Beetelle cried and then called Cem. Over the phone, she told him she was pregnant. He was ecstatic and flew to New York for the weekend; he took a hotel room at the Carlyle (setting a pattern for spending money he didn’t have) and took her to romantic restaurants. He bought her a half-carat diamond ring at Tiffany’s, claiming he only ever wanted her to have the best. Two months later, they were married by a justice of the peace at her parents’ house in Grand Rapids. After the ceremony, they went to dinner at the country club. And then Lola was born, and Beetelle understood it had all happened for a reason.
How she loved Lola. And naturally, while Beetelle no longer harbored feelings for the doctor, there were times when, seeing Lola so beautiful and bright, a curious sensation overcame her. A tiny part of her still believed, still hoped, that somewhere a mistake had been made, and Lola actually was the child of Leonard Pierce, a famous oncologist.
Beetelle got up from the vanity and went into the bedroom, standing before the bay window that looked out over the golf course. What would become of her and Lola now? There were times in the past when she’d considered what she would do if something happened to Cem. When he was late or driving home from Florida on his yearly pilgrimage to visit his mother, the thought crossed her mind that he could be killed in an accident with a tractor trailer. She pictured herself in mourning in Windsor Pines, dressed in black with a black pillbox hat and veil, although no one wore hats or veils anymore, holding a memorial service for Cem at the big nondenominational church to which everyone in their set belonged. She would never marry again. But along with the loss was a little fantasy. She would sell the house and be free to do with her life as she pleased. She might move to Italy, like that girl who wrote Under the Tuscan Sun.
But that was possible only if the house was worth something. Bankruptcy was not part of the bargain, and there were moments now, terrible moments, when she wondered if she wouldn’t be better off without Cem. It had crossed her mind that if she did leave, she could move to New York and live with Lola in that sweet little apartment on Eleventh Street.
But there wasn’t even enough money for that. They could no longer afford the apartment, and somehow, Lola had to be told this as well.
Beetelle was startled by the sudden presence of Lola in the room. “I’ve been thinking things over, Mother,” she said, seating herself carefully on the edge of the bed. A quick survey of the house had revealed that things were worse than she’d thought—in the refrigerator was supermarket cheese instead of gourmet; the wireless Internet service had been canceled and their cable plan reduced to basic. “I don’t have to work for Philip. I could get a real job, I suppose. Maybe do something in fashion. Or I could take acting classes. Philip knows everyone—he’ll know the best teacher. And I’m sure I could do it. I watched Schiffer Diamond, and it didn’t look hard at all. Or I could try out for a reality show. Philip says they’re shooting more and more reality in New York. And doing a reality show doesn’t take any talent at all.”
“Lola, darling,” Beetelle said, overcome by her daughter’s desire to help out, “that would all be wonderful. If only we could afford to keep you in New York.”
Lola’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Beetelle shook her head. “We can’t afford the apartment anymore. I’ve been dreading telling you this, but we’ve already told the management company. They’re going to let us out of the lease at the end of January.”
Lola gasped. “You got rid of my apartment behind my back?”
“I didn’t want to upset you,” Beetelle said.
“How could you do such a thing?” Lola demanded.
“Darling, please. I didn’t have a choice. As it is, both Mercedes are going to be repossessed in January…”
“How could you let this happen, Mother?”
“I don’t know,” Beetelle wailed. “I trusted your father. And this is what he does to us. And now we’ll all have to live in a condo someplace—where no one knows us—and I guess we’ll try to start over…”
Lola gave a harsh laugh. “You expect me to live in a condo? With you and Daddy? No, Mother,” she said firmly. “I can’t do that. I won’t leave New York. Not when I’ve made so much progress. Our only hope is for me to stay in New York.”
“But where will you live?” Beetelle cried. “You can’t survive on the streets.”
“I’ll live with Philip,” Lola said. “I practically live with him anyway.”
“Oh, Lola,” Beetelle said. “Living with a man? Before you’re married? What will people think?”
“We don’t have any choice, Mother. And when Philip and I get married, no one will remember that we lived together. And Philip has loads of money now. He just got paid a million dollars to write a screenplay. And once we’re married”—Lola looked over at her mother—“we’ll figure something out. He probably would have asked me to marry him by now if it weren’t for his aunt. She’s always around, checking up on him. Thank God she’s old. Maybe she’ll get cancer or something and have to give up her apartment. Then you and Daddy could move in.”
“Oh, darling,” Beetelle said, and tried to hug her. Lola moved away. If her mother touched her, Lola knew she would fall apart herself and start crying. Now was not the time to be weak. And seeming to channel some of her mother’s former legendary strength in the face of adversity, she stood up.
“Come on, Mother,” she said. “Let’s go to the mall. We may not have money, but that doesn’t mean I can let myself go. You must have some credit left on your MasterCard.”
12
Billy Litchfield was on the train to Springfield, Massachusetts, when he got the call from his sister informing him that their mother had fallen down and broken her hip and was in the hospital. She’d been carrying groceries when she slipped on a patch of ice. She would live, but her pelvis was shattered. The surgeons would put the pelvis back together with metal plates, but it would take a long time to heal, and she could be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. She was only eighty-three; she might easily live for another ten or fifteen years. “I don’t have time to take care of her,” Billy’s sister, Laura, wailed on the phone. Laura was a corporate lawyer and single mom, twice divorced with two children, eighteen and twelve. “And I can’t afford to put her in a nursing home. Jacob’s going to college next year. It’s too much.”
“It’ll be fine,” Billy said. He was taking the news more calmly than he would have expected.
“How can it be fine?” his sister said. “Once something like this happens, it’s downhill all the way.”
“She must have some money,” Billy said.
“Why would she have money
?” his sister said. “Not everyone is like your rich friends in New York.”
“I’m aware of how other people live,” Billy said.