He gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I’m still wondering about that look as I step back through the heavy plastic sheeting, as I cross back through the looking glass into the real world of traffic horns and exhaust.
The way you and Christopher were business partners? There was something in his expression when I asked the question. Guilt. Longing?
It makes me wonder if there was more to their relationship than money. It makes me wonder if I broke more than their company when I stood between them.
My mother’s nurse is a stout woman with perpetually pink cheeks and a tendency to call everyone sugar. Freida dutifully prepares the chopped kale salads and wheatgrass smoothies my mother prefers, but I suspect she laces the brownies with pot.
Whatever we’re paying the agency, it isn’t enough.
I like her so much I can almost forget that she isn’t a regular nurse. She’s a hospice nurse, part of a whole hospice team that consulted with my mother for weeks when we moved here.
Daddy died in the middle of my first art gallery show, to the shock of everyone.
What came after, the will and its humiliation, that was a surprise, too.
My mother seems determined to die in exactly the opposite way—slowly, with every stage planned out. I’m sure it comes from a kindness, a wish to prevent the kind of paralysis that gripped us in that New York City hotel room, the air still tinged with the smell of paint.
Freida manages to corner me. I’m usually more careful than this, but I sneaked into the kitchen for a pot brownie and a glass of milk. I could have used a little natural high before seeing Sutton in his natural element. There’s nothing behind me except a walk-in pantry, no possible escape from the conversation I’ve been avoiding for almost a month.
“Harper,” she says. “I’m glad I caught you, sugar.”
I wave the plate with the pot brownie vaguely, as if I’m not panicking inside. “Oh, you know, just getting a midnight snack. It’s something I do when I’m sleepwalking. Like right now.”
She gives me that hospice-nurse smile. “We should talk about your mother.”
“You already told me what she ate today,” I say as if she’s just so silly. As if there’s nothing else to say about a woman determined to die in the most drawn-out possible way.
“We should talk about the Death Plan, Harper.”
And there it is.
I still can’t believe there’s something even called a Death Plan. Who plans for death? It’s the worst possible outcome, and even if it’s inevitable, even if you see it coming, how can you accept it with something as terrible as Times New Roman printed on cheap inkjet paper?
“I really don’t think I need to talk about it, actually. Bad enough that it exists.”
She doesn’t move out of my way. “The purpose is to make the event easier for you.”
“Easier? Death isn’t supposed to be easy.”
“Maybe not easy, but it doesn’t have to be hard. Death is a natural part of life.”
God. Is that what the Death Plan says? Ten thousand percent glad I haven’t read it. “I know Mom was into this whole hospice, kumbaya, circle-of-life thing, and I respect that, but that doesn’t mean I have to join the club. No leather jacket for me, okay?”
“She would really like you to be on the same page.”
No, it’s not respecting her wishes, but I can’t read that sheet of paper any more than I can stab my eyes with a steak knife. That’s actually looking more and more like a reasonable exit as Freida continues to stand in front of the door to the kitchen.
It may not look like much, but I’m doing the best I can. I’m not fighting for my mother to continue treatment. I’m not begging doctors for favors or circling the world for a new experimental medicine. I’m here to face her death, but I don’t have to read the script.
“You can’t avoid this forever,” she says gently.
“Watch me.”
It strikes me how this is the opposite of Daddy’s death. His will was a secret when he died, taking all of us by surprise. Maybe even him. Instead there’s an actual plan for Mom’s death. There won’t be any surprises, any pain, because dying is just a part of life, right? Unless the paper says, Just kidding, I’m not dying, there’s nothing that can make this easier.
The nurse takes a step back, giving me enough room to squeeze by. “My job isn’t only to care for the dying. I’m here to help the family, too.”
I stare at her, more bemused than frustrated. “Does that ever actually work?”
She pauses for only a moment. “I hope so.”
And I think I’m not the only woman trying to turn straw into gold. I’m not the only woman failing. There are a million impossible tasks we give ourselves, trapped in a room with no way out. Part of me wants to throw my arms around Freida and sob into her warmth. Instead I leave the brownie on the counter and go upstairs to change into something sexy and ill-advised. It’s going to take something a lot stronger to make me forget tonight.
The Den is part gentleman’s club, where socializing happens with liquor and cigars. Part Renaissance salon, where ideas are discussed. And part boardroom, where deals are made.
Both Sutton and Christopher are regulars here, which means I put on my best dress. Even Mom notices the effort, telling me I’ll turn heads tonight. I might not be with either man right now, but I can at least show them what they’re missing. Tonight I need something that shallow. Something that selfish. Something that sweet.
Tonight that means a strapless red gown that flares into an asymmetrical sweep beside my knee. It’s head-turning anywhere, but in the low lamp glow of the Den I’m like a walking, talking beacon to the men around me. There are a hundred eyes on my body as I weave around crinkled leather chairs and thick wood stools.
The first person I recognize is Blue, a man I’ve met here before who runs a security company. He’s standing at the bar, watching the men who watch me. There’s definitely no Sutton, no lazy smile as he waits for me and that drink. Unease curls through my stomach. Did he stand me up?
“Whatever’s on tap,” I tell the bartender, sliding across a twenty.
An assortment of gold and clear liquids line mirrored shelves behind the bar, but I find myself craving the cool froth of a beer. Maybe it was hearing Sutton say the word, that it somehow eroticized an otherwise ordinary drink. He has that effect on more than beverages—the heat of morning across my cheeks, the metal scent of the earth.
All of it becomes the backdrop to his elemental charisma.
A large glass of amber beer appears in front of me, the glass already condensing.
Blue slides the bill back to me. “It’s on me. The least I can do considering I earned many times that spying on you. What makes you so intriguing, Ms. St. Claire?”
So that’s how Christopher knew about my mother. “I’m sure I have no idea. It must be really boring to watch me read books and pick up Thai food.”
“I don’t watch you personally, but I see the reports.”
That makes me snort. “‘She ordered the yellow curry today instead of the red.’”
“Interesting enough that I can sell it to more than one entity.”