“Emily’s son Bodhi is London’s best friend!”
“I hear you. And hopefully, the psychologist will confirm that. But you never know until they file their report with the court.” He paused. “There are also more serious allegations in the letter – that you purposely endangered London by pressuring her to ride her bike down a hill, knowing she was still inexperienced and couldn’t handle the challenge. Also that you failed to contact Vivian right away and that you purposely minimized London’s injuries when talking to Vivian to cover up for your ineptitude.”
“That’s… that’s not the way it happened!” I stammered, feeling myself flush. “Vivian knows it was an accident. She knows I’d never purposely endanger my daughter!”
Taglieri held up his hand. “I’m just letting you know the substance of the letter. But there’s one more thing, and you’re going to have to stay calm, all right?”
I squeezed my hands into fists, feeling the veins at my temples throb.
“In the letter,” Taglieri went on, “the lawyer mentions that you have ‘date nights’ with your daughter. That she gets dressed up in an adultlike fashion and that the two of you go out to romantic destinations.”
“So?”
“Russ…” Taglieri gave me a pained look. “It’s disgusting, but the lawyer is suggesting that your relationship with London might be unhealthy, if not outright inappropriate…”
It took me a second to grasp the implication. When it hit, it took my breath away.
Oh, God… Vivian wouldn’t do this… not in a million years would she do something like this…
I actually felt light-headed, black spots swimming at the edge of my vision. I was mortified, repulsed, and furious – but even those terms weren’t strong enough to describe the way I was feeling.
“It was only innuendo,” Taglieri cautioned, “but the fact that it was mentioned in the letter at all troubles me. At the very least, it signals that they’re prepared to paint a very negative, if not downright sickening, picture of you.”
I barely processed Taglieri’s words. Vivian wouldn’t do this… How could she even hint at something like this…?
“I’m going to get on the phone with the attorney later, because we can’t just ignore these kinds of implied threats. It’s an attempt to intimidate you, and it’s also incredibly unprofessional. At the same time, it gives us a sense of just how far Vivian might go to get custody. And if it goes to court, I want to emphasize that you never know what a judge is going to decide.”
“What do I do? I know London wants to live with me…”
“Like I said, let me talk to the attorney. But what would be best, as I told you early on, is for you and Vivian to work it out. Because, as your attorney, I can’t say I feel optimistic about your chances when it comes to winning this thing.”
For the rest of the day, I staggered around as if I’d received a massive body blow.
I didn’t go to work. I didn’t go home. I didn’t visit Marge or Liz, or drop by my parents’ place.
In my speechless fury, in my horror, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Instead, I texted Emily and asked if she could pick London up from school and watch her until I got back into town. She asked me where I was and what was wrong, but I couldn’t answer. I need a few hours alone, I texted back. Thank you.
Then, getting into my car, I started to drive.
Three and a half hours later, I was in Wrightsville Beach, where I parked my car.
The sky was overcast and the wind was bitter. I walked the beach longer than it took me to make the drive, and as I walked, my mind circled from London to Marge to Vivian before starting anew. With it came uncertainty and fear and relentless waves of emotion. I alternated between rage and confusion, heartbreak and terror, and by the time I returned to the car, my cheeks were wind-burned and my soul was numb. I hadn’t eaten all day, yet I wasn’t hungry in the slightest.
I made the drive back to Charlotte and picked up London long after the sky had turned black. It was past London’s bedtime, but thankfully, Emily had fed her. I couldn’t summon the energy to speak to Emily about what had happened just yet; there was so much I still didn’t know how to put into words.
It was Marge to whom I eventually turned, mainly because she left me no other choice.
It was the last Friday in January, and I had agreed to stay with Marge while my mom ran to the pharmacy to refill one of Marge’s prescriptions. By this time, the cancer had progressed to the point where no one was comfortable leaving Marge alone, even for a little while. The living room was illuminated by a single table lamp, and the shades had been drawn at Marge’s request. She said bright light made her eyes ache, but I knew the truth: She didn’t want us to see her clearly, for even a single glance was enough to reveal how sick she really was. So much of Marge’s hair had fallen out that she’d taken to wearing an Atlanta Braves baseball cap whenever she was awake. Even though she was wrapped in a blanket, her continued weight loss was evident in her bony hands and painfully skinny neck, in which her Adam’s apple protruded, knoblike. Her breathing sounded wet and thick, and she had long bouts of coughing and gagging that sent my mom and Liz into a panic. They would pound her back in an effort to dislodge mucus and phlegm, which often came out bloody. She slept more than sixteen hours a day, and her appearance at the open house two weeks earlier was the last time she’d left the house.
She could no longer walk more than a few steps on her own. The cancer in her brain had affected the right side of her body, as if she’d had a stroke. Her right arm and leg were weak, and her eye had begun to droop. She could only offer half smiles.