Granddad opens the doors to the four guest bedrooms upstairs. All are furnished only with beds and low, wide dressers. The windows have white shades that let some light shine in. There are no patterns on the bedspreads; they are simple, tasteful shades of blue or brown.
The littles’ rooms have some life. Taft has a Bakugan arena on the floor, a soccer ball, books about wizards and orphans. Liberty and Bonnie brought magazines and an MP3 player. They have stacks of Bonnie’s books on ghost hunters, psychics, and dangerous angels. Their dresser is cluttered with makeup and perfume bottles. Tennis racquets in the corner.
Granddad’s bedroom is larger than the others and has the best view. He takes me in and shows me the bathroom, which has handles in the shower. Old-person handles, so he won’t fall down.
“Where are your New Yorker cartoons?” I ask.
“The decorator made decisions.”
“What about the pillows?”
“The what?”
“You had all those pillows. With embroidered dogs.”
He shakes his head. “Did you keep the fish?”
“What, the swordfish and all that?” We walk down the staircase to the ground floor. Granddad moves slowly and I am behind him. “I started over with this house,” he says simply. “That old life is gone.”
He opens the door to his study. It’s as severe as the rest of the house. A laptop sits in the center of a large desk. A large window looks out over the Japanese garden. A chair. A wall of shelves, completely empty.
It feels clean and open, but it isn’t spartan, because everything is opulent.
Granddad is more like Mummy than like me. He’s erased his old life by spending money on a replacement one.
“Where’s the young man?” asks Granddad suddenly. His face takes on a vacant look.
“Johnny?”
He shakes his head. “No, no.”
“Gat?”
“Yes, the young man.” He clutches the desk for a moment, as if feeling faint.
“Granddad, are you okay?”
“Oh, fine.”
“Gat is at Cuddledown with Mirren and Johnny,” I tell him.
“There was a book I promised him.”
“Most of your books aren’t here.”
“Stop telling me what’s not here!” Granddad yells, suddenly forceful.
“You okay?” It is Aunt Carrie, standing in the door of the study.
“I’m all right,” he says.
Carrie gives me a look and takes Granddad’s arm. “Come on. Lunch is ready.”
“Did you get back to sleep?” I ask my aunt as we head toward the kitchen. “Last night, was Johnny up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
34
GRANDDAD’S COOK DOES the shopping and preps the meals, but the aunties plan all the menus. Today we have cold roast chicken, tomato-basil salad, Camembert, baguettes, and strawberry lemonade in the dining room. Liberty shows me pictures of cute boys in a magazine. Then she shows me pictures of clothes in another magazine. Bonnie reads a book called Collective Apparitions: Fact and Fiction. Taft and Will want me to take them tubing—drive the small motorboat while they float behind it in an inner tube.
Mummy says I’m not allowed to drive the boat on meds.
Aunt Carrie says that doesn’t matter, because no way is Will going tubing.
Aunt Bess says she agrees, so Taft better not even think about asking her.
Liberty and Bonnie ask if they can go tubing. “You always let Mirren go,” says Liberty. “You know it’s true.”
Will spills his lemonade and soaks a baguette.
Granddad’s lap gets wet.
Taft gets hold of the wet baguette and hits Will with it.
Mummy wipes the mess while Bess runs upstairs to bring Granddad clean trousers. Carrie scolds the boys.
When the meal is over, Taft and Will duck into the living room to avoid helping with the cleanup. They jump like lunatics on Granddad’s new leather couch. I follow.
Will is runty and pink, like Johnny. Hair almost white. Taft is taller and very thin, golden and freckled, with long dark lashes and a mouth full of braces. “So, you two,” I say. “How was last summer?”
“Do you know how to get an ash dragon in DragonVale?” asks Will.
“I know how to get a scorch dragon,” says Taft.
“You can use the scorch dragon to get the ash dragon,” says Will.
Ugh. Ten-year-olds. “Come on. Last summer,” I say. “Tell me. Did you play tennis?”
“Sure,” says Will.
“Did you go swimming?”
“Yeah,” says Taft.
“Did you go boating with Gat and Johnny?”
They both stop jumping. “No.”
“Did Gat say anything about me?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about you ending up in the water and everything,” says Will. “I promised Aunt Penny I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“It’ll make your headaches worse and we have to leave the subject alone.”
Taft nods. “She said if we make your headaches worse she’ll string us up by our toenails and take away the iPads. We’re supposed to act cheerful and not be idiots.”
“This isn’t about my accident,” I say. “This is about the summer when I went to Europe.”
“Cady?” Taft touches my shoulder. “Bonnie saw pills in your bedroom.”
Will backs away and sits on the far arm of the sofa.
“Bonnie went through my stuff?”
“And Liberty.”
“God.”
“You told me you weren’t a drug addict, but you have pills on your dresser.” Taft is petulant.
“Tell them to stay out of my room,” I say.
“If you’re a drug addict,” says Taft, “there is something you need to know.”
“What?”
“Drugs are not your friend.” Taft looks serious. “Drugs are not your friend and also people should be your friends.”
“Oh, my God. Would you just tell me what you did last summer, pipsqueak?”
Will says, “Taft and I want to play Angry Birds. We don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“Whatever,” I say. “Go and be free.”
I step onto the porch and watch the boys as they run down the path to Red Gate.
35
ALL THE WINDOWS in Cuddledown are open when I come down after lunch. Gat is putting music on the ancient CD player. My old crayon art is on the refrigerator with magnets: Dad on top, Gran and the goldens on the bottom. My painting is taped to one of the kitchen cupboards. A ladder and a big box of gift wrap stand in the center of the great room.