Marcus and Victoria lived in Greenwich, a five-bedroomedroom house in a neighborhood where the mailboxes probably cost more than my car. Victoria called herself a socialite, which as far as I could tell meant she attended gallery openings and posted photos of her Chanel bags on Instagram. She looked at me like I was something that needed to be cleaned up.
Actually, no. She looked at me like she didn’t see me at all. I was staff. Background noise.
Briana, she said at Thanksgiving 2 years ago, the last one with mom well enough to cook. Have you ever thought about doing something with more upward mobility? You can’t wipe old people’s bottoms forever.
Mom’s hand tightened on her fork. I’m a registered nurse, I said quietly. I help people. Victoria’s laugh was a delicate, dismissive thing. Of course you do.
But the moment that stayed with me came later that night. I’d gone to the kitchen for water and heard Marcus and Victoria in the hallway. Don’t worry about her. Marcus said,
“Dad’s already promised everything to me. Has been for years. She’s not getting anything. She’s just here to play nurse until mom’s gone. Then she can disappear back into whatever sad little life she has.”
Good. Victoria whispered back. We need this, Marcus. We really need this.
I stood frozen behind the kitchen door, water glass in hand. Something was wrong. I didn’t know what, but the desperation in Victoria’s voice didn’t match the Greenwich lifestyle, the designer clothes, the casual superiority. I went back to bed and told myself it didn’t matter. I had no idea how much it would.
6 weeks ago, my mother was declared cancer free. I remember crying in the oncologist’s office. Two years of fear of watching her shrink and pale and fight, and she’d won. We went out for lunch at her favorite cafe, and she ordered a glass of champagne for the first time since her diagnosis.
I want to visit my mother, she said, meaning Grandma Eleanor, who lived at an assisted living facility in Connecticut. Your father’s been promising to drive me for months.
Four weeks ago, they finally went. They never came back. A truck driver fell asleep on I 95. The police said it was instant. They said they didn’t suffer. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know if anyone says anything else.
I was working the night shift when I got the call. I remember walking to the stairwell because I couldn’t breathe in the hallway and sitting on the cold concrete steps, my phone on the floor where I dropped it, the Connecticut State Police still on the line asking if I was there. I don’t remember what I said. I don’t remember driving home. I remember the smell of mom’s lavender garden when I finally pulled into the driveway at 3:00 a.m. and I remember thinking she would never tend it again.
The funeral was 4 days later. St. Andrews Episcopal, the church where my parents got married. 80 people came. Marcus gave the eulogy. He talked about dad for 7 minutes. He mentioned mom’s name twice.
And before the reception ended, while I was still accepting condolences from people who remembered my mother far better than my brother seemed to, Marcus pulled me aside. We need to talk, he said, about the house.
The funeral flowers were still fresh when my brother informed me I no longer had a home.
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