payments begin?"
"Artie said she needed to turn her life around. He
wanted to provide her that opportunity and so, graciously,
he opened this account." Bill Reyer looks down at his
hands. He folds them together.
"When did these payments begin?"
He fiddles with some papers, but I know that he
knows. "Hmmm," he says, as if this bit of the conversation
has so little relevance that it's slipped his mind. "Ah,
here it is. Two years ago. July." He keeps his eyes on his
hands.
"The payments began two years ago? Two years ago?"
Artie and I had been married when they met, when the
payments began? Elspa assured me that her relationship
with Artie happened before Artie and I had gotten married.
Is Elspa one of Artie's three? But, really, does it even
matter anymore, if there were three other women or four
or eighteen? Artie betrayed me, and Elspa lied to me.
"Nice," I mutter. "Very nice."
Reyer looks at me pleadingly. "I told Artie that it
would have been better to explain all of this himself," he
says. "I was hoping that in his time remaining he would
have . . ."
I lean back in my chair then quickly gather my things.
Did Artie want someone younger than I am? Did he prefer
her more delicate features? Is she better in bed? I see
Elspa's face in my mind—the innocence, the sweetness.
Springbird is just a name and my imagination, but Elspa is
real, undeniably real. I think back on the sculpture—abstract
and blue—from her imagination! "I have to go."
Something has cracked in me. I thought I had dealt with
the brunt of the betrayal, but this is a deeper pain.
"We aren't finished . . ." I hear Bill say as I stand up
and head out the door. "We haven't worked out any details,
come to any conclusions."
Things are blurry, sizzling, and a hiss is rising in my
ears along with the dull thud of my footsteps down
the hall.
"Ma'am?" the receptionist calls after me. "Is something
wrong?" I wave my hand like a flag of surrender.
"I'm sorry," I tell her, barely pausing. "I have to go."
Chapter Fourteen
Don't Breathe Water
I pull jaggedly into the driveway, rip the key
from the ignition, and stride across the
lawn. My mother's car is gone. She must
have headed out to tend to some of the endless details. I
unlock the door and let it swing open behind me. Maybe
this is the way grief will arrive—through anger.
"Elspa!" I shout. The house is quiet except for my
voice ringing through it.
There's a fresh vase of flowers on the lowboy. I despise
the flowers, the vase, every manipulative impulse Artie's
ever had. I look into the living room, jog to the kitchen,
the dining room.
"Elspa!"
I circle back to the stairs and run up them. My mind is
flashing back to the accountant's office, Reyer's folded
hands, his cough. I know the looks that accountants give
their clients when they're trying to avoid the truth. I'm
supposed to decide how much money to give John
Bessom? I'm supposed to feel fucking comfortable ? Artie
has been supporting Rita Bessom and Elspa? Elspa lied
to me?
I turn down the hallway and barge into the bedroom.
"What?" Artie shouts out. "What's wrong?"
The nurse is in the chair by the window, hunched over
a handheld video game. He startles, but tries to pretend
he hasn't been startled.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Artie sits back. "You talked to Reyer. I'm assuming
he didn't break it to you with the necessary finesse. He
lacks—"
"You should have told me to wait until after you were
dead," I shout. "Then killing you wouldn't be an option!
The E.L.S.P.A. Fund? I have to decide what your son is
worth?"
The nurse quickly shuts down the game and shoves it
into his backpack, trying to pack up and sneak out.
"Now that you've met her, you can see she's deserving,"
Artie says.
"Yes, I hear that she's quite a sculptor! We really
should support the arts in just this way!"
"Okay, okay, I see why you're mad about Elspa. But
you can see that my son, John, deserves something,
"Artie said she needed to turn her life around. He
wanted to provide her that opportunity and so, graciously,
he opened this account." Bill Reyer looks down at his
hands. He folds them together.
"When did these payments begin?"
He fiddles with some papers, but I know that he
knows. "Hmmm," he says, as if this bit of the conversation
has so little relevance that it's slipped his mind. "Ah,
here it is. Two years ago. July." He keeps his eyes on his
hands.
"The payments began two years ago? Two years ago?"
Artie and I had been married when they met, when the
payments began? Elspa assured me that her relationship
with Artie happened before Artie and I had gotten married.
Is Elspa one of Artie's three? But, really, does it even
matter anymore, if there were three other women or four
or eighteen? Artie betrayed me, and Elspa lied to me.
"Nice," I mutter. "Very nice."
Reyer looks at me pleadingly. "I told Artie that it
would have been better to explain all of this himself," he
says. "I was hoping that in his time remaining he would
have . . ."
I lean back in my chair then quickly gather my things.
Did Artie want someone younger than I am? Did he prefer
her more delicate features? Is she better in bed? I see
Elspa's face in my mind—the innocence, the sweetness.
Springbird is just a name and my imagination, but Elspa is
real, undeniably real. I think back on the sculpture—abstract
and blue—from her imagination! "I have to go."
Something has cracked in me. I thought I had dealt with
the brunt of the betrayal, but this is a deeper pain.
"We aren't finished . . ." I hear Bill say as I stand up
and head out the door. "We haven't worked out any details,
come to any conclusions."
Things are blurry, sizzling, and a hiss is rising in my
ears along with the dull thud of my footsteps down
the hall.
"Ma'am?" the receptionist calls after me. "Is something
wrong?" I wave my hand like a flag of surrender.
"I'm sorry," I tell her, barely pausing. "I have to go."
Chapter Fourteen
Don't Breathe Water
I pull jaggedly into the driveway, rip the key
from the ignition, and stride across the
lawn. My mother's car is gone. She must
have headed out to tend to some of the endless details. I
unlock the door and let it swing open behind me. Maybe
this is the way grief will arrive—through anger.
"Elspa!" I shout. The house is quiet except for my
voice ringing through it.
There's a fresh vase of flowers on the lowboy. I despise
the flowers, the vase, every manipulative impulse Artie's
ever had. I look into the living room, jog to the kitchen,
the dining room.
"Elspa!"
I circle back to the stairs and run up them. My mind is
flashing back to the accountant's office, Reyer's folded
hands, his cough. I know the looks that accountants give
their clients when they're trying to avoid the truth. I'm
supposed to decide how much money to give John
Bessom? I'm supposed to feel fucking comfortable ? Artie
has been supporting Rita Bessom and Elspa? Elspa lied
to me?
I turn down the hallway and barge into the bedroom.
"What?" Artie shouts out. "What's wrong?"
The nurse is in the chair by the window, hunched over
a handheld video game. He startles, but tries to pretend
he hasn't been startled.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Artie sits back. "You talked to Reyer. I'm assuming
he didn't break it to you with the necessary finesse. He
lacks—"
"You should have told me to wait until after you were
dead," I shout. "Then killing you wouldn't be an option!
The E.L.S.P.A. Fund? I have to decide what your son is
worth?"
The nurse quickly shuts down the game and shoves it
into his backpack, trying to pack up and sneak out.
"Now that you've met her, you can see she's deserving,"
Artie says.
"Yes, I hear that she's quite a sculptor! We really
should support the arts in just this way!"
"Okay, okay, I see why you're mad about Elspa. But
you can see that my son, John, deserves something,
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