I pull my laptop back around and slouch down on the pillows behind me. Bray goes to respond, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad point at the door, indicating he needs to leave.
I just want to be on my own.
I want to stop thinking. Stop feeling. Stopeverything.
THIRTY-FOUR
Jack
My legs feel heavy, like I’m carrying rocks on sand, as I take the stairs in the apartment to the drawing room. She summoned me to lunch. If there’s an impromptu date with a so-called suitable woman, I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do.
“Jack,” she calls. “Is that you?”
I take a deep, steadying breath. I know this feeling pulling on every step isn’t my mother’s fault, but I can’t help hating her at the moment. And it’s not just my mother I’m resentful of. It’s every trust meeting. Every investment meeting. Every communication from every board my father’s on, which all now assume I’ll take over. Worse, it’s even the blare of the horns of the traffic and the crowded streets.
I hate everything about my life.
The last thing I want to do is sit opposite my mother for ninety minutes and make nice. I don’t feel nice. I feel like I want to crawl out of my body and into the ocean or something.
Crawl back to Colorado.
I enter the drawing room, bracing myself for who I might find there. Luckily, my mother is on her own.
“Good morning, darling,” she says, putting down the magazine she was reading.
I bend and press a kiss to her check. “Good morning, Mother. How are you?”
“We battle on. I saw your father this morning.” She sighs. “They tell me he’s making progress.”
We both know that whatever progress he makes, life will never go back to normal.
“I’ll see him this evening. I have a call at five. I’ll leave after that.”
“He gets very tired in the afternoons, Jack,” Mother says. She lowers her eyes, like she doesn’t want me to look at her.
“I won’t stay long,” I say.
There’s a knock on the door and Greg enters. “Lunch is ready.”
We stand and head through to the dining room, where two place settings have been made. Everything’s the same as it always is when we have lunch midweek. Except my father isn’t in the office, he’s in the hospital.
“I had a call from Regina,” she says, as we sit. “She’s very disappointed that I’m not going to make it to their gala. You’ll have to go in my place.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You know I can’t stand that family. And why would I need to be there? You can’t make it, but it’s the donation they’re really interested in. Just be generous.”
“It’s important that we’re seen at these things,” she says.
“Important to who?” I ask. “Not to me.”
“It’s important that Aldens are seen at all the big society events of the year. If we’re not there, we lose power. With your father’s… illness, people will be whispering. Wondering whether the Aldens will still have the same place in society as they always have.” She must sense my disinterest. “Your father would want you to go.”
I sigh. The ultimate trump card. She’s right. My father would want me to go. And he’s at his most vulnerable. Why would I let him down?
Images of Iris and me in Grizzly’s, listening to the singing, dancing, having fun, float through my head. “Aren’t evenings meant to be about enjoying life? Why spend time at a function for people I don’t care about?”
Mother sighs like I’m an utter disappointment. “You are the only son of James John Alden. It is on your shoulders to maintain the family name, the family legacy.”
I’ve heard this speech a thousand times. It usually starts off with stories about the wonderful work the Aldens have done over generations to encourage and promote the arts. How the family has established and supported various charities, with long monologues about various achievements by said charities. I know it’s ungrateful and disrespectful, but I’m sick of hearing how my ancestors have helped shape America. Because the stories always end up the same way: a huge lecture on roles and responsibilities.
