“You should get yourself a cane, sweetcakes.” Margaret Dixon turned on one low-heeled but knee-high boot to fix her husband’s crisp black shirt; the magenta of her hair shone even in the dull light. “More comfortable than them crutches.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that, too. I’ll see if I can order one online.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that!” Paul said. “Just wait here.” He began to walk back up the drive while Margaret smiled out of a mouth coated in red lipstick.
The ebony of her skin was unlined, her only apparent concession to age her low heels. Otherwise, it was leather pants and sparkly tops.
“I like the sequins.”
She cackled. “Bloody horrendous, innit? Put dear Dr. Liu and those snotty Fuckpatricks in a right royal snit.”
It made me laugh, her butchering of Veda and Brett Fitzpatrick’s name, and for a moment I could imagine this was a normal day, with Margaret on gleeful bad behavior and Paul so incessantly cheerful I’d decided to cast him as a serial killer in a future book. “Brett and Veda still being assholes?” The lawyers were my father’s neighbors to the left, and two more sour individuals I’d yet to meet.
“Think they’re bloody toffs, too good for the likes of us. Meanwhile me and Paulie can buy and sell them under the table.” She patted me on the cheek. “Talking of the filthy lucre, you do what I said with yours?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’d come straight to Margaret after realizing I was in danger of pissing away my newfound wealth. She’d given me some “no bollocks” advice, per her own description, then hooked me up with her and Paul’s money managers.
“Entire lot of them have sticks up their bums,” she’d told me around the fragrant smoke from an herbal cigarette, “but that’s how I like them financial types. They’re so proper they itemize every fucking paper clip on their expense reports. No funny-fiddling with our money, or faffing about and charging it to us—but remember, you gotta watch them.”
“I did fall behind in looking at the reports after my accident,” I admitted, “but my accounts seem in good order.”
“Send them to me and I’ll give them a squiz.” Another pat on my cheek. “You grew up pretty. Got your mama’s smile.” She kept going while I fought to maintain my casual expression. “I remember when you were a boy racing up and down here on your little red bike. Cheeky bugger you were—reminded me of our Cherry when she was small, yeah.”
“I never had a red bike. Maybe you’re thinking of Beau.”
“That’s bollocks, sweetie.” She glanced over at Paul, who’d just reappeared. “Paulie baby, didn’t Aarav have a red bike back when Fifi talked you into that crazy gig?”
“Bloody Fifi. Still miss that barmy tart. And yeah, Aarav, you were a right maniac on that red thing.” Grandfatherly laughter, as if he’d never once been caught having an orgy on his tour bus. “Here you go. Try this then.” He handed me a glossy wooden cane, the wood a rich dark hue.
It fit beautifully under my hand. “This is really nice.”
“Belonged to my pa. Bring it back when you’re done and we’ll be square. Righto, Maggie, my love, time to murder one of Lily’s cakes and horrify the neighbors.”
The two headed off down the street on a burst of shared laughter, leaving me with crutches, a cane, and a coffee. After some thinking, I hooked the cane on one of the crutches, and managed to get going again. At least it wasn’t far.
I’d forgotten about the red bike by the time I reached the house, my head heavy in a way that had become familiar since the accident. Leaving the crutches inside the front hallway and abandoning the coffee on a nearby table meant for flowers, I used the cane to support myself as I stumbled up the stairs. I should’ve taken a ground-floor bedroom instead of my old suite but I’d never been good at doing what I should.
Pain was a metallic taste in my mouth by the time I made it upstairs, my head in a vise. Hand trembling, I knocked over several of the pill bottles on my bedside table before I finally got my hands on the right one and unscrewed the lid.
Two minutes later, the lights went out.
* * *
—
I woke to the ringing of my cellphone. Groaning, my mouth thick with the residue of chemical sleep, I tried to pull it out of my pocket, my fingers feeling fat and sluggish. The sound had stopped by the time I dug it out. I blinked to clear bleary eyes, then stared at the name on the screen. “Shit.”
Dropping my head back on the bed, I grabbed the bottle of water on my bedside table and wet my throat before calling Dr. Jitrnicka’s office. “Apologies for missing my appointment,” I told the receptionist, polite because being polite to her cost me nothing.
“You understand we have a policy of charging you if you don’t cancel at least four hours ahead of time?”
“That’s fine.” Money wasn’t an issue; the boy who’d mowed lawns to buy his mother a cheap silver ring could’ve now afforded to give her diamonds.
“A moment please. Dr. Jitrnicka would like to speak to you.”
A click before the call connected. “Aarav.” The doctor’s rich baritone filled the line. “How are you? It’s not like you to miss an appointment now that we’re making such progress.”
If anyone knows who I am beneath the masks, it’s Dr. Jitrnicka. We’ve been “working together” for the past six months. He sees under my skin, to all the shit I hide from the world. “The police came. They found her.” He’d know which her; there was only one woman about whom we talked in the therapy sessions.
“I see,” he said, using one of those “let me think” phrases on which he was an expert. “You must have conflicted feelings.”
“Not alive. Dead. She’s dead and has been since the night she disappeared.”
The pause was long and filled with quiet breathing.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the doctor said at last. “I know you’ve always hoped she’d return home and you’d get to speak again. If you want to do a phone session, this time is yours.”
“No, not now.” I wasn’t ready to dig into my emotions when it came to my mother’s bones. “I’ll book another appointment.”
“Let’s do that now.” When I didn’t reply, he said, “Aarav, this could be a major trigger for your drinking. Have you built the support structure we discussed? Are those people around you, ready to offer their help?”
I wanted to bark out a laugh and say sure, I have my father, that pillar of a man. “It won’t be a problem,” I said instead. “Accident turned out to be a blessing in disguise—I can’t drink while on these meds. Since I have no intention of ending up back in hospital, I’ll follow the rules. I want to drive my Porsche again.”