Page 7 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“It was my grandfather’s funeral. I couldn’t get away.”
She reaches over to pat my hands. “I know. And it was such a brief episode that you might not have made it even if you came right away. But it was so good to see, and I think we’re going to get a lot more of those.”
“With the new medication,” I say.
Her warm smile falters. The new—and very expensive—medication. “It might not be that. Your mother is such a strong woman. I’ve seen this happen, where they rally on their own, and if anyone can do that, it’s your mom.”
It’s a kind lie, but still a lie. If Mom is improving, it’s the trial medication. Vickie was responsible for advocating to get Mom on that trial, but it’s ending, and if she stays on it, there will be a price. A steep one.
A price for better medication. A price for this place, modern and yet cozy, like a Norwegian spa specializing in hygge living, as warm and comforting as a hug.
I didn’t put my mother here. Given the choice, I’d have cared for her myself, which would have been a disaster to rival theTitanic,and at the end, we’d both have gone down with the ship.
Driven by guilt and love, I’d have surrendered any dreams of my own to care for my mother, who would have fought me every step of the way—with love when she was lucid and fury when she was not.
My mother’s legendary calm slips as her memory does. She hasrages, as if when her mind relaxes, her own suppressed anger at Dad finally rushes out.
Mom put herself here, without telling me, and as always, she did the right thing. She found this place, and it is exactly right for her.
“Is it okay to see her?” I ask tentatively.
Vickie smiles. “I believe so. Her episodes have been rarer, too.”
I know that. I’m here daily, and I’m as involved as I’m allowed to be. Shehasbeen getting better.
Because of the medicine I soon won’t be able to afford.
In a home that I soon won’t be able to afford.
Unless…
I clamp down on the thought. I’d spend a month in that hellhole, only to discover that I’d failed to fulfill some minor stipulation and I’d lose the property.
My grandfather had been careful to close off every loophole, but I’m sure he introduced a few. Just to torment me. A final act of spite, punishing me for the sin of turning in my murderous father.
The lawyer’s words ring in my head as she’d read from the note my grandfather left. Not a private note. One that he ordered to be read aloud to all.
I understand that Samantha was a child when she thought she saw her father do that terrible thing. I understand that she truly believes she saw it, and that he could have done such a thing to another human being, much less a child. But she is wrong. I may not have been able to make her see that in life, but I can do it now, after my death. She will return to Paynes Hollow, and she will spend a month there, and she will remember the truth. She will finally remember the truth.
Fresh rage whips through me. There is no doubt of what I saw. My father never tried to deny it. He ended his lifebecauseof what I saw. He left a goddamn suicide note, begging my forgiveness, ranting about inner demons.
Henever denied what I saw or my interpretation of it.
Vickie leads me into the sunroom, my favorite spot in the home. It’s empty, as it usually is. You’d think that if loved ones cared enough to pay for this home, they’d be here as often as they could, but that’s my naiveté talking. Paying for an expensive long-term-care facility only means you have money, and sometimes, having money means you can plunk Grandpa in a place like this and wash your hands of him, content in the knowledge you’ve done your duty.
I take a seat by the window overlooking the Seneca River.
“Gail,” a voice says, and my heart cracks a little as I rise to face the woman entering the room. She’s petite and beautiful, with hair just beginning to gray, her face unlined. She looks thirty-five, not fifty-five, a cruel trick, as if some higher power made up for her mind’s rapid degeneration by letting her body stay young.
“Mom,” I say. “It’s me. Sam.”
She stops short. Then she smiles. “Ah, you and Sam are playing a joke on me.” She wags a finger. “My daughter would never dress like that. If you want to do this properly, you need to show up in jeans and hiking boots.”
I look down at my funeral garb. She’s right, of course. This dress is far more Gail than me. Yet Mom makes the mistake no matter what I wear. I look too much like my aunt, and Mom still expects me to be a teenager.
I don’t keep trying to correct her. I know the drill. One or two attempts is fine, but more will upset her.
