House Broken (20 page)

She got to doubting herself a little. She thought back to what she had seen between him and Paris—the dancing, the tickling, the glances—and replayed the scenes again and again, as if her memory might be trying to sneak a truth by her. Of course, it wasn't the first time she'd had these recollections, but this was another thing entirely. This was reviewing the evidence in front of the jury of her conscience.

As Eustace moaned and twisted up the sheets, she saw Louisa standing at the door, then running away, and tried to remember exactly how her face had looked, and what she had said. Who said Paris's name? Had she? Or was it Louisa? She couldn't now recall anything Louisa said pointing directly at Eustace, aside from that he had fired her. Was it possible Helen had been so desperate to confirm her suspicions about her husband that she'd misunderstood Louisa? While she'd been poisoning him, she'd only thought about ways to get more pills in him. It was a game. Now that the game was over, and she was staring at the ugly consequences of her victory, her confidence wavered.

She wished she could ask Eustace what he had done, because surely he knew he was dying, and dying, like love, had a tendency to pull the truth out of folks. But the time for confession had passed, because he was delirious now, and didn't even know who she was.

• • •

The psychologist didn't appear to be more than twenty-five years old, and Helen doubted anyone that wet behind the ears could understand the first thing about a woman her age. But she had to give her credit. After a few questions about Helen's circumstances, she jumped right in.

“Did you try to kill yourself, Mrs. Riley?”

“There were pills left, so there's your answer.”

“So you haven't been feeling depressed?”

“I've had better days.”

“Are you referring to yesterday, or to a longer period?”

“I haven't much cared for going around on a walker and depending on people. I'm used to my independence.” Helen didn't think she'd said anything interesting but the psychologist scribbled on her pad.

“And how much do you drink on an average day?”

“Lately, not as much as I'd like. But yesterday, maybe a bit too much.”

“And the pills you took?”

“I bruised my hip the other day, and it was aching. I see now they don't go so well together.”

The psychologist smiled a little and handed her a stack of brochures. The one on the top had a picture of a man with his arm around a woman. It read: Addiction Services. “I'll leave these with you. I hope your circumstances improve, Mrs. Riley, and, whatever happens, you think about your relationship to alcohol.”

She'd think about it, all right. And then have a drink to it.

GENEVA

G
eneva placed Paris's letter on the scanner and pushed a button to increase the contrast. She wrote an email to Dublin saying she had found the letter last night but only read it this morning, and asked him to call her once he'd read it. After checking to ensure the document was legible, she attached it. Her finger hovered over the Send button; the letter didn't belong to her and, while she had found it by accident, she was sharing it deliberately.

“Oh, well,” she said, and hit Send.

Immediately she regretted it. She pictured him opening the email during a lull at work and having to rein in his reaction. So he wouldn't be blindsided, she called him. When he didn't answer, she sent him a text: Open my email in private only. Love, G.

Not knowing what else to do while she waited for him to call, she made the bed and changed the towels in the bathroom. Reluctantly, she entered Charlie's bedroom and surveyed the scene. The paramedics had knocked over the bedside table, and the bed was in disarray, but it wasn't the disaster she had imagined. Knowing her mother might be coming home later today, Geneva righted the table, wiped up the spilled water, and stripped the bed. She stopped in the kitchen on her way to the laundry and poured the last of the vodka down the drain.

Tom had not returned from dropping Charlie at school. Geneva told Ella, who was watching TV, she was taking Diesel for a walk.

“Want me to come?”

“No, that's okay. But if Dublin calls, ask him to try my cell.”

• • •

The unmarked footpath lay beyond the blackberry brambles hugging the rear wall of the barn. Geneva nudged Diesel to the right, away from town, toward the creek and, eventually, the hills. The sun had no fog to burn that morning and bore down on the path where the arching branches allowed. Geneva called to Diesel to wait while she took off her jacket and tied it around her waist.

She wished she'd never seen the letter. The day should have begun here. This walk in the woods, her dog trotting ahead, sniffing the air, nosing the dew-laden bushes. This perfect June morning, the bees away from their hive and the possibility of the first larkspur or paintbrush around every corner. If she hadn't read the letter, she would be who she had been a month ago—a reasonably happy woman with an alcoholic mother and an estranged sister. Although imperfect, that person could enjoy such a morning.

How she envied Diesel. He could love someone without knowing them.

It occurred to her she didn't have to tell Dublin. She would stick her head back in the sand if she could, so why wouldn't she spare him? Sending the email had been a selfish move, as if sharing the terrible news would halve its impact. But they'd vowed nothing would come between them. If she hadn't told him, would the secret have moved them apart?

And she hadn't decided whether to tell Florence. At least Dublin could weigh in on that. Maybe Florence already knew, although over the phone she had talked matter-of-factly about the rivalry between Paris and their mother. If Florence could manage that sort of duplicity, Geneva didn't know her at all.

But she did know her mother had failed to protect her eldest daughter from her husband. Paris was undoubtedly a strange child, but she was nevertheless a child. Incest was not a gray area. Why didn't her mother shield her? Did she not find out until after Eustace died? Was it, then, shame that drove her to drink?

Diesel barked at a squirrel running up the path. She pushed the questions away and, turning for home, called Diesel to her.

A few minutes later, her phone vibrated in her pocket. Dublin.

“Hi. Did you get my email?”

“Yup. It just keeps getting better, doesn't it?”

His calm tone surprised her. “Did you read the letter?”

“Yeah, it's creepy, all right. But I'm not sure what it means.”

“I thought it was pretty clear.”

“What's clear to me is both Mom and Paris are completely batshit.”

“I'm confused. Did you read it carefully?”

“I'm a good reader. Especially in English. I know some of it is suggestive, and I get why you're upset, but you've got to consider the source.”

“Suggestive? What else could ‘unnatural desires' mean?”

“I don't know. Dad's need for attention?”

“Then why use the word ‘victim'? And Tom had the same reaction as I did.”

“Look. I'm not saying it's completely impossible Dad was an abusive pervert. All I'm saying is that the letter isn't exactly a smoking gun.”

“You're right. It doesn't prove anything. Still.”

“Are you going to ask Mom about it?”

“I think so. How could I not?”

“I get it. The toothpaste is hard to get back into the tube, and inquiring minds want to know, but haven't you had enough drama for a while?”

“For a lifetime. But as much as I'd like to, I can't pretend I didn't read the letter.”

“It's so implausible, Ginny. Think about it. Wouldn't someone else have known? Florence or Louisa, for instance? And we know Paris is weird. Can't you imagine her making up stuff about her and Dad just to get Mom's goat?”

“Well, I suppose . . .”

“. . . and can't you imagine Mom tweaking reality a teensy weensy bit just to put a perverted spin on what was, in all likelihood, only a mildly twisted father-daughter relationship?”

Geneva sighed deeply. “She was jealous of Paris.”

“Exactly. But the important thing, kiddo, is for you not to get all involved in it. I'm not going to. Join me over here in the
I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-those-sorry-Southern-bastards-were-up-to part of the room. Paris is who she is and Mom is, God help us, who she is, and that's that.”

“I'll give it some thought.”

“It's what you do best, you little brainiac. Any word on Mom?”

“Nothing new. I think that means she's alive.”

“Well, there you go. And once she's in L.A. again, and you don't have to see her every day, you'll say that as if it's a good thing.”

• • •

Geneva did as she promised. She contemplated whether she could ignore Paris's letter. She pictured engaging in her normal, everyday activities—swimming, going to work, eating dinner with Tom and the kids—unsure who her father really was. Could she wall off the idea he might have been a monster, or at least a very sick individual, and live her life as before? She imagined turning the pages of the photo album, seeing his face, seeing Paris. A sour taste climbed into her throat.

Until she spoke with Dublin she had been certain of what the letter revealed. Was the doubt she now felt only wishful thinking, the same sort of denial that allowed her to turn a blind eye to her intuitions about Charlie and her mother's recent drinking? Her brother's attitude had a pragmatic what's-done-is-done appeal, but she wasn't sure she could adopt it and live with herself.

She turned the question on its head and asked why she shouldn't pursue the truth, whatever it turned out to be. She would have to ask her mother some hard questions, but it wasn't
as if their relationship could deteriorate much further. She'd have no guarantee of straight answers, but so what?

As she turned off the trail and watched Diesel lope around the corner toward the driveway, another pebble shook loose in her mind. Florence had said their mother began drinking heavily after their father's death. If her father had been molesting Paris, wouldn't his death have come as a relief? Maybe Dublin was right, and the bad blood between her mother and Paris resulted solely from a poisonous mixture of jealousy and mental instability.

She came around the side of the barn. Tom stood in the drive, stroking Diesel, and looked up at her with concern.

“Hey. How're you holding up?”

“I'm okay.”

“The hospital called. Your mom passed the psych exam.”

“I'm not surprised. It's not a high bar. All they want to do is make sure she's not an immediate danger to herself.”

“And they're releasing her around five.”

They went inside. Several covered platters and plastic food containers lined the counter, including a jar of tomato sauce.

“Oh,” Tom said, “Juliana stopped by. She said everyone sends their love and hopes your mom feels better.”

“How did they know?”

He smiled. “They just do.”

• • •

Tom and Geneva brought Helen home that night. She thanked them for not “tossing her out on the street” and went straight to bed. Early the next morning Geneva went to work, having called in all her favors over the last three days. Because it was Saturday,
the clinic was swamped with visits that pet owners had put off during the workweek. Stan had left her a note, saying he hoped her mother was feeling better. Geneva hadn't told him the reason for Helen's hospitalization, and she appreciated that he hadn't asked.

She sutured the face of a cat that had gotten into a fight, spayed a young terrier, and monitored the animals her colleagues had treated yesterday and kept overnight. In her few free moments, she sorted through the backlog of emails and lab results, and made several phone calls to clients. Finally, she wrote notes to the staff thanking them for stepping up in her absence. She walked out to her car, breathing deeply for the first time in days. She loved her job most days, but today's hectic schedule was a godsend.

She drove slowly on her way home, collecting her thoughts. Once there, she stopped at the barn to say hello to Tom and Ella, and checked in with Charlie, perched at the kitchen counter with an open history book and a bag of popcorn.

“Hey, Momster. Guess what.”

“After this week, do I want to know?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. It's all good. You know the Battle of the Bands? We won!”

Geneva paused, stymied by the moral arithmetic. “That's fine, Charlie. But if there was anything resembling a prize, your sister should get a cut.”

“Nope. Just fame and glory.”

“Have you seen Nana?”

He cocked his thumb toward the back door. “I've been keeping an eye on her for you.”

Her mother sat on a chaise on the lawn, flipping through a magazine.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. The sun feels nice.”

“Yes, not a trace of fog today.” She pulled up a chair. “Mom, I want to talk.”

“Am I going to want to hear it?”

“Probably not.” Her mother frowned but didn't protest. “There was an old letter to you from Paris on the bed last night. I read it.”

“Well, now we know where Charlie gets his snoopiness.” She lifted her magazine and turned the page.

“I'm sorry. But I can't pretend I didn't.” Geneva leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “What happened between Daddy and Paris, Mom?”

She didn't look up. “What do you think?”

“Please just tell me.”

“How is it your business?”

“He was my father. I want to know the truth about him.”

Her mother laid her hand on the page as if it were a Bible, and looked her daughter in the eye. “There isn't one truth about anybody. You ought to know that by now.”

Strangely, this felt like progress. “Did you see something?”

“I thought I did.”

Geneva's stomach clenched. Sweat broke out on her palms. She willed herself to think, to ask the right questions. “That must've been terrible. I'm sure you wanted to stop it.”

“I did try.” She looked into the distance. “I got her that dog.”

Argus. Why hadn't it occurred to her earlier how odd it was to give the first family dog to a sixteen-year-old? Helen returned to her magazine.

“Did you talk to Paris about it?”

“Oh, my.” She let out a bitter laugh. “I sure tried to. Laughed in my face and said I was jealous.”

Geneva imagined them sitting at the kitchen table, her mother's face serious and drawn, Paris haughty and smiling. “Obviously you didn't go to the authorities because no one would believe you—you weren't a hundred percent sure yourself—and Paris wasn't going to point a finger at Daddy.”

Her mother appeared to be absorbed in an article on begonias, but Geneva thought she detected a slight nod.

“So all you could do was shield Florence.” She swallowed hard to stem her tears. “And me?”

Helen closed the magazine, leaned in, and patted her daughter's knee. “I'm starving. That hospital food was garbage. Why don't we see what all Juliana brought us?”

Geneva got up and positioned her mother's walker in front of her, then followed her across the lawn to the back steps.

“You're limping a lot less.”

“One step at a time.”

Geneva boiled water for the pasta while Tom heated the sauce and meatballs. Juliana had included a container of freshly grated parmesan, a large green salad, garlic bread and her famous mud pie.

When they sat down to eat, everyone kept the conversation light, nerves jangled from the events of the last few days.

“Juliana was really sweet to do this for us,” Geneva said.

“Her sauce is the best,” Charlie said.

Ella picked up her third piece of garlic bread. “My favorite, right here.”

Helen cut a meatball with the side of her fork and chewed
thoughtfully. “I believe these are the tastiest meatballs I've ever had, next to Louisa's.”

Geneva's forkful of salad hovered in the air as she met her mother's gaze. Helen stopped chewing. Meatballs. The Christmas party. Geneva had put on her new red velvet dress and run downstairs to the kitchen to ask Louisa to put up her hair. Louisa had a knack for taming her thick dark waves. Her mother was taking a tray of meatballs out of the oven. She moved quickly and her face was flushed. “Where's Louisa?”

“She's not here.”