House Broken (5 page)

She stopped at the pool wall to catch her breath and take a couple glugs from her sports drink. Her vision of her father was that of an eleven-year-old. How could it be otherwise? But it didn't matter. She aspired to emulate him, to manage every situation with quiet ease. Tom wanted her to invite Helen to convalesce at their house out of filial duty, and with the hope of improving the mother-daughter relationship. She would take her mother in, not for Tom's reasons but her own. She would find a way to cope with her, and to help her. Her father would have wanted her to do no less.

Geneva glanced at the workout sheet. One more set of five hundred yards, starting slowly and building by hundreds to her fastest pace. She pushed off the wall, her arms stretched in front in a streamlined position. She executed two dolphin kicks, coasted halfway down the lane, and began her long, smooth strokes.

GENEVA

P
ushing open the glass door, Geneva entered the rehabilitation center where her mother had been since her release from the hospital two days earlier. Helen waited in the reception area in a wheelchair. Her arm hung in a sling, and her right leg was encased in a brace. An orderly stood behind her, hands on the handles.

Geneva bent to kiss her mother on the cheek. “Happy Mother's Day. Ready to go?”

“You're late.”

“Tom and I had a little trouble leaving Dublin's.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I'll tell you later.”

“Is it really Mother's Day?”

“It is.” Geneva addressed the orderly. “Do I need to sign anything?”

He handed her a clipboard. “John Hancock at the X, please.”

She glanced at the release and signed it.

Helen gave a wry smile. “You just paid my bill.”

The orderly laughed. “We're going to miss your spunk, Mrs. Riley.” He showed Geneva how to operate the wheelchair and followed her outside. “You have a nice Mother's Day with your family.”

Geneva wheeled her mother down the ramp to the curb. Tom and Dublin waited beside the open doors of the Cherokee. Tom had accompanied Geneva to L.A. in case Helen needed assistance on the way home.

“We sprung you!” Dublin shouted. “Quick! Before the cops get here!”

“One prison to another, more like,” Helen mumbled.

Geneva shook her head in dismay and set the brake.

Tom helped Helen stand; then he and Dublin lifted her into the front seat.

Dublin wiped his brow in an exaggerated motion. “Good thing you still have your girlish figure, Mom.”

“Same as Nancy Reagan. A perfect size six.”

Geneva recognized the thinly veiled reference to her own height and athletic build, which her mother considered less than ladylike. As if she were in control of her genetic material.

She and Dublin climbed into the backseat. He pinched her knee in a horse bite. Reflexively, she elbowed him in the ribs.

He winked at her. “Just like old times, huh, Ginny?” She smiled at him.

Tom reached across and clipped Helen's seat belt. They drove
the few miles to the condo to collect her things. Helen insisted on coming inside.

“We can pack for you, Mom,” Geneva said.

“I don't want you all rifling through my drawers. And how could you know what I want?”

So Tom and Dublin unloaded her into the wheelchair.

She pointed to the passenger seat. “My bag, please.” Dublin placed it on her lap and wheeled her inside. The one-bedroom condo was crowded with heavy furniture from the Aliceville house. The blinds were shut, and the air was stale. Geneva tilted the blinds and slid open the door that led to a small balcony overlooking a pool. Several adults lounged nearby under umbrellas while children splashed in the water. A small boy sprinted along the coping. A woman leaped from her chair, grabbed his arm, and swatted his bottom. His wailing carried into the room.

“If you leave that open,” Helen said, “all you'll hear is screaming.”

“What's a little screaming?” Dublin said. “Smells like a crypt in here.”

He parked his mother in the bedroom, then helped Tom empty the sparse contents of the refrigerator into a box. Geneva couldn't remember having been in her mother's bedroom before. Talia must have been the one who'd helped her move in five years earlier. How sad it must be to get older, she thought. To raise your family in a beautiful house in the small town you grew up in, where every person on the street was someone you knew, then to watch your family go, one by one. And finally, to end up in a cramped condo in an enormous city, hoping your children grant you a slice of their lives.

“The suitcase is under the bed,” Helen said.

Geneva bent down and recognized the red roller bag she and Tom had given Helen for her first California Christmas. “For visiting us,” he had said. “Or Florence and Renaldo,” Geneva added, intending to suggest her mother had options. Now she could see how she might have felt pushed away.

The bag was stuck. While Geneva attempted to free it, she heard a drawer near the bed open. She peeked over the bed. Her mother had her hand over her handbag. The drawer of the bedside table was gaping. A flash of surprise came and went on Helen's face.

“I can help you get what you need,” Geneva said.

Helen pulled a zebra-striped glasses case out of her bag and showed it to her daughter. “My extra set. Just in case.”

Geneva brushed away a pang of uneasiness. “Good thinking.” She unzipped the suitcase and opened the closet. “Okay, what do you want? And remember it's colder there.”

“Don't remind me.”

When Helen finished with the closet, she directed Geneva to the dresser. Four framed photos were arranged on top. Front and center was the same photo of Dublin and his family in Santa Monica that Geneva had on her desk at work. Another was of Geneva's family, including Diesel sporting reindeer horns, from two Christmases ago. The third she had never seen. Florence and Renaldo, grinning and sweaty, arms over each other's shoulders at the finish line of a race. She thought it an odd choice for her mother.

“Is this a recent photo?”

“That? Not really. But it's the only one of the two of them I have. No decent wedding photos.” Florence and Renaldo had been married by a friend in New York. All the photos of the
occasion included one or more of a motley assortment of people Helen did not know. “I don't want strangers in my bedroom. Especially not New Yorkers.”

The last photo, in the back, pictured the four Riley children lined up on the porch of the house in Aliceville. Geneva guessed she and Dublin were around five and six. His expression was one of concerted seriousness, as if he had been told—for the last time—to behave. Geneva's head was turned toward him. Florence and Paris were perhaps ten and twelve. Florence was half a head taller but still very much a girl, smiling awkwardly. Paris was relaxed and bored; she understood her beauty.

“Mom, do you have a recent phone number for Paris? She sent me a number for a satellite phone almost two years ago. I've tried calling, but no one picks up.”

“You know I don't.”

“I just thought maybe—”

“You don't need to talk to her.”

I do, though, Geneva thought. But she didn't exactly know why. She didn't really know Paris, who had left home upon graduating from high school. After she received her college degree, she didn't follow her lifelong dream and attend law school, but instead joined the Peace Corps. A year in the Central African Republic turned into five. She returned to the States for two years, living in Washington, D.C., and by then Geneva was enrolled in college in California. Paris landed a job with a development organization in Sierra Leone and, aside from brief, sporadic, and unannounced appearances at the home of one of her siblings, never left Africa again. She worked in remote areas and changed location frequently. When Geneva did hear from her, Paris only spoke of her work. She had never married.

Dublin appeared in the doorway. “I give up. Where'd you hide your bank statements?”

“What do you want with those?”

“We discussed this, remember? I browbeat you into agreeing that I would make sure all your bills got paid. You can't even write a check with your shoulder tied up.”

“There's a file box in the closet.”

“And I'll need the PINs that go with the accounts.”

“Those things are such a nuisance! I made them all the same. PayPal, eBay, savings, the pharmacy—all the same. It's ‘80 proof!' There's an exclamation point at the end.”

Geneva shook her head. “That's not safe, Mom.”

She waved it off.

“You have to admit it's memorable,” Dublin said.

“I forgot,” Helen said. “The ATM's different. That one's ‘cash.'”

After Dublin left the room, her mother asked what had delayed them that morning. Geneva explained Jack had been upset about having to go to his brother's judo practice. He'd thrown a ball through a window, then lay down in the driveway, blocking the cars. Dublin and Talia spoke with him for a half hour before he finally got up.

“That boy is certainly a handful.”

“Yes. He can be.”

“They should be stricter with him. Talia especially.”

Geneva stopped in the middle of folding a sweater. “I doubt it would help.”

“Why not? You have to be firm. Particularly with boys. Remember how Dublin was. Never still a minute, never listened to a word.”

“But Dublin wasn't autistic.”

“I don't care what they want to call it. Jack needs discipline.”

Geneva lifted her head. “You never had a child with a serious problem, Mom.”

Her mother's eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing her response. She studied her daughter a moment longer, then turned to the window. “No, I suppose not. You and I should both be thankful for that.”

• • •

They packed Helen's belongings into the car and dropped Dublin at his house. As he hugged Geneva, he whispered, “Don't forget to lock her cage at night.”

While Tom drove, Geneva leaned her head back and stared out the window. They left the city behind, and soon sagebrush and spindly pines replaced the palms. Joining a line of cars that climbed out of the valley, they entered the Castaic Mountains.

Helen squirmed in her seat. “Geneva, hand me my pillow, please?”

“What pillow?”

“The one I asked you to take from the bed. Don't tell me you forgot.”

“Well, either you didn't tell me, or I forgot.”

“We need to turn around.”

“We've got loads of pillows at home.”

“Not like mine. It's Tempur-Pedic.”

Geneva leaned forward. “Mom, if we turn around now we're going to get caught in the traffic going into the valley.” She pointed at the congested lanes heading south.

“And if we don't, I won't be able to sleep.”

“Maybe Dublin can send it. You'll have it in a couple days.”

“It shouldn't be Dublin's problem when you're the one who forgot.”

Tom said, “We did tell the kids we'd be home by nine at the latest. I'd hate to come home at eleven when they've got school tomorrow.”

Helen sighed. “I suppose I won't be sleeping much anyway because of my leg.” She folded up her sweater and placed it behind her shoulder. Twenty minutes later, she dozed off.

• • •

Outside Bakersfield, while Helen slept, Tom told Geneva about his latest project: a spiral staircase with a jungle motif. The client, a rain forest biologist, wanted animals and plants carved into the risers. The railing and balusters would be covered in vines and lianas in high relief. He'd presented the client with several sketches, which were immediately approved, and was keen to set to work.

She was asking about which animals the man had chosen when her mother stirred. She twisted in her seat and pulled at the shoulder strap.

Tom asked, “Should we wake her?”

Geneva leaned in between the front seats. Her mother's brow appeared untroubled and her mouth was open slightly. “I don't know. Maybe she'll . . .”

Helen cried out and flung her left arm, hitting Geneva in the face. She pulled back and put her hand to her nose.

Tom glanced in the rearview mirror. “Are you all right?”

Before she could answer, Helen's arm flew out again, colliding with the steering wheel. The car swerved and a horn blasted behind them.

He straightened the wheel and checked his side mirrors. “Jesus.”

Helen sat motionless, her arm limp on the center console. Geneva took hold of her mother's shoulder and shook her.

She awoke. Disoriented, she looked from side to side. “What's going on?”

Tom let out a long breath. “I think you had a nightmare.” He checked his rearview mirror again. “You're bleeding.”

Geneva dug in her bag for a tissue, then dabbed her nose. “It's okay.”

“I can pull over.”

“Bleeding from what? Let me look.” Helen turned partway around, then grimaced. “My shoulder hurts. My good one.” She adjusted herself in her seat and straightened her sweater. “It was an accident. I was dreaming about an accident.”

Geneva's nose stung as if she had been submerged in water without holding her breath. Tom handed Helen a water bottle and asked if she wanted to stop for a break. She shook her head, and asked him about the crops stretching for miles on either side of the freeway.

Geneva imagined her mother lying in her bed in her condo, waking in the darkness to discover she'd knocked over a glass or a lamp. Whatever nightmare had broken the paralysis of sleep would still be running at the edges of her consciousness. A cockroach escaping the light. How daunting to piece reality together, in the confusion of the night, alone. Whenever Geneva had a frightening dream, the sight of her husband beside her instantly righted her world, as did the realization that her children were lying on the far side of the bedroom wall, deep in untroubled sleep. As alienated as she often felt from them, her family provided this comfort.

Helen laughed at something Tom said and reached over to touch his forearm. Geneva blotted her nose with the tissue. The bleeding had almost stopped, but the sight of her blood triggered a memory. She was eight, and it was Mother's Day. She had decided to sing a song for her mother—she couldn't remember which one—and had run downstairs to Paris's room to ask if she would accompany her on piano. In her excitement, she burst through the door without knocking. Paris leaped out of nowhere like a jaguar and slammed the door in her face. Geneva cried out and put her hand to her nose. It came away bloody. She ran through the house in search of her mother, her father—anyone. In the upstairs bathroom, she wet a facecloth and examined herself in the mirror. Only then did it come to her that, although she hadn't seen anyone, Paris had not been alone.