Chapter Seven: “The Offer”
Chapter Seven
“The Offer”
SEWANEE CARRIED THE LAST TWO BOXES OF KEURIG PODS INTO
Mark’s garage. His beloved Karmann Ghia, Sal, took up one side and the other had two shelving units with a narrow pathway between them. Every inch accounted for, like an aisle in a New York grocery store. The shelves were stocked with paper goods, bottles of caffeine-delivery-vehicles, bulk bins of assorted snacks, and spare recording components: extra mics, cables, preamps, mixers.
As Sewanee slid the boxes onto the uppermost shelf, standing on tiptoe to do it, the tightening of her calves and arching of her feet sent a rush through her body. Her eye fell closed and she was lying in cool sheets, back bowed, her head turned to the side in pleasure, watching the snow fall outside. She opened her eye and the snow was still falling, right there in the garage.
Dust. Dust from the disturbed shelf.
Telling herself to get a grip, she quickly finished her task and walked through the connecting door into Mark’s house.
“Mark’s studio” was perhaps more accurate. His personal living space had been reduced to one room off the kitchen that housed a queen bed and a desk almost as large. The rest of his home was all business. A kitchen with two Keurigs, three microwaves, a
kettle on the stove and an electric one on the counter, an entire cabinet of tea, snacks laid out daily by Sewanee, and what felt like hundreds of cups to her, the person responsible for cleaning them. There was an oversized fridge, full of every kind of milk and milk substitute, condiments and sauces, and a produce bin consisting entirely of the audiobook narrator’s secret antidote to mouth noise: green apples. No one knew why they worked (Acidity? Tannins?), but they did. Alice had once proposed they all get green apple tattoos until someone–probably Mark–had pointed out green blobs would look like a disease.
Each of the four bedrooms upstairs had a booth and soundboard in them. The living and family rooms had been taken over with workstations for the editors and engineers Mark kept on staff. Even now, on a Sunday night, there was a low-level buzz of activity as two editors hunched over their desks, headphones on, reading along to the recording they were listening to; stopping when they noticed a mistake, marking the script, and preparing a package of pickups for the narrator. Sewanee noticed the newer engineer tapping out a perfect drum beat on his thigh with a pencil while listening to the recording. So, another musician, then. This was not unusual. Most sound engineers came into the industry through the music door.
All these guys (they were mostly guys) were young and enjoyed the communal friendliness of the studio. Of being above it all in the Hollywood Hills, of grabbing a drink with the others down on Franklin before heading home. More than one band had formed in Mark’s living room over the years.
Most days, Sewanee felt like a House Mother at a frat. If the frat were full of nice, mildly-alt sound nerds.
She passed by the two editors without being noticed. That changed when Mark called out from his office, “Swan!” He’d heard the garage door. He heard everything.
She walked into his bedroom/office and found his lanky, sinewy-fit form sitting at his desk, casted foot propped up, peering at his computer monitor over the tops of his wire-frame glasses.
“Hi!” she chirped. “I stopped by Costco on the way home from the airport, replenished the K-Cups. I went to the one they opened up on Sherman Way? Man, that whole area is growing, huh? And how great is it flying into Burbank? I don’t know why anyone would ever use LAX. How’s the foot?”
Now he was peering at
her
. “Is this caffeine or cocaine?”
“I’m excited to see you is all.”
“And I’m excited to see you.”
“So.” She swallowed. “I’m sure you’d like me to catch you up on Vegas.”
Mark exhaled sharply. His face turned somber. “Just unbelievable.”
Sewanee stilled. “What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “So tragic.”
“What?”
“What? It’s all over the news!”
“The snow?”
“The snow? No, the actress!”
Sewanee grabbed a chair and sat down. “Okay, seriously: What are you talking about?”
“I don’t have all the details, but some wannabe actress went thirty-eight floors and didn’t take the elevator, if you know what I mean.”
Sewanee’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Mark continued, “All they know so far is she was there for the convention. I think they said she was from East Texas. I can’t believe you don’t know about this.”
A few words spattered out. “I . . . I didn’t–I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, she did! Apparently she was screaming all the way down, ‘Happily ever after is bullshit!’”
Oscillating between suspicion and panic, Sewanee sputtered, “Wait–you are–did–how–what–”
Mark burst out laughing. His full swoop of silver hair flopped into his face; his Clint Eastwood crow’s-feet crinkled.
Sewanee crumpled over in the chair. “You asshole! You absolute raging asshole!” She snapped her head up. “How did you know about her?”
Mark wiped at the tears in his eyes. “Alice was in this morning and told me about your little exchange. I couldn’t resist.”
“God, you are such a dick!” She stood up. “I have work to do.” She started for the door.
“You make it too easy! Wait, don’t leave yet, I have something to talk to you about.”
“That’s okay, I already own a piece of the Brooklyn Bridge.” She continued out the door.
“Swan! I’m serious, come back. I’m sorry, but it was payback. Remember your little tour de force last month? ‘Mark, oh my God, did you see Sal’s passenger side?’ You know how I feel about my Ghia. Now we’re even.”
She turned around and stomped back into his office, striking a defiant pose in front of him, arms crossed. “What?”
“Have a seat.”
“I’m fine standing.”
“Good, I want you to stand.”
In spite of herself, she huffed a laugh. This was their relationship. They played, they poked, they tested, but they were there for each other whenever either needed it. Or simply wanted it. They had done more for each other than either would ever say, mostly because they didn’t have to. They worked because they
loved each other the way two people could when attraction was off the table.
“You got an offer,” Mark said.
“Okay?” This wasn’t unusual. Most of the time, offers came to her directly, but occasionally someone couldn’t find her and they reached out to Mark. But the way he was smiling made her suspicious. “What?”
“It’s . . . fitting.”
She knew. She just knew. “It’s a Romance novel, isn’t it.”
“Yes. But no.”
“Mark.”
“I’m not being cagey. It’s just different.” He clasped his hands. “You remember June French?”
“Of course. She gave me my start. Back when I did Romance. Which I no longer do.”
“She died recently.”
“You’re clearly very broken up about it.”
“You knew?”
“I knew. But can you imagine if I didn’t and that’s the way you told me?”
“You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?”
“After
your
little tour de force, no.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, her very-much-alive producer reached out. There’s a project she penned that never saw the light of day. She had wanted Sarah Westholme to–”
“Still don’t do Romance.”
“Swan, hear me out.” He leaned forward, brought up the e-mail on his computer, cleared his throat, and dipped into his narrator voice. The voice that read political histories to the masses. The beloved voice of Dad Literature everywhere. “‘Dear Mark, my name is Jason Ruiz and I am working with June French’s estate
to produce an audio version of her final project. I am trying to get in touch with one of June’s narrators, Sarah Westholme. I’ve been told you might be able to connect us.’”
“If only I still did Romance.”
“Shhhh. ‘It’s a bit outside the box and June wrote it with Sarah in mind. She was June’s favorite narrator and also a fan favorite.’”
“That’s sweet. But I don’t do–”
“Will you shut up?” He was smiling, but he meant it. “‘The project will be dual narration. June had intended to serialize this new novel into hour-long episodes released on a weekly basis and distributed through her platform.’”
“Smart,” she observed. “Too bad I don’t do–”
“I swear to God, Swan– ‘The whole series will be around eight hours long, split evenly between Sarah and the
male narrator. I am aware Sarah no longer records Romance . . .’” Mark read with strong emphasis, “‘but June wanted her one more time for this ambitious and unique project and was prepared to compensate her handsomely.’”
Sewanee sighed. “Mark, you know it’s not just about the money.”
“Handsomely, Swan. Paul Newman/Robert Redford/the-kid-from-
Outlander
handsomely. This goes way beyond the standard flat session fee.”
She threw up her hands, preparing to be unimpressed. “How far beyond?”
Mark went back to the e-mail. “‘We are prepared to offer Sarah thirty-three percent of the gross revenue. While we don’t know how much this will be, in the interest of full transparency, subscribers will pay ninety-nine cents an episode and we currently have twenty thousand pre-orders and we haven’t even announced the narrators yet. We have a commitment from the male narrator . . .’” At this, Mark glanced up, lips smugly pursed, and said, “‘Brock McNight, who has never done a June French book before, though fans have clamored for it. I know having these two powerhouses doing the project will increase the downloads exponentially. It is a great sadness that June can’t’–yaddyyaddyyahdah–‘please forward this to Sarah and I would also ask that you keep this confidential. Thank you for your time. Jason.’” Mark sat back and laced his fingers across his trim stomach. “Your turn.”
Sewanee sat back down. She stared at Mark across the desk. He waited. Eventually, she said, “I’m not usually motivated by money, but this . . . I have to admit . . .”
“I did some math, just back-of-the-envelope, and my recommendation? Get motivated.”
“I don’t do Romance–”
“Say that one more goddamn time–”
“You didn’t let me finish! I don’t do Romance . . . but I’ll think about it.”
Mark slapped his desk. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Unless you have anything juicy to dish about Vegasland?”
Caught off guard by the topic change, her cheeks flushed traitorously. Mark clocked this, raised his eyebrows. “Ms. Chester!”
Her embarrassment was palpable. “I’m glad I went and I’ll leave it at that.” She stood up.
Mark raised his hands. “You don’t want to tell me about Studman’s prowess in the bedroom, you don’t have to.”
Sewanee’s mouth dropped open in mock-outrage. “I told Alice that in
confidence
!” He laughed and she stood for one more moment before saying, “Thank you. For everything. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Be a broken, sad mess,” he said buoyantly.
She turned to leave, but then walked back and hugged him.
ON THE DAYS
life prevented Sewanee from getting to the gym, she comforted herself knowing she’d at least walked down from her casita to Mark’s house and back up: sixty-four hillside steps each way.
Tonight, she also carried her luggage, so there was that.
She let herself in and flipped on the living room light, set down her suitcase, and ran her sleeve over her brow. She shook off her hoodie and crossed to the sliding door on the opposite side of the room, pulling it open, letting the mild December evening air refresh the tiny space.
She took a moment to step out on the balcony. Mark’s house enjoyed a spectacular view of downtown L.A. and the surrounding vista. The guesthouse shared the view, but those sixty-four gym-skipping steps gave her an even greater sense of the expanse.
Hollywood down in front. To the right, the dam of the reservoir peeking out. Further beyond, the twinkling lights of the city. Occasionally, a searchlight at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre or the Egyptian or an awards ceremony at the Dolby would scan the sky, but not tonight. It was a quiet Sunday evening. Lines of white headlights and red taillights demarcated Highland and Cahuenga and Vine, all running to and from the 101 freeway like parallel stripes in a tartan plaid. In the distance and slightly to the right, the lights simply disappeared, fell off, giving way to the Pacific. The pièce de résistance laid in wait behind her. She walked to the left side of the balcony and turned around, looking up the hill to the Hollywood sign, looming larger than most people ever got to see it. The sight always made her feel at home.
Tonight, there was a marine layer on the west side and a little smog on this side of town, so the sunset was less a bowl of bright sherbet and more a slowly expanding puddle of spilled strawberry milk shake.
Sewanee never took any of this for granted. It was a view
people paid millions of dollars to see every night and she got it for the bargain price of running the studio.
She went back inside, into the small galley kitchen–still boasting flamingo-pink tiles from the 1930s–and put the kettle on. She went into the cozy living room, turned on the TV, clicked through to the Golf Channel. She quickly unpacked, came back into the kitchen as the kettle began to whistle, and made herself a cup of ginger tea in the Tea-For-One combination cup and mini teapot her mother had given her when she’d graduated from Julliard. Marilyn had wanted her daughter to remember that being alone, being on her own, didn’t mean she had to be lonely. It was a symbol of independence and she loved it.
Finally, she settled on her love seat, curled her legs under her, and took stock of her life.
How much could possibly change in twenty-four hours?
She’d once known the answer to that: everything. But this time was different. This time wasn’t immediately tangible. This was more like a seed had been planted; the change was in the offing.
She picked up her phone in an effort to change the channel in her brain and noticed she had a WhatsApp message from her mother. She clicked on it.
Santorini today. Beautiful. Lots of young, drunk people stumbling around. Reminded me of UCLA on the weekends.
Here for a week. Let’s video call soon. Love you. Hope Vegas was fun. Did I see it snowed there?
P.S. Stu is making me send this photo.
Attached was a picture of Marilyn mid-bite of a gigantic gyro. It wasn’t flattering, but it was spirited and joyful and Sewanee
had such a rush of missing her mom she felt for a moment she had been transported, was sitting at the table, enjoying the fragrance of her mother’s cherry blossom perfume.
She checked the time; there was nothing she wanted more than to talk everything through with her mom. Like any mother and daughter, they’d had a long, circuitous, often conflicted journey, but their roads had reconverged just in time for Marilyn to leave on an actual journey. She was happy for her mom, but it was tough in moments like this: it was the middle of the night in Greece and Sewanee was forced to rely on herself.
The job, she thought. Let’s start there.
She knew how ridiculous her deliberation was, she’d seen it on Mark’s face. She knew any other narrator would open a vein to make this kind of money. Opportunities like this never came along.
So what if she didn’t believe in the way Romance novels portrayed life? She wasn’t the gatekeeper of reality. She could believe whatever she wanted and get paid a ton of money to let other people believe whatever they wanted. This project didn’t represent her personal point of view any more than the Sci-Fi or Fantasy or Speculative Fiction she recorded did.
A text came in from Adaku:
You make it home??
SEWANEE:
yes. Your luggage is in my car. Wanna come by tomorrow night?
ADAKU:
not good. Tuesday night?
SEWANEE:
yup.
ADAKU:
and I want to hear EVERYTHING
Sewanee chuckled. She’d texted Adaku around 2
A.M.
telling her she’d met someone. Actually, her exact words had been:
sorry I ruined your makeover
and she’d attached a picture of herself sitting on the end of the bed, clutching a sheet to her chest, eye patch off, smudged makeup, smeared lipstick, rats’ nest hair. A napping naked Nick in the background. He’d woken up five minutes later and the night had continued.
Sewanee texted:
Promise.
And set her phone down.
Tomorrow she’d go to Seasons, check on Blah, talk to Amanda, talk to her father.
She finished her tea and let the cup rest in her lap, looking out into the night at nothing in particular. The residual warmth of the cup seeped through her skirt and she opened her legs to the heat, soothing the pleasurable tenderness there. She began drifting. She was in a bed, a man’s head pressed into her neck. He turned his face and brought his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Beautiful. Everything beautiful.”
AFTER A LUNCH
of iced tea and chicken salad, Sewanee and BlahBlah headed back to her room.
Blah made her way in, Sewanee right behind her in case she lost her balance. But once they were inside, Blah closed the door as Sewanee headed over to a small couch opposite her grandmother’s favorite rocking chair.
“Pssst!” Blah hissed, and Sewanee turned around to see her
pointing at the door. “Can you believe Mitzi? What a job they did on her!” she stage-whispered, though they were alone. “You call that a face-lift? I call it a felony!” Blah cackled her way to the small kitchenette that contained a minifridge, a coffeepot, and a microwave. “Jesus H. Christ, what a botch.” Blah grabbed a package of Mallomars off the counter. “She used to look half-decent, now she looks indecent.” Blah’s humor was a remarkable holdout of her dwindling acuity and Sewanee had a feeling when the jokes no longer existed, neither would Blah.
She chuckled. “It’s not that bad, Blah.”
“She should have left bad enough alone. You hungry? You want something, Doll? A Mallomar?”
“No, thanks, I’m stuffed.”
“Me too, me too.” Blah put the Mallomar she’d taken out back into its plastic cradle.
BlahBlah never ate. Not really. While a cookie was always close by, she didn’t eat full meals. When pressed, Blah would claim it was because she’d been born during the Depression, but Sewanee knew the studios had drilled it into her. Now, she still didn’t eat, as if tomorrow she might be asked to strip down to a bikini for a screen test.
Sewanee and Blah sat down. Blah rocked in her chair with a rhythm established over a lifetime. She’d been nursed in that chair and had nursed Henry in that chair and now she appeared ageless in it. Sewanee watched her go back and forth, seeing simultaneously a little girl whose feet didn’t touch the ground and an old woman who carried that little girl through all of her ninety-two years.
“Are you hungry? Do you want something?”
“No, thank you. I’m stuffed.”
“Me too, me too.”
“The chicken salad was pretty good today.”
“I hate chicken salad. I like tuna.”
“Right, I forgot.”
“Your memory is shot, Doll.” Blah winked.
They both smiled again, and Sewanee felt the lull in conversation begin. Blah’s jokes aside, the conversation didn’t flow as it once had.
Sewanee had first noticed the change about a year ago. Blah would forget they’d talked on the phone. Then she’d forget the movie they’d gone to see, or the art exhibit, or Adaku’s birthday party. Then she had trouble remembering why she’d moved into Seasons. Sewanee would remind her that her sister had died and that Blah had needed to move out of the house so Bitsy’s kids could sell it. Interestingly, all her memories of being in the house were as a guest, even though she’d lived there for over thirty years. Henry considered this wishful thinking: in Blah’s mind, she preferred the version of herself with the elegant party home in Beverlywood, not as a lodger in her sister’s petite Sherman Oaks ranch. Maybe he was right.
“Are you hungry, Doll? Do you want something to eat?” Blah repeated for a third time.
“I’m good.” The slow deterioration had been challenging, but this recent acceleration was terrifying. She had to find out if Blah was aware it was happening to her. “How’s your memory these days?”
“I don’t know, what’s today?”
Sewanee gave her a smile, but said, “Seriously. Is it difficult to remember things?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m old, everything’s difficult.”
Sewanee wished she didn’t have to ask the next question. “Do you remember what happened on Friday night?”
Blah got a good rock going. “Did something happen?”
“Carlos found you in the common room in the middle of the night.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He did, Blah. According to him, you thought you were in Tennessee, getting ready for your debutante ball.”
Blah went silent. Sewanee went silent. The look that traveled between them was everything Sewanee needed to know.
Blah made her way to her feet. “Want a Mallomar, Doll?”
“No.”
She whispered, “Did you see Mitzi’s face-lift?”
“Blah–”
“How’s your mother?” She retrieved a Mallomar from the package sitting on top of the minifridge in the corner. “She should come for lunch sometime.”
Sewanee watched Blah nibble at a corner of the cookie. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”
Blah stopped nibbling. “Since when?”
“Since the divorce.”
“What divorce?”
Was she serious? “Mom and Dad’s.”
“Of course, of course. There are so many these days!” Blah laughed. She took another cookie and returned to her rocker. “Did she go home?”
“For about a year. To take care of Nana before she died. Then she met Stu.”
BlahBlah nodded and nibbled. “Stu’s an unfortunate name, but Stus are always nice. How did they meet?”
“It’s a good story. Wanna hear it?”
BlahBlah set her half-eaten first cookie down on the coffee table, keeping the second one in her other hand. She sat back. “I love how you tell stories.”
Sewanee sat back, too, fingering the fraying arm of the couch. “So after Nana died, Mom cleaned out the house and had a garage sale. And in the middle of making change, she noticed a man loitering by an old Victrola in the driveway.”
“Marv’s old Victrola?”
“No, Nana’s. But you’re right, you had a Victrola, too. Anyway, she went–”
“What happened to mine?”
“I–I don’t know.” Sewanee hadn’t seen it since Bitsy’s house. She could ask Henry about it.
But Blah didn’t seem bothered by the mystery. She took a bite of the Mallomar she was holding, the half-eaten one forgotten on the coffee table.
“So, Mom went up to the man. ‘Can I help you?’ And he says, ‘I can’t believe it, we used to have this exact model growing up. Do you happen–’”
“Jeez louise, everybody has a Victrola?”
This made Sewanee laugh. “I guess so. Anyway, he asks if she has any records–”
“She doesn’t have records? I have records. Somewhere.”
“No, she–she had records. She opened up the cabinet and pulled out a whole bunch of old 78s. He flipped through them and then stopped and said, ‘May I?’ Mom nodded and he started cranking the old Victrola, wound it up good, and put a record on the turntable. Ella Fitzgerald started singing.”
“Oh, Ella Fitzgerald! Which song?”
“‘I’ll Chase the Blues Away.’”
“Golly!” Blah started singing it. Her voice had thinned to a crackle, but she could still trill. “‘I’ll chase the blues away . . .’”
“That’s the one. And he asked Mom to dance. Right there in the driveway. She was in sweatpants and a bleach-stained T-shirt and before she knew it, she was crying and they stopped dancing
and he just held her. When the song stopped playing, they pulled apart, and he said, ‘I’m Stu,’ and she said, ‘I’m Marilyn.’ And they’ve been together ever since.”
“Still in Seattle?”
It was Portland. Her mom was from Portland, but to be fair, BlahBlah could never remember that; she’d always thought it was Seattle. “No. Stu’d recently retired from Nike. He’d never been married, never had kids, and had gotten high up in the company. High up enough to buy an apartment on one of those cruise ships that have condos on them?”
“Cruise ships have condos?”
“These do. And you can get on and off whenever you want as it travels all around the world. They’ve been on board for about a year.”
“How perfect! Can I get one?”
“Well, they’re expensive.”
“Oh, I’m sure they cost a pretty penny, but so what? It’s like a fairy tale,” Blah murmured. “And Mar deserves it.” The way she said this made Sewanee believe that, for the moment, Blah remembered everything about her ex-daughter-in-law.
“She does. Yes, she does.”
“And how’s your other grandmother doing, with her daughter all over the world?”
“She . . . died, Blah.”
Blah’s face went slack. “Well! She should have said something!” Sewanee chuckled. What else could she do? “How’s your mom handling it?”
She didn’t know what to say. She just didn’t. She wasn’t going to retell the story. “She’s doing fine.”
There was a knock on the door and BlahBlah called out, in a bad Walter Matthau impression, “Ennnterrr!”
The door opened and Amanda poked her smiling head in.
Sewanee had texted her at lunch, letting her know she was in the building. “You! Ever since you had me watch
The Sunshine Boys
! You get me every time. Am I crashing the party?”
Blah launched into the story about how Neil Simon once came on to her, which she did any time she quoted from
The Sunshine Boys
or
Barefoot in the Park
or
The Odd Couple.
She stood up. “Want a Mallomar?”
Amanda made a show of putting her hand over her stomach. “Ah, thanks, I just ate. May I steal your lovely granddaughter for a minute?”
Sewanee stood. “I actually have to get going anyway.”
“Are you recording something?” BlahBlah asked, eyes lighting up.
“I am! A mystery.” Sewanee waggled her eyebrows.
Blah looked disappointed. “You should record more love stories. We need more love in this world. Fewer criminals and evil and murder.”
Sewanee went to her grandmother and hugged her. “When you’re right, you’re right.” She pulled back and looked at her. “Friday happy hour?”
“It’s a date, Doll.”
Sewanee kissed her on the cheek and joined Amanda. Blah called after her, in a stage whisper, “Get a look at Mitzi on your way out! Talk about a murder!”
AMANDA TOURED HER
through memory care and Sewanee had to admit she was impressed. It was nice. It was clean. It was quiet and comfortable and bright. But a ball of something unpleasant churned in her stomach the moment she’d crossed the threshold and she couldn’t tell if it was worry or sadness or even a premonition. Of having to see less and less of her grandmother, no matter how much more she visited.
Instead of going back to Amanda’s office, they walked outside in the garden, as if Amanda could tell Sewanee needed fresh air. “Well. What do you think?”
“It’s great,” Sewanee answered honestly. “Much better than I’d thought it would be.”
Amanda smiled. “I appreciate that. We’ve won many industry awards. I don’t know if you know this, but we were rated the number one assisted living facility in the city this year.”
“I didn’t know that! Barbara Chester can pick ’em.” They sat down on a bench. “Dad will be glad to hear that, too. I’ll be talking to him a little later. Is there anything else I should relay?”
“There will of course be a rather significant increase in the cost of care.” Sewanee nodded. “She’ll start out at Level 1, which is sixty-eight hundred per month.” She didn’t know for sure, but she thought that was about double what her grandmother was paying now. Amanda continued, “For each level of care added, it’s an additional thousand dollars.”
“So, what’s the worst-case scenario? When someone’s . . . here but not here?” Sewanee winced.
“The highest level of care is thirteen a month.”
Sewanee’s breath caught at that. “Wow. Okay. I mean, that’s fine. Blah deserves the best. She is the best.” Sewanee swallowed, surprised she had to hold tears back. “Sorry, it’s–”
“No, please. None of this is easy.” Amanda paused, giving Sewanee time to collect herself. “Last thing I’m obliged to say, and forgive me if I mentioned it when you all first toured the facility, but we don’t have a Medicaid contract. So, there’s no possibility of outside assistance.”
Sewanee shook her head. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem. What’s the time frame for moving her?”
“It depends on Blah.” Amanda pulled her reindeer sweater tighter around her and crossed her arms. “Had the incident on
Friday not occurred, I’d have thought she’d be fine for a while longer. But in these situations, days can feel like months. It’s difficult to predict.” Amanda took a moment. “If it were me, I would want to put her on the waitlist, to get the ball rolling. But it’s obviously up to you. It will probably take a couple of months for a vacancy.”
At Sewanee’s silence, Amanda exhaled. “I know this is tough. I went through it with my mom.”
“I’m sorry.” Sewanee respected Amanda. She showed genuine concern and was caringly honest. She was a good woman doing her best in what Sewanee knew was a deeply flawed system. “I’ll talk to my dad, though I’m sure he’ll tell you to put her on the waitlist. Anything I can do in the meantime?”
Amanda smiled. “You keep reading those books. They get me through my commute. But I agree with BlahBlah. How ’bout a love story soon?”
SEWANEE SETTLED IN
on her couch after a long afternoon of recording and a bowl of nourishing soup, and called her dad. She told him everything Amanda had told her, reporting in as he had requested, and then said, “So, all you have to do is make the call and she’ll put Blah on the waitlist.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“Yeah.”
“Just one question: Where, exactly, did you ladies find the buried treasure?”
“What?”
Henry took a breath. “Four years ago, your grandmother, against my wishes, moved herself into Seasons. This is after I had found a perfectly suitable facility that accepted Medicaid, in the event she should live long enough to require care she couldn’t afford. But she wouldn’t hear it. It had to be Seasons.”
“So?”
“So, I’ve had to stand by, watching her savings dwindle down to nothing. I’ve even pitched in over the last year. I bet she didn’t mention that.”
Sewanee held up a hand, as if he could see her. “Dad. Hang on. Doesn’t she have Social Security? And what about that land in Tennessee she leases out for grazing? And I don’t know, maybe some–”
“Buried treasure?”
“Stop with the buried treasure!”
“Nothing’s left, Swan. She cleaned herself out. Her monthly income doesn’t even cover what it costs now.” He paused. “Which is why, instead of going to Seasons to get all the information I already possess, you could have tried asking me what was best–”
Sewanee groaned.
“Must you groan? If you have something to say, use words. Sounds are for animals.”
Sewanee groaned again. Loudly this time.
“Sewanee–”
“You want words? Fine. You really can’t afford to help her pay for this? Or are you just being vindictive?”
Henry laughed out loud. “Vindictive? You haven’t earned the right to analyze me, sweetheart. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a house to mortgage. The lawyers wiped out whatever savings I had, your mother gets half my pension, and I have my own life to worry about.” He snorted. “Maybe Marilyn’s Sugar Daddy can help.”
Sewanee took the phone away from her ear and almost threw it across the room. She brought it up to her mouth like a walkie-talkie. “Ask
my
mother’s boyfriend to pay for
your
mother’s care, that’s your solution?”
“It was sarcasm.” He had his condescending, professorial voice
on. When he spoke again, he sounded impatient, done with this. “Look, this isn’t your responsibility. I’ll handle it from here.”
She didn’t like the sound of that, not one little bit. “What are you gonna do?”
“I know a place where she’ll be comfortable.”
Sewanee grew frantic. “Dad. No! She’s happy at Seasons, everyone knows her, cares about her. She has friends. She has to stay there.”
“People die, Swan. Decisions have to be made. It would be lovely if those decisions could be based on
feelings
but, unfortunately, they come down to money.” Henry apparently heard how callous he sounded, because he added, more gently, “You think I don’t care, but I do. I want you to know that. I wish you . . . these are hard things. Hell, I struggled over deciding what to do about Sarah.”
Sewanee paused. “Sarah? Our dog? What are you talking about? There was no deciding. She was hit by a car and died.”
“No, she was hit by a car and lived. But the surgery was going to cost ten grand, so we put her down.” A long silence. “I’m now remembering we agreed not to tell you that.”
“You killed Sarah?!”
“Noooo,” he exhaled, “the driver killed Sarah. I merely decided not to intervene. She was twelve years old.”
“So?!”
“So that’s a good run. Ninety-two is a good run. Look, I’m not pushing her out to sea on an ice floe. This is what happens to millions of people when there’s no money left. They go into the system.”
“But the system is bad! Those places are bad!”
“Stop being histrionic, they’re not the Dickensian hellscape you’re–”
“You don’t know that. You’ve hardly stepped foot inside Seasons
let alone any other place. You’re not going to be the one checking up on her, I can’t even get you to go to Seasons for bingo night!”
“What does it matter if she doesn’t know where she is?”
Sewanee couldn’t exhale. “Dad.”
“Swan. Honestly. What difference does it make?”
All she could say was, “I’ll remind you of this conversation in twenty years.”
“You’re not hearing me. I’m trying to get you–”
“Goodnight.” She hung up.
Hours later, Sewanee lay in bed unable to sleep.
She wanted to fix this.
She wanted everyone to be happy.
She wanted to be back in Las Vegas.
Eventually, around 4
A.M.
, she got up, showered, dressed, made tea to go, navigated the sixty-four steps to her car, and texted Mark:
Tell the June French people I’m in.
She drove the empty freeways to West Los Angeles, to the eight-unit apartment building off Bundy, where she sat in the car until a reasonable hour–six o’clock–got out, went to her father’s door, and knocked.