When I open them, I’m still here. I have no choice but to resign myself to it.
“When can I release the book?”
“I won’t be around much longer,” Evelyn says, sitting down on a stool by the island.
“Enough with the vagaries, Evelyn. When can I release the book?”
Evelyn absentmindedly starts folding an errant napkin that is sitting haphazardly on the counter. Then she looks up at me. “It’s no secret that the gene for breast cancer can be inherited,” she says. “Although if there were any justice in the world, the mother would die of it well before the daughter.”
I look at the finer points of Evelyn’s face. I look at the corners of her lips, the edges of her eyes, the direction of her brows. There is very little emotion in any of them. Her face remains as stoic as if she were reading me the paper.
“You have breast cancer?” I ask.
She nods.
“How far along is it?”
“Far enough for me to need to hurry up and get this done.”
I look away when she looks at me. I’m not sure why. It’s not out of anger, really. It’s out of shame. I feel guilty that so much of me does not feel bad for her. And stupid for the part of me that does.
“I saw my daughter go through this,” Evelyn says. “I know what’s ahead of me. It’s important that I get my affairs in order. In addition to finalizing the last copy of my will and making sure Grace is taken care of, I handed over my most-prized gowns to Christie’s. And this . . . this is the last of it. That letter. And this book. You.”
“I’m leaving,” I say. “I can’t take any more today.”
Evelyn starts to say something, and I stop her.
“No,” I say. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you. Don’t say another goddamn word, OK?”
I can’t say I’m surprised when she speaks anyway. “I was just going to say that I understand and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I say, just as I remember that Evelyn and I aren’t done.
“For the photo shoot,” she says.
“I’m not sure I’m prepared to come back here.”
“Well,” Evelyn says, “I very much hope that you do.”
WHEN I GET HOME, I instinctively throw my bag onto the couch. I am tired, and I am angry, and my eyes feel dry and stiff, as if they have been wrung out like wet laundry.
I sit down, not bothering to take off my coat or my shoes. I respond to the e-mail my mother has sent containing her flight information for tomorrow. And then I lift my legs and rest my feet on the coffee table. As I do, they hit an envelope resting on the surface.
It is only then that I realize I even have a coffee table in the first place.
David brought it back. And on it rests an envelope addressed to me.
M—
I should never have taken the table. I don’t need it. It’s silly for it to sit in the storage unit. I was being petty when I left.
Enclosed is my key to the apartment and the business card of my lawyer.
I suppose there is not much else to say except that I thank you for doing what I could not.
—D
I put the letter down on the table. I put my feet back up. I wrestle myself out of my coat. I kick off my shoes. I lay my head back. I breathe.