The Rules of Inheritance (13 page)

 

Are you kidding? You can't
quit
a job at
Big Fancy Magazine
.

 

Why not?

 

Claire, she says, her voice stern and clipped. Every single assistant in Hollywood gets the exact same treatment you're getting right now. It's just the way it is. If you ever want to make it in this town—if you want to make it anywhere really—you have to pay your dues.

 

I don't believe that, I say. Not like this. Not this way.

 

If there's anything I've learned from losing my mother, it's that there are more important things in life than situations like this. And standing there in West Coast Editor's office, my dreams of Paris and Uganda fizzling in the distance, that's exactly what I say.

 

Fuck it. There are more important things in life.

 

I leave Sophie standing there as I go to inform HR that Friday will be my last day.

 

I head home after that, a wild feeling of freedom coming over me as I roll the windows down to let in the silky, Southern California air. It's the middle of the day and no one knows where I am.

 

I park in the driveway and let myself into the apartment. For a moment I just stand there, feeling like I'm suddenly privy to one of the apartment's private moments. Then I strip off my clothes and walk to the bathroom, where I stand underneath the hot water.

 

I turn up the heat until my skin begins to turn red and I start to cry.

 

I think about how my father won't get to carry that copy of
Big Fancy Magazine
around with him anymore. But then I think about how it doesn't seem like my father is going to be able to carry much of anything around with him anymore.

 

I think about Colin and the distance between us, and I think about what my life would be like if my father were gone. I sink down to the tiles and let the water pour over me. I have this feeling that I've fucked everything up, that all I've done in my life is make a series of wrong decisions.

 

I want to go home.

 

I want my mother back.

 

All this time, through all these things I've worked so hard on—graduating from college, moving to California, taking care of my father, getting this job at
Big Fancy Magazine
—somehow all along I've let myself believe that if I did all these things and did them well, maybe I would get her back.

 

MY FATHER TRIES to hide his relief when I tell him that I've quit. The radiation to his hips has been harder on him than the doctors anticipated.

 

He can hardly walk.

 

Everything is falling apart for real.

 

On my last day at
Big Fancy Magazine
I roll into the office a little late. West Coast Editor has gone for the weekend, and the office should be calm. But as I walk in Sophie looks up at me, sheer panic in her eyes.

 

What? What's happening, I ask.

 

Editor in Chief. He's on a flight right now, due to land at LAX within the hour.

 

Editor in Chief is the king of
Big Fancy Magazine
. He is the one to fear above all else at the magazine.

 

He's staying at the Beverly Hilton, Sophie says. And he needs three things to be there when he arrives.

 

I roll my eyes. It's my last day. I could give a fuck about Editor in Chief and his three things.

 

I
need
you to help me, Claire.

 

Okay, okay, I say. As much as I don't care about Editor in Chief, I don't want to fuck Sophie over.

 

I sigh. What are the three things?

 

I just got off the phone with his assistant in New York, Sophie says, and this stuff
has
to be behind the reception desk at the Hilton by the time he checks in. Sophie glances down at a notepad before her.

 

Okay, she says, and I hear an imaginary drumroll.

 

Editor in Chief needs: the largest box of Advil you can find; the largest, strongest box of nicotine patches available; and five hundred dollars in cash.

 

Jesus Christ, I say. Seriously?

 

I can't leave the office, Claire. You're going to have to do it. You have forty-five minutes.

 

I'm throwing my bag over my shoulder and heading to the elevator when Sophie screeches my name. I turn around and she hands me a stiff paper shopping bag with a
Big Fancy Magazine
label carefully adhered to the front of it.

 

Put it all in here and give it to reception, she says. Oh, and here. She hands me two black clips.

 

No staples, she says. Editor in Chief
hates
staples.

 

I spend the next forty-five minutes racing around town, running from the drugstore to the bank, where I have to make a hasty phone call back to Sophie, who in turn calls Editor in Chief's assistant, when I realize that I don't know what denomination Editor in Chief wants his cash in.

 

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, Sophie says.

 

The assistant has to make a guess since Editor in Chief is still on the plane.

 

Let's go with five twenties, two fifties, and three hundred-dollar bills, Sophie repeats to me.

 

I roll my eyes again and stuff the cash into a crisp
Big Fancy Magazine
envelope.

 

Outside the front entrance to the Hilton I throw the car in park and tell the valet guys I'll only be a moment. It's down to the last minute and even though it's my final day and I shouldn't care, I'm still worried that I haven't arrived in time. I expect to find Editor in Chief standing at the front desk, fuming over his missing bag of three things.

 

But the lobby is quiet and I simply hand over the paper bag. Can you please make sure Editor in Chief receives this when he arrives? He's due any minute. The receptionist nods, peering down her nose at my sweaty figure.

 

I walk outside and get in my car.

 

It's over.

 

A heaviness comes over me, like the feeling of being pulled back in your seat as an airplane ascends to the sky. I know that I won't be working again for a while. I know that the foreseeable months will be spent caring for my father.

 

I know these things, but I also don't know them. I cannot really imagine what is coming.

 

As I drive away from the Hilton I wonder what my life would be like if my parents had never gotten sick, if my mother wasn't dead, if my father's cancer wasn't back, if I was just a normal twenty-four-year-old with regular things like a stressful job and a distant boyfriend to worry about.

 

I realize that I'll never know. I realize that this is who I am.

RATHER THAN SPEND the weekend celebrating the end of my dreadful job, I go down to Garden Grove to take care of my father. Colin and I had spent the previous evening talking about things.

 

What are you going to do now?

 

I don't know. Just take care of my dad for a while, I guess.

 

There was nothing left to say after that. We would have had to shout to hear each other across the ravine that had cracked open between us.

 

When I arrive at my dad's condo on Saturday, close to noon, he's still in bed.

 

Dad, I say, unable to mask the surprise in my voice, it's almost noon. What are you still doing in bed?

 

Ah, kiddo, these legs of mine aren't working so well. He smoothes out the sheets covering his lower body. His voice is hoarse, tired.

 

Next to the bed is an old plastic milk jug. I realize that it's half full of dark-yellow urine.

 

Dad, how long have you been in bed?

 

Oh, just since yesterday or so.

 

Dad, are you okay? Panic sucks at my breath.

 

Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, kiddo. I just need to rest up a bit, get my strength back.

 

I hesitate for a minute and then I pick up the jug of urine and take it into the bathroom, where I pour it carefully into the toilet. I hold my breath so I don't have to smell it, but my chest grows tight and as I back out of the bathroom, holding the empty canister, I take a swift, necessary inhalation. The smell of my father's urine, sharp and pungent, fills my nostrils and I gag.

 

Okay Dad, I say, we've got to get you out of bed.

 

I lean over and help to pull him forward. Then I swing one of his legs over the side of the bed. Then the other. He sits there after that, breathing heavily.

 

You ready?

 

Wait just a minute, he says. He massages the tops of his thighs, closes his eyes for moment.

 

I stand in front of him, swaying lightly. I can't shake the feeling that there should be someone else here. I can't help feeling as though some adult, someone more qualified and responsible than me, should show up and take over.

 

But there is no one.

 

You ready now?

 

He opens his eyes and I take one of his hands in each of mine.

 

One, two, three. I pull up with all my strength.

 

My father comes halfway off the bed, halfway into a standing position.

 

Ohhhh, he says then and lets go, dropping back to the mattress.

 

What's wrong, Dad?

 

I can't do it, sweetie.

 

What do you mean?

 

It hurts too much.

 

What hurts?

 

My hips.

 

I can feel pricks of fear rising under my skin. My father can't stand up.

 

My father can't stand up.

 

My father can't stand up.

 

Well, sweetie, just let me lie here for now.

 

But, Dad, this isn't good.

 

Well, it isn't bad either, he says. Somehow I can't argue with him.

 

We spend the rest of the day watching television. I lie on the other half of the king-size bed, and we flip through the movie channels. I make us bowls of soup and pour myself a glass of wine.

 

That night I sleep in the guest room, which I should really call my room. A year or so ago, when I flew out from New York, my father surprised me by redoing the room just for me. The month before I'd e-mailed him some stupid personal essay I'd written for a class, about losing my mother and not having a room to go home to anymore, and when I came out to visit next he'd hung a sign on the door that said “Claire's Room.”

 

Inside he'd replaced the drab guest room sheets with a pretty comforter and curtain set. He'd dug out all my old stuffed animals from storage and piled them up in the chair in the corner. He put framed pictures of me and my mom on the dresser and bought a little box for me to keep jewelry in. I cried when I saw it all.

 

This is the room in which I go to sleep the weekend after I quit
Big Fancy Magazine
, the weekend my father's legs stop working.

 

The next morning I try again to get my father out of bed, but his legs still hurt too much. It's Sunday and there is no one to call, nowhere to go. We repeat the day before, watching movies, eating soup.

 

On Monday morning I empty the milk jug again, this time taking care to hold my breath as long as possible after leaving the bathroom.

 

I sit on the edge of the bed after that.

 

Well, Dad. What should we do? You can't stay here. We need to get you to the doctor.

 

Well, sweetie, there's no way in hell I'm going to make it to the car. I think our only option is to call an ambulance.

 

Really? My eyes are wide. Can't we just call the doctor?

 

Well, what good is that if I can't even get in the car to go see him?

 

My father reaches for the phone on the nightstand, hands it to me.