Page 112 of Old Money
“Nice place,” I say, sitting down.
“I know,” she coos. “Isn’t it just darling?”
She beams at the wall, admiring the decor—a cluster of bird paintings and a plastic clock.
“Is it?”
Susannah’s smile turns sour.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking off the acerbic tone. “I didn’t mean to be—whatever.”
She cocks an eyebrow at me, the old her peeking through for a moment.
“Do-over?”
“Do-over,” I agree. “But come on, those paintings are weird. And the guy is—”
“Oh, the coffee guy sucks.” She nods. “The coffee’s good though.”
We’ve done it again—fallen into the familiar grooves of friendship, forgetting ourselves for a moment. I consider letting it go on a bit longer. But it’ll only make this harder.
“Susannah,” I begin. “I’m going to leave you alone after this. I promise. If that’s what you want.”
Her face tenses. I continue:
“But I need to tell you something.”
She sits back, folding her arms.
“A few weeks ago,” I say, as evenly as possible, “Patrick called my aunt Barbara.”
Susannah holds completely still.
“Caitlin’s mom.”
A blink. Then she shuts her eyes and rolls her head as if working out a kink in her neck.
“Uh-huh, okay.” She knits her eyebrows, looking at me. “Sorry, what?”
“He called Caitlin’s mother,” I repeat.
“That’s—” Susannah shakes her head. “Alice, what is it you’re trying to tell me?”
“Apparently, he felt he owed her some sort of penance, or atonement.”
Susannah looks toward the bird paintings, her mouth making soundless shapes. For just a second, I feel real hope. This was my last shot, and it landed. Susannah’s woken up. If I accomplish nothing else, at least I’ll have done this.What the hell was I thinking?she’ll say.I’ve got to get out of this.And I won’t ask any questions—not now, or ever. I’ll just help pack up her things and haul them to her parents’ house. I’ll just help.
“Okay,” Susannah declares. “Got it.”
She whips back, her hair flying over her shoulder, freshly trimmed and bladelike, slicing through the vision.
“Well,” I say, straining to read her taut face. “What do you think about that?”
“Um. None of your business?” she says with a crisp little titter. “The phone callandmy thoughts on it.”
She picks off a hunk of scone and pops it into her mouth.
Why is everyone still doing this? Why are we pretending he is a normal person, and this is a normal situation andI’mthe one ruining everything?
