House Broken (18 page)

“No, you're right. I think we have to accept that we are terrible parents.”

Tom gave a short laugh.

“I'm not joking, Tom. We were a couple of lucky breaks away from having a kid with a rap sheet. And we haven't even broached the subject of smoking dope.”

“I know. But they're still good kids. Good kids make mistakes, too.”

She turned in her chair to face him. “I hope you're not thinking of going easy on Charlie. Because I'm not. Good kid or bad kid, serious mistakes call for serious consequences.”

“If we come down on him like a ton of bricks, it might get worse instead of better.”

“And if we close our eyes and sing a lullaby, maybe it will all go away.”

“No need to get sarcastic, Geneva.”

“It's either sarcasm or righteous indignation. Take your pick.”

“What? So because you wanted to bankrupt your mother rather than help her out, and because you had some sort of women's intuition about what Charlie was up to, I'm to blame for all this?” He threw his arms wide and stared at her, incredulous.

“No, Tom, I'm not blaming you for this. But after being scolded for so long for worrying too much, you shouldn't be surprised I'm angry. I'm angry at my mother, at the kids, and at myself. And, damn it, Tom, I'm angry at you.”

He looked away. His jaw muscle twitched. In a low voice, he said, “So what do you want to do?”

“I'm thinking the sooner my mother leaves, the better.”

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “She's leaving? Did you tell her?”

“I haven't spoken with her. But I thought it was obvious that after what we just found out, she'd no longer be welcome here.”

“Well . . .”

“Are you thinking of waiting until she actually kills someone?”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it's been a rough day. A very rough day. But that's why it's not a good time to make decisions.”

“Not a good time for you, maybe, but an excellent time for me. You may remember I wasn't completely behind her coming here in the first place.”

Tom took his hand away and frowned. “Maybe it's fair to throw that in my face, but I also think that what happened with Charlie and Ella, or something similar, would have happened whether your mother was here or not.”

“Mischief is one thing. Mischief with unlimited money and a loaded gun is another.”

He put his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. As angry as she was with him, she could see he was struggling to know how to respond to what had happened, the same as she was. Still, she could not understand why he was so determined to have her and her mother remain in the same house and battle through their problems. Maybe he could see aspects of a relationship worth salvaging that she could not. Or, more likely, he couldn't imagine not being part of the kind of family he had, and stubbornly ignored the fact that the Novaks never had to assimilate anyone like Helen. Tom's intentions were as noble as they were misguided, but the time for Geneva to trust her intuition and her judgment—and make her own decisions—was long overdue. She hadn't held her ground when she knew welcoming her mother into their house spelled trouble. Helen was damaged beyond repair for reasons she did not understand, but now the reasons didn't matter. Helen had to go.

Tom said, “The last thing I want to do is fight with you.”

“I feel the same.”

“I'll go put the pizzas in. Are we feeding your mother?”

“Do we have a choice?”

• • •

Helen didn't respond when Geneva rapped on the door.

“Mom?” She opened the door a few inches. “Mom?” Her mother lay motionless on the bed facing the wall. The curtains were partially closed and a dusky light filled the room. The skin on Geneva's arms tingled. As she monitored the shape on the bed for movement, the room shuddered. She put a hand on the dresser
to steady herself, then rushed to the bed. She took in the clear liquor bottle on the nightstand next to a small quilted bag.

“Mom!” She shook her mother's shoulder and turned her over. Her mouth was slack. Geneva bent and put her ear to her mother's nose, and heard a faint hiss.

She looked again at the nightstand. An inch of vodka remained. She picked up the bag and dumped the contents onto the bed. Amid the tubes and jars of makeup was a plastic sandwich bag containing a few white pills.

“Tom!”

She ran to the door and shouted down the hall.

“Tom!”

She patted the front pocket of her jeans but her phone wasn't there. Running back to the bed, she picked up the bag and examined the pills to identify them.

Tom appeared in the doorway. “What's going on?”

“Call nine-one-one! Tell them it's an overdose!”

She put two fingers on her mother's neck to take her pulse, willing the pounding of her own heart to quiet. The beat was faint and thready.

She grabbed her mother's shoulders and shook them. “Mom! Wake up!”

As she let go, she noticed a folded piece of paper sticking out of the discarded makeup bag. Without knowing why, she put it in her pocket, then tried again to revive her mother.

HELEN

F
rom the time Paris turned sixteen until she left home for her internship in Columbia eighteen months later, Helen hardly had one decent night's sleep. She didn't want to go to bed before Eustace, not knowing what he'd get up to while she was upstairs, and once he was in bed, she'd wake up at all hours to make sure he was still there. She didn't have a clear notion of what she'd do if she caught him red-handed, but that didn't stop her fretting about it. Being up half the night took a toll on her looks, and did nothing to improve her temper besides. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she was frightened by how sharp her features had become, and how dull her hair and eyes. Eustace commenting on it didn't help matters, especially as Paris got prettier, in a womanly way, with each passing day. Helen tried to keep herself up,
changing her hairstyle and experimenting with new beauty treatments, but she couldn't see it made a lick of difference. She was mutton, not lamb.

Some days her exhaustion became confusion and she thought she might be losing her mind. She'd wake with a start, the sun already pouring into the room, and panic upon realizing Eustace wasn't there. Throwing on her dressing gown, she would rush downstairs only to find her children, Paris included, sitting at the table, eating cereal and chatting away. Eustace would be leaning against the counter, holding a coffee cup, laughing at what one of them had said. Other times, she'd hear whispering coming from Paris's room. She'd run down the hall, Argus chasing her like it was a game. She'd brace herself for the shock, throw open the door and stand staring at an empty room. At times such as these, she doubted whether she had ever seen anything improper transpire between Eustace and Paris, and wondered if she should see a doctor. She went so far as to mention the idea to Eustace, who calmly agreed medication might help her insomnia. But she didn't go, because in her heart she knew as much as she craved sleep, she wasn't ready to pull a curtain over the nighttime.

Whenever Eustace went away on business, she slept the whole night through. In the morning she woke with her mind free of cobwebs and full of certainty she was, in fact, sane. This, and the glances and gestures she caught ricocheting between her husband and her daughter, told her he had not mended his ways, but only become more secretive.

In the spring of her senior year, Paris announced at the dinner table she was taking an internship in a law firm in Columbia. Eustace appeared to know all about it, because he didn't ask any questions, only smiled and patted her hand.

“That's flattering,” Helen said, “but seventeen is much too young to live in a big city like Columbia on your own.”

“I won't be on my own. I'll be staying with Aunt Clarisse.”

Aunt Clarisse was Eustace's aunt, nearly eighty years old, and deaf as a post.

“Clarisse is lovely, of course, but hardly fit to chaperone a young girl!”

“No need to worry,” Eustace said. “Her housekeeper—who's a sprightly thirty—comes every day. And almost every weekend, other members of my family visit.”

“Sounds exciting,” Dublin said, never one for tolerating relatives, especially the stodgy Rileys.

“Doesn't it?” Paris said, ignoring his sarcasm. “And, Daddy, promise you'll visit, too.”

“I'm counting on it, princess.”

“Maybe I'll go along with you,” Helen said.

“You never liked the city.”

“That was a long time ago. I might give it another try.”

“Well, you might. But who's going to stay with the children, especially now that we don't have Louisa?”

• • •

Eustace visited Paris a few times he admitted to, and claimed he had business in places a good distance away more often than she thought likely. He never once let Helen come along, and the whole summer the girl came home to Aliceville just three times. When she was home, she wasn't particularly kind to her mother, nor particularly mean. The feeling Helen got was that Paris didn't care about her much one way or the other. She didn't rate.

That was more or less the way she treated Florence, too. Paris
timed one of her visits to coincide with the father-daughter dance at the club. She hadn't been home two minutes before she came into the kitchen holding the dress she'd bought in Columbia for the event. Helen was dipping chicken in batter and Florence was shucking corn.

Paris held the dress up against her. “Isn't it fabulous?” It was yellow satin with a bubble hem. She flipped it around. “Don't you love the bow?”

Helen said, “It's pretty, but you might have asked Florence whether she wanted to go with your father this year, seeing as you've already been twice.”

Paris looked at Florence as if she only just noticed her. “Well, I didn't mean to be presumptuous. You've talked to Daddy about it, then?”

“No, not yet . . . I was waiting for him to ask me.”

“He probably thought you had practice or a game.”

“It's over at two.”

“I guess that might give you time to get rid of the sweat and fix up your hair.” She appeared doubtful and put her finger to her lips in concentration. “I know. Let's let Daddy choose.”

Helen had only wanted her to consider Florence's feelings, but now wished she hadn't opened this can of worms. “That would put your father on the spot.”

Florence stared at the corn piled on the counter. “I'm not even sure I want to go.”

Paris clutched her dress to her waist and twirled around. “That settles it then!” She ran out the door.

Helen watched Florence rip the husks off the corn with a bit more force than was required. She used to feel a little sorry for Florence because she'd never turn heads the way Paris did. But
beauty could be a liability, no doubt about it, and everything else about the girl was just fine.

“Florence, honey, what do you say tomorrow night while those two are dancing with the snooties at the club, we take Dublin and Geneva and go see that new movie with Michael Keaton. You know the one.”

“
Mr. Mom
.”

“That's the one. And have dinner out first. How would that be?”

“Sounds fun, Mom.” She looked her mother and smiled. “Thanks.”

• • •

In late August, Eustace helped Paris pack her belongings into his car and drove her to her dorm at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. When he got home, he started in on the bourbon, and complained day and night about how the dorms were shabby and unsafe and too close to where they kept the boys. To hear him tell it, each and every one of those boys was a lout and a ne'er-do-well, unfit to share the same campus with his princess. Didn't take a genius to figure out what track his mind was taking. All along, Helen had figured Paris's going off to college would spell the end of it. Chapel Hill was a fair distance, and even a peculiar girl like Paris would eventually find a college boy who struck her fancy. Helen had been sure of it. And while she didn't think Eustace would give up easily—he was too stubborn by half—she reckoned he'd come to the revelation that his daughter had grown away from him.

But Helen had underestimated him. When she overheard him on the phone, trying to convince Paris she'd be happier in an apartment off campus, she knew he wasn't going to quit. Not now. Not ever.

GENEVA

T
om, Geneva, and Charlie followed the paramedics out the door and watched them load Helen into the rear of the ambulance. Tom headed for the truck and Geneva ran inside to get her purse from the kitchen. Charlie followed her in.

Ella pulled a pizza tray from the oven and set it on the counter. “They were burning.”

“I completely forgot.” She came around the counter and hugged her daughter tight. “We're going now. I'll call you as soon as we know anything.” Ella's mouth was twisted with worry. Geneva kissed her forehead. “They came really quickly and that's good.”

“Okay.”

“And I'll call Ivan and Leigh on the way. They can be here in five minutes.”

“Do you have your phone?”

Geneva removed it from the front pocket of her purse and showed it to her. “Got it. Now, if . . .”

“We're okay.”

“Don't worry, Mom,” Charlie said. “Just go.”

She gave him a quick hug and left.

• • •

After they checked in at the reception desk, Geneva retreated to a quiet corner of the emergency waiting room and called Dublin.

“Hey, Ginny. Missing me already?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-oh. Serious tone. Lay it on me. Or would you prefer one of our guessing games?”

“Mom's in the hospital. She overdosed on vodka and probably Demerol.”

“Shit.”

“The ambulance was fast. I think she'll make it.”

“Damn her and her booze. Did she do it on purpose?”

“I don't know, Dub. It's possible. Today was a nightmare.”

“What happened?”

“Do you have a few minutes? Because this will give you material for your shows for years to come.”

• • •

An hour after they had arrived at the emergency room, Tom left to get coffee from a vending machine. When he returned, they stepped outside to find respite from crying children and anxious, ill adults. Wisps of fog slid out of the darkness and swirled under the floodlights. Geneva hugged herself against the air that seemed
so much colder than when she and Tom had sat in the backyard, believing the worst of the day was over.

The pills were what worried her the most. She thought she had monitored her mother's pain medication, but apparently she was as good at that as she was at monitoring her children. But she had expected Helen would take extra pills to compensate for sobriety, not stockpile them. And without knowing how many were in the stash, she couldn't know how many her mother had taken, if any. A blood test would provide the answer, but would it then be clear whether she had overdosed on purpose?

The bag of pills might be a red herring. All on its own, the nearly empty vodka bottle—and all the others that preceded it—suggested drinking for the purpose of oblivion. The difference between what her mother had been doing for thirty years, and what she had done tonight, was only a matter of acceleration.

Tom put a hand on her shoulder. “I wanted to tell you something.”

“Is this a good time?”

“I think so.”

“Should I be bracing myself? Because I don't feel I have it in me right now.”

“No, nothing like that. It has to do with why I've pushed so hard for you to be on better terms with your mother.”

“I think I know why. Your family's so close and you want the same for me, however misguided that impulse may be.”

“That's just it. I've never told you why my family is the way it is.”

Geneva was about to sip her coffee, but lowered it again. “What do you mean?”

“It happened before I met you, and it was never the right time to bring it up. That and we're not supposed to talk about it.”

“But now you're telling me?”

“Yeah, because I don't think it's fair for you to think your family is the only one with problems.”

She ran her hand along the hedge lining the walkway. “I'm listening.”

He took a deep breath. “While I was in college, my mom had an affair. A serious one. They almost split up over it.”

Geneva studied his face for signs this was a joke, but found none. “Your mom? That's unbelievable.”

“Now it is. But then it was a mess. Dad was so angry, and Mom . . . well, Mom was sorry, but also torn up about what to do. You remember Dad had a heart attack, right?”

“You mean that's when it happened?”

“Yeah. And Mom stayed with him, but I still wonder if she would have otherwise. And the kids, we all had our own lives. Unlike now, we didn't see them that often. But when they told us what was going on, everything changed. Of course we helped out because Dad was sick, but it went on long after he was better. We started dropping by, checking in, and inviting them to every game, every dinner party, every inane event.”

“Did you and your siblings plan this?”

“No, not really. Juliana would call me and say, ‘Let's have movie night at my place and invite Mom and Dad,' and then everyone would show up. We were holding them together by reminding them of what they made together. Before long they were making excuses to have us over. And gradually they put the affair behind them. At least it seems they did.”

“That's amazing. I can't believe you've never told me before.”

“When they told us about it, we were sworn to secrecy. They'd be mortified if they knew you knew. I think by now everyone's
forgotten the affair ever happened. Except maybe Mom. She must wonder what her life would be like if she'd made a different decision.” He paused and looked away.

“What?”

He turned to her, his face soft with emotion. “I don't want anything like that to happen to us. I can't imagine losing you.”

“Oh, Tom.” She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him.

He pulled her close and held her as if she were a wild animal that might break free. “I love you. Please say you want to stay with me.”

She was raw and jagged with the fear of losing her mother. The wall of frustration and resentment toward Tom she'd been building for so long crumbled. Her intuition about him, formed the day they met, had not been wrong. He was a good man. A true man. And she both wanted and needed him.

She wiped tears from her cheeks and looked into his eyes. “I never thought about leaving, and I never will.”

He kissed her deeply.

They held each other until the wind rose and drove them inside.

• • •

They waited, talking little. Geneva worried she might lose her mother before she had a chance to understand her. When she realized this meant she truly did love her, she wept again. Tom wrapped her in his arms until her tears were spent.

• • •

Finally, after two hours, a doctor came to see them. She said they had pumped out Helen's stomach and her condition had stabilized.
The blood work showed she had taken Demerol, but earlier in the day. “Which was lucky,” the doctor added, “considering her blood alcohol level.” They would be keeping her overnight and, depending on her condition and state of mind, she could be released as early as midday tomorrow.

As they headed to the parking garage, Geneva texted the children to say they were on their way.

• • •

She slept fitfully. At quarter to five in the morning, she arose and walked quietly across the room to let Tom sleep, picking up discarded clothes along the way. Diesel stood when he heard her footsteps in the hall. He stretched his forelimbs in front of him and stuck his rear end in the air, yawning hugely, then met her in the kitchen. She squatted before him and massaged the skin behind his ears until his lids drooped with pleasure. When she stopped, he pushed his muzzle into her neck and licked.

“Yuck.” She wiped her neck with the sleeve of her robe. He darted in for another lick, but she blocked his head with her hand and scratched him under the chin. “That's enough, thank you.”

She turned on a single light in the kitchen, started the coffee, then proceeded to the laundry room, Diesel at her heels, to make inroads on the mountain of dirty clothes that had been accumulating all week. She sorted the clothes, going through pockets as she went, removing a stick of gum from Ella's hoodie and a parking stub from Tom's trousers.

In the jeans she had worn yesterday, she found the piece of paper she'd taken from her mother's bed. Staring at the worn pale blue paper, she felt for the wall behind her and slid down it until
she was sitting on the floor. A hard lump of dread caught in her throat when she unfolded it and read Paris's name at the bottom. The date at the top was May 26, 1995. Twelve years after their father had died.

Mother,

This is the only and last letter you will get from me. I will make myself as clear as I can, then I'll have nothing more to say.

You say that because we were both victims of Daddy's “unusual desires,” we should have sympathy for each other. I reject your premise. I have never been anyone's victim. I loved Daddy and Daddy loved me more than anyone or anything in the world. I don't believe in God or heaven but I do believe I was put on this earth to love my father. As much as you have tried to take that from me, you can't.

I've thought many times over the years of what might have happened if you had been able to give Daddy everything he deserved. Would he have turned to me if you had loved him better? Of course I believe he and I were destined for each other—and he believed it, too—but you seem to want to hand out blame, so you can take that share for yourself and live with it.

The idea that you were Daddy's victim almost makes me laugh. Are you too big a fool to see the irony in this? You were clever, I'll give you that.

You write that you want me to have a family and live a normal life. You mean, one like yours? No, thank you. I've had great love once, and that was more than enough.
Now I have my work. If you stay out of my life, I will have everything I ever wanted.

Paris

Her mind raced to make sense of what she had read, but the ideas would not line up and instead spiraled away from one another. It was a language in which her understanding of the individual words was defeated by the syntax.
Destined. Blame. Heaven. Irony. Desire.

A wave of nausea flowed through her stomach, and she tasted bile at the back of her throat. She suddenly felt sick but didn't know why. She put a hand to her head and noticed her heart was racing. She glanced at Diesel, who lay outside the room watching her, his brow furrowed. Had she moaned or made a noise that worried him?

She began to read the letter again, and got as far as “victims of Daddy's ‘unusual desires,'” and stopped. The ground became fog that swam around and under her. She swayed and rocked. Lowering the letter, she tipped her head against the wall to ground herself and end the sickening pitching and swirling. She closed her eyes and saw her father and Paris dancing in the living room. He lifted his arm and she twirled under it, around and around, her dress lifting as she spun.

Geneva's stomach heaved. She turned to the side and vomited onto the laundry. She pushed herself upright and wiped her mouth with a piece of clothing. In front of her, Paris was spinning, her face close to Geneva's, her blue eyes sparkling, saying with each turn, “Did you love Daddy? Not like I did. Did you love Daddy? Not like I did.” Diesel barked sharply. He pawed at her legs half covered by her robe and barked again.

• • •

“Are you all right?” Tom scanned the scene, then knelt beside her and put a hand to her forehead. “You're really pale.” Diesel peered at Geneva over Tom's shoulder. “It's okay, boy. I got it now. Go lie down.”

She handed him the letter.

He gave her a questioning look, then sat down. She watched him read, the way one waits during a speech for the translator to begin. It was possible those words didn't mean what she thought they did. But then she saw him shake his head slowly, and wince, and knew that as much as she wished she had been mistaken, she wasn't.

Tom folded the letter in half, then raised his head to meet her gaze. “How could he . . . ? Nobody knew? And why didn't your mother . . . Oh, darling . . .” Tears shone in his eyes. He leaned forward and stroked the hair away from her face. “Let me help you up. I'll clean this up later.”

As he slipped his hands under her arms, she saw a tear run down his cheek. She wiped a hand across her own cheek and looked at her fingers. They were dry.

Tom led her down the hall and asked if she wanted to go to bed. She shook her head.

“I think I'll go outside.”

“It's not light yet.”

“I know.”

“You want me to come?”

“I'd rather be alone, I think.”

“Sure. You get dressed and I'll pour you coffee.”

“Thanks.”

Her limbs were heavy and her fingers felt thick as she pulled on her yoga pants and T-shirt and zipped up her sweatshirt. She picked her robe off the floor and searched the pockets. She went to the kitchen.

“Do you have the letter?”

He pulled it out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her, along with a steaming mug. “Let me get the door.”

Diesel followed her onto the porch and stood beside her, peering into the darkness in search of the reason they were outside at this strange hour. She sat on the top step and put down the mug. Diesel sat, too.

In her hand, the folded letter felt less like paper than the thin sueded hide of a small animal. The texture sickened her and she breathed deeply to stem the nausea. She concentrated on the outline of the redwoods against the sky, where a few stars lingered ahead of the impending dawn.

Diesel yawned.

“If one of those stars falls, be careful what you wish for.”