The Descendants (2 page)

“We can go to the beach,” I say. “Would Mom take you to the club?”

“Well, duh. Where else would we go?”

“Then it’s a plan. After you talk and we see a nurse, we’ll check in at home, then go.”

Scottie takes a picture out of her album, crushes it in her hand, and throws it away. I wonder what the picture was, if it was the one of her mother on the bed, probably not the best family relic. “I wish,” Scottie says. “What do I wish?”

It’s one of our games. Every now and then she names a place she wishes we were besides this place, this time in our lives.

“I wish we were at the dentist,” she decides.

“Me, too. I wish we were getting our mouths x-rayed.”

“And Mom was getting her teeth whitened,” she says.

I really do wish we were at Dr. Branch’s office, the three of us getting high on laughing gas and feeling our numb lips. A root canal would be a blast compared to this. Or any medical procedure, really. Actually, I wish I could be home working. I have to make a decision on who should own the land that has been in my family since the 1840s. This sale will eliminate all of my family’s land holdings, and I desperately need to study up on the facts before the meeting I have with my cousins six days from now. That’s our deadline. Two o’clock at Cousin Six’s house six days from today. We’ll approve a buyer. It’s irresponsible of me to have put off thinking about this deal for so long, but I guess this is what our family has done for a while now. We’ve turned our backs to our legacy, waiting for someone else to come along and assume both our fortune and our debts.

I’m afraid Esther may have to take Scottie to the beach, and I’m about to tell her, but then I don’t because I feel ashamed. My wife is in the hospital, my daughter needs her parents, and I need to work. Once again I’m putting her in the tub.

I see Scottie staring at her mother. She has her back against the wall, and she’s fumbling with the hem of her shirt.

“Scottie,” I say. “If you’re not going to say anything, then we may as well leave.”

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t you want to tell your mother what’s going on in school?”

“She never cares about what’s going on in school.”

“What about your extracurricular activities? Your schedule’s fuller than the president’s. Your scrapbook, show her that. Or what did you make in glassblowing the other day?”

“A bong,” she says.

I look at her closely before responding. She doesn’t appear to have said anything remarkable. I never know if she knows what she’s talking about. “Interesting,” I say. “What is a bong?”

She shrugs. “Some high school guy taught me how to make it. He said it would go well with chips and salsa and any other food I could think of. It’s some kind of platter.”

“Do you still have this…bong?”

“Sort of,” she says. “But Mr. Larson told me to make it into a vase. I could put flowers in it and give it to her.” She points at her mother.

“That’s a great idea!”

She eyes me skeptically. “You don’t have to get all Girl Scout about it.”

“Sorry,” I say.

I lean back in my chair and look at all the holes in the ceiling. I don’t know why I’m not worried, but I’m just not. I know Joanie will be okay because she always makes it out okay. She will wake up and Scottie will have a mother and we can talk about our marriage and I can put my suspicions aside. I’ll sell the property and buy Joanie a boat, something that will shock her and make her throw her head back and laugh.

“Last time you were the one in the bed,” Scottie says.

“Yup.”

“Last time you lied to me.”

“I know, Scottie. Forgive me.”

She’s referring to my stint in the hospital. I had a minor motorcycling accident. I crashed at the track, soaring over the handlebars into a pile of red dirt. At home, after the wreck, I told Joanie and Scottie what had happened but insisted I was okay and that I wasn’t going to the hospital. Scottie issued me these little tests to demonstrate my unreliability. Joanie participated. They played bad cop, worse cop.

“How many fingers?” Scottie asked, holding up what I thought was a pinky and a thumb.

“Balls,” I said. I didn’t want to be tested this way.

“Answer her,” Joanie said.

“Two?”

“Okay,” Scottie said warily. “Close your eyes and touch your nose and stand on one foot.”

“Balls, Scottie. I can’t do that regardless, and you’re treating me like a drunk driver.”

“Do what she says,” Joanie yelled. She’s always yelling at me, but it’s really just the way we speak to each other. Her yelling makes me feel inept and loved. “Touch your nose and stand on one foot.”

I stood still in protest. I knew something was wrong with me, but I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I wanted to let what was wrong with my body run its course. I was curious. I was having trouble holding up my head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re cheap,” Joanie said.

She was right, of course. “You’re right,” I said. I could just picture it: “You’re injured,” a doctor would tell me, and then he’d charge me a thousand dollars, at least, and do unnecessary things and give me unreliable, overly cautious advice to avoid a lawsuit and then I’d have to deal with the insurance companies, who’d purposely lose documents to avoid paying, and the hospital would send me to collections and I’d be dealing with all of this over the phone with people who didn’t even have a GED. Even now I’m skeptical. The fast-talking neurologist and our neurosurgeon say they just need to maintain oxygen levels and control the swelling in her brain. It sounds pretty easy; keeping someone suffused with oxygen should hardly require a surgeon. I relayed my thoughts on doctors to Joanie as I rubbed the right side of my head.

“Look at yourself,” Joanie said. I was looking at a painting on our wall of a dead fish, trying to remember where we got it. I tried to read the artist’s name: Brady Churkill? Churchill?

“You can’t even see straight,” she said.

“How am I supposed to look at myself, then?”

“Shut up, Matt. Get ready and get in the car.”

I got ready and got in the car.

Turns out I had damaged my fourth nerve, a nerve that connects your eyes to your brain, which explained why things had been out of focus.

“You could have died,” Scottie says now.

“No way,” I say. “A fourth nerve? Who needs it?”

“You lied. You said you were okay. You said you could see my fingers.”

“I didn’t lie. I guessed correctly. Plus, for a while there I got to have twins. Two Scotties.”

She squints, assessing my subterfuge.

I remember when I was in the hospital, Joanie put vodka into my Jell-O. She wore my eye patch and got into the hospital bed and took a nap with me. It was nice. It was the last truly nice thing I have done with her.

I have a nagging suspicion that she is, or was, in love with another man. When she was first admitted to Queen’s, I went through her wallet looking for her insurance card and found a note written on a small and stiff piece of blue paper that seemed designed for clandestine messages. The note said:
Thinking of you. See you at Indigo.

The note could be years old. She always finds faded receipts from ancient vacations, business cards for businesses that no longer exist, movie stubs for
Waterworld
or
Glory.
The note could also be from one of her gay model friends. They’re always saying lovey shit like that, and the color of the small card was a feminine Tiffany blue. At the time I dismissed my suspicion, and I’m trying to forget about that note, even though lately, I find myself thinking of her deviousness and flirtatiousness—the way she can drink and drink, and what drinking leads to, the many nights spent out with the girls—and when I think of things this way, an affair seems possible, if not inevitable. I forget that Joanie is seven years younger than I am. I forget that she needs constant praise and entertainment. She needs to be wanted, and I am often too busy to praise, entertain, or want. Still, I can’t imagine her actually having an affair. We’ve known each other for more than twenty years. We get each other and don’t expect too much. I like what we have, and I know she does, too. My suspicions aren’t convenient right now.

Scottie is still narrowing her eyes at me. “You could have flat-lined,” she says.

I’m wondering what my accident has to do with anything. Of late, Scottie’s been pointing out my flaws, my tricks and lies. She’s interviewing me. I’m the backup candidate. I’m the dad. She and Esther are trying to prepare me for the role, I guess, but I want to tell them that it’s okay. I’m the understudy, and the star will be back soon.

“What else do you wish?” I ask.

She is sitting on the ground with her chin resting on the seat of a chair. “Lunch,” she says. “I’m starved. And a soda. I need soda.”

“I wish you would talk to her,” I say. “I want you to do that before we leave. I can get you a soda. I’ll give you some privacy. You can talk in private.” I stand up, putting my arms over my head and stretching. I feel bad as I look down at Joanie. I have so much mobility.

“You want a diet something?”

“Do you think I’m fat?” Scottie asks.

“No, I don’t think you’re fat, but Esther loads you with sugar, and I’m going to put you through a little detox, if that’s okay. Things are changing around here.”

“What’s detox?” She lifts her stringy arms over her head and stretches. I’ve noticed her copying things I do and say.

“It’s what your sister should have done,” I mumble. “Be back in a flash. Don’t go anywhere. Talk.”

2

I WALK INTO
the hall, which is quiet. At the central reception area, there are nurses and receptionists and visitors waiting for the nurses and receptionists to look up and acknowledge them. Every time I pass the other patients’ rooms, I tell myself not to look in, but I can’t help myself; I look in the room next to Joanie’s. It’s the popular patient’s room, and it’s usually filled with family, friends, balloons, leis, and flowers, as though he’s accomplished something by ailing. Today he’s alone. He emerges from the bathroom barefoot and holding his hospital gown together. You can tell that on the outside of the hospital, he’s a tough sort of guy, but the gown makes him look delicate. He looks at a card on the table, then puts it back down and shuffles to bed. I hate get-well cards. It’s like telling someone to have a safe flight. There’s really not a whole lot you can do.

I continue toward the central area and see Joy and another nurse walking toward me. Joy personifies her name beautifully.

“Mr. King,” she says. “How are you today?”

“Wonderful, Joy, and you?”

“Good, good.”

“Good,” I say.

“I saw you in the paper today,” she says. “Have you made your decision? Everyone’s waiting.”

The other nurse nudges her and says, “Joy!”

“What? Me and Mr. King, we’re like this.” She puts her middle finger over her pointer finger.

I continue walking toward the store. “Mind your own business, young lady.” I try my best to sound carefree. It’s embarrassing how much strangers think they know about me, and how many people, my cousins especially, are waiting to see what I’ll do. If they only knew how little thought I’ve given the matter. After the Supreme Court upheld the trust’s distribution structure, making me the largest shareholder, I just wanted to hide. It’s too much responsibility for one man, and maybe I feel a bit guilty, having so much control. Why me? Why does so much depend on me? And what did the people before me do in order for me to have so much? Maybe I subscribe to the idea that behind every great fortune is a great crime. Isn’t that how the saying goes?