way. My new waistline and miniscule grocery bills are the high points of your cancer.” The ladies all giggle. If Rory can entertain her mother on death’s door, certainly she can get a smile from Brady and Eve.
They need it.
Eve is in the kitchen studying for finals, waiting for Brady to come out of his room for dinner. She’s come to look forward to their evening routine. During the workweek, Brady rushes in with a bag of takeout like they have a standing seven o’clock meeting. (It’s on his calendar, so from his standpoint they do.) On Saturday and Sunday they mostly eat leftovers from the week, but they do it together. This is the first night since the accident Brady has bailed. He’s holed up in our room. His room, now. The idea that he played a role in my misery gnawed at him all week; tonight he has nothing left to give.
Sundays, in particular, are hard. It was our day. Saturday Brady worked and Eve usually had a tournament of some sort, but Sundays everything clicked into place. Nothing sensational, errands and togetherness mixed with a little daydreaming, but that was all we needed to wind up for another week.
The Sunday before I died I woke up to the smell of bacon. Eve and I wandered into the kitchen at the same time. Brady had already set out plates. “Breakfast for me ladies,” he said, taking a medieval bow.