CHAPTER 28

CAROL GOT TO THE OFFICE AND PUNCHED IN HER PARENTS’ NUMBER ON HER PHONE. There was no answer. “Oh shit. Don’t do this to me, Dad. Come on, pick up,” she muttered.

Her parents didn’t have an answering machine, so she hung up after nine rings and tried again. Still no answer. This was not entirely unusual. Her father didn’t have caller ID and was paranoid about telemarketers. Sometimes he answered his phone and sometimes he didn’t, but today she didn’t like it. Whatever Carol said about Annie, she trusted her, and Annie had raised some very good questions. Why had her father suddenly asked to have Annie—and only Annie—take the fortune out of his house? Why did he demand to have it returned the minute it was gone? Certainly he had to know Carol would never let all those stock certificates return to his house.

What was he up to? Why pretend her mother had cancer when she didn’t? Carol didn’t ask herself why she bought his stories. For better or worse—mostly worse—she was his little girl. She had always bought them. Today he’d called her at five A.M. sounding nuttier than ever, but for the first time the story didn’t ring true. It was too far-out, too upsetting. With the fortune finally revealed, Carol decided she wasn’t going to let her father jerk her around any longer. She wasn’t buying every crazy story he threw at her. She was an heiress now. Her mother had put her in control of her own life—at least it felt that way, and she was relieved that she could finally make the decisions.

She planned to retrieve her mother on Saturday, and she wasn’t letting her father get in the way of that. Indecision, however, tore at her guts. Should she take her mother home? Once she was there, she’d need so much. A doctor, a nurse, a TV in her room, a nutritionist. Could she handle all that? She started making her mental list. She longed for a second cup of coffee, but her stomach couldn’t take it.

Carol had always thought things would be different if she was an heiress, but things weren’t different for her that morning. Her husband still paid no attention to her. Her assistant was late again. No one cared about her. Familiar gripes bubbled into searing heartburn. She had a mountain of work to do, a big presentation to prepare for the following week. A sick mother to care for. Everything coming down on her at the same time. She dialed Matthew’s cell phone number for the seventh time since dawn. His voice came on with the same annoying message:

“This is Matthew Mack. I’m presently out of range. Please leave a message, and I will call you back.”

Matthew’s being presently out of range was pretty much the story of Carol’s life. She tried his private number at the office, even though she knew he wasn’t there.

“This is Julie,” sang out the chirpy voice of Matthew’s assistant.

“Hi, Julie. I need to talk to Matthew.” Carol girded herself for an unpleasant exchange. Matthew was in the air. He was in transit. His Chicago meeting had just begun. He was on his way back. Whatever.

“Oh, Carol, he’s behind closed doors right now. Do you want to leave a message?” Julie’s birdie voice signaled no guile.

Behind closed doors? “He’s there?” That was the very last thing Carol expected.

“Oh yes. He’s with a client, but he should be out soon. Is there anything I can do for you right now?”

“Gee, Julie, I thought he flew to Chicago last night.”

“Oh. That meeting . . . was . . . postponed—” Julie’s voice slowed like an old record on the wrong speed. Then it stopped altogether, and Carol’s heart hit the wall. She could actually feel her heart stop. Then after two long seconds, it kicked in again with a thud. It was the strangest feeling. She knew that lives ended just like that all the time. When the rhythm stopped, it was over.

“Ah . . .” Thud, thud, thud. Carol’s heart felt like a drum. “I need to talk to him,” she said.

Julie hesitated. “Well, you know how much he hates to be interrupted . . .”

“Fine, when he gets out of that meeting and has a free moment, tell him I’ll never interrupt him again.”

“Just a minute, Carol. I’ll see what I can do.”

And fuck you, too, Carol thought.

After a few seconds, Matthew came on the line. “What’s the matter now, Carol?” he said irritably, as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

She was hurt by the excuse that he’d gone to Chicago so he could stay out all night. Further, she was hurt by the way he’d callously ignored all her desperate calls that morning. She was so incensed by it all that she almost threw her three-million-dollar inheritance in his face. Just who do you think I am? I’m not taking your shit anymore. But before she could get the string of angry words out, a little voice told her that Matthew was just like her father. If he knew money was coming to her, he’d only try to take it away.

Instead of yelling at him, she hung up.

Hours later Carol was at lunch with two suppliers from out of town. They lived in Gary, Indiana, but their factory was in Hunan. The two chubby Hoosiers had wanted to go to Lutèce, but the old standard had closed, so Carol was hosting them in another fancy restaurant with a four-course lunch that was taking forever and no doubt costing more than one of their Chinese workers received in a year. So far she hadn’t been able to swallow a bite. Halfway through the lunch her cell phone vibrated in her pocket, and she plucked it out to see if Matthew was still trying to reach her. No, it was an unfamiliar 718 number.

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” she told her guests and pressed TALK. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Mack?”

“Yes,” Carol said tentatively.

“This is Gregory Walkom, from the Walkom Funeral Home.”

Thud. Her heart did that scary thing again. Carol glanced at her guests. One of them had hair transplants. It hadn’t clicked with her before, but now she could see the plugs carefully laid out on his baldpate, sprouting like new plants in a vast plowed field. Simultaneously, the other man’s eyes happened to be rolling up to the ceiling as his tongue came in contact with his first bite of the lobster special. Everything was so vivid. The look and smell of the restaurant, her suppliers’ obvious pleasure in the food. That was what she would remember: how life kept on around her at the same time that death made an entrance.

Without being aware of moving, she rose from her chair and walked toward the door. Numbly she said the word “Yes.”

“Mrs. Mack, I have your father here.”

They didn’t like cell phones in expensive restaurants. She pushed through to the street. The sun was blindingly bright. She couldn’t see, and almost tripped on the curb. “My father,” she said wildly, “my father is dead?”

“No, no. He’s right here. He says you’ll be responsible for your mother’s funeral.”

“My mother’s funeral?”

“Yes.” Gregory’s voice was smooth.

“My mother’s dead?” Carol said blankly.

“That’s right. She passed on last night. I thought you were aware . . .”

Carol was having trouble breathing. This couldn’t be. She wasn’t ready. “Are you sure?” she said dumbly.

“Yes ma’am. Her remains are with us now.”

“Her remains?” For a second Carol had the incongruous thought that her mother had been remaindered.

“Will you be able to meet with us soon?”

“Ah, of course. How late are you open?”