A Paris Apartment (38 page)

“Great, great. Work is busy, but she loves it. Absolutely loves it.”

“I always wondered. Do you find it ironic?” April asked. “That after what Mom went through you married a nurse?”

“No,” he snapped. “Why? Do you find it ironic you married someone with an assload of money?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You married someone who could take care of you. Someone who had so much you couldn’t lose everything. Again.”

April snorted. “Don’t confuse wealth with caretaking.”

“Looks the same from where I sit. So. I should probably tell you,” Brian said and turned to face her. “Speaking of caretaking and of Allie, she’s four months pregnant.”

“Really?” April’s face brightened. For a second her heart shed some of its worry. “Finally some good news! My baby brother is going to be a dad!”

She reached over to hug him, stick shift sticking into her ribs.

“Yeah, it’s pretty wild,” Brian said, beaming.

“Completely wild.” April pulled away and looked at her brother. A dad. He was going to be a father. “But perfect. You’ll be fantastic. And Allie will be amazing as always. She’s lucky. You’re lucky. So’s the baby. I’m so incredibly happy for you guys.”

“Yeah, we’re stoked,” he said and turned onto J Avenue, their childhood street.

April held her breath. Every time she visited, her neighborhood shifted a little more. A house was knocked down. A new one sprang up. But through it all the old palm and magnolia trees remained, stalwart against even the most ambitious developers, forever reminding April of how things once looked.

“You’re lucky, you know,” she said to Brian, her voice quivering. “You ended up on the right side of that particular statistic.”

“April—”

“No, seriously, you were the right person to be absolved of the burden. Fifty-fifty, right? Well, you struck zero. You won’t end up in a bed for twenty years, not knowing the name of anything or anyone around you. You can’t pass it on to your kids.”

Their mom might’ve had Alzheimer’s, but Brian would not. Thankfully, not Brian, not the man meant to be a dad, a grandfather. And because of this his children, April’s future nieces and/or nephews, wouldn’t have it either. Maybe the universe knew what it was doing after all.

“I know you took the test forever ago,” April went on. “But each time I think about it, it’s such a relief. Like I’m hearing the news over again. You’re officially out of the woods.”

The car rolled to a stop. They were beside her house.

“Think of how relieved you’d feel, then,” Brian said. “If the person out of the woods was you.”

He was staring at her pointedly. The house was staring at her too.

“Yeah, well,” April mumbled, trying to avoid looking any way but down. “Or I could end up very much in the woods. It could literally go either way.”

“You need to get some balls and take the goddamned test. It’s hanging over your head.”

“‘Hanging over my head’?” April met his gaze. The house stood behind her, watching, staring, looming. “Fifty-fifty for this crazy fucked-up gene, Brian. You’re the zero so chances are I’m the hundred.”

“I know numbers were never your strong point, but it is possible to flip a coin and get heads twice in a row.”

“Why risk it?” she said. “I never wanted kids, so why take the test? So I can find out whether I have some horrible disease for which there’s no cure?”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind,” he said. “About the kids. You’re still young. Kind of.”

“Very funny. And there will be no kids.” Even if she wanted to take the risk, who was going to be the other party to the transaction? Not Troy. She could also say “not certain other people with a French accent,” but not even April was ridiculous enough to give credence to that possibility. “There is zero chance.”

“Come on, my kid needs a cousin. I thought you guys left the possibility open?”

“The possibility is now closed. I don’t even need a medical diagnosis to tell me that.”

“April,” Brian said. “What’s going on with you and Troy? Sorry, I hate being nosy but I have to ask. What’s wrong?”

“That’s a strange question.” She’d said nothing to her brother or her father. Not a single damn thing. “Why would something be wrong with Troy?”

“He’s been calling a lot, for one. Asking after you. It’s weird. Very un-Troy-like.”

April said nothing while she played with the zipper on her tote. Brian shifted in his seat. His keys clinked as he slipped them into his pocket.

“He cheated on me,” April said at last. And then: “I can’t believe I just admitted that.”

“Fuck. Are you serious?”

“Yes. As hilarious a joke as that would be, it is in fact the truth.”

“Fuck,” he said again. “Are you sure?”

“Uh, yeah. This wasn’t a guess on my part. Troy admitted it. One-night stand, won’t happen again, et cetera.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, April. That completely blows.”

“Blows it does. While he is sufficiently contrite, I wish he hadn’t told me. It changed everything. If it wasn’t going to happen again, then why confess? It seems self-serving somehow. Now I’m paranoid, waiting for more bad news. I feel like my entire adult life has been spent waiting for more bad news.”

“Like Mom. Like a genetic disease that can’t be cured.”

“Precisely. One more piece of shit to add to the pile.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian said. “That is so jacked. Do you want me to beat him up?”

“Funny. And kind of sweet. But no. I’m good. Thanks, though. It’s the thought that counts.”

“All right, lemme know if you change your mind.” Brian paused for a minute. He twisted the frayed pieces at the bottom of his shorts. “Let me ask you something. Is it really true you never wanted kids? Or were you afraid to want them?”

April shrugged. “Does it matter? I’d rather not want kids than take a test that tells me I can’t have them, or shouldn’t have them lest I pass along some very fucked-up genes. And never mind the kid factor, I can’t live with the knowledge that I will end up disoriented and bedridden.”

“But—”

“I get it. You were in the same place. But you’re a surfer-Zen-it’s-all-good type. You make the very best of everything and I definitely don’t need a test to tell me I’m lacking
that
particular gene.” April sighed. “I just can’t do it. I can’t live with that kind of fear, forever waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Brian grunted and shook his head.

“I hate to be the bearer of ever-more bad news,” he said and pushed the car door open with his foot. “But you’re already living that way.”

Brian grabbed her bag and started walking up to the house. April remained in place, staring at the grains of sand lodged in the stick shift, wondering if she had the strength to go inside.

At last April turned to the pink house, which was now dulled to salmon from the sun and the salt. Twenty years of unchecked emotions filled her body. April wondered for a second if she was dying, because her life started to flash before her eyes.

Her mother tending to the camellias (now gone) in the flower beds.

Her brother toddling through the yard (now dirt) in nothing but a diaper and a sunburn.

Her father marching through the gate (now chain-link) with a pipe in his mouth and a
San Diego Tribune
tucked beneath his arm.

April lining up her Little People on the front walk (now cracked), putting them through an extensive reprisal of
Grease: The Musical.

It was all still there, not only the house but the life she once had. She might not have the furniture or the
stuff
but April had the memories, the mental diaries she could read at any time. Granted there were no professional farters or nipple chandeliers, but that did not make it any less special. And there was no reason she couldn’t write it all down.

Smiling the slightest bit, April popped open the door and went inside.

Chapitre LXII

The next morning April found her father in the kitchen thumbing through a newspaper. Forever an early riser, he must’ve been up three hours by that point, probably even four. No doubt he’d memorized the newspaper front to back while waiting for her, the detail of every inning of the Padres game now typed into his brain and ready to be regurgitated later in place of conversation. It was sad. Now that her mom was gone he had nothing to do.

“Hey, Dad,” April said and kissed the top of his mostly bald and freckled head. “How’d the Padres do last night?”

“All-Star break,” he grumbled. “Which means they didn’t play. Which is a good day for a Padres fan.”

April smiled with some effort. His feebleness shocked her when she first walked through the door. He was not young and had just lost his wife, but April did not expect him to be so spare and hunched and grim. In her head he was still the thick-set, strong naval officer from her childhood. Now Richard Potter was an old man by any account, the kind you worried about walking up half a flight of stairs. He was only sixty-three but looked closer to ninety.

“So my dear,” he said and lurched to standing. “Can I get you some coffee?”

As much as she needed some, coffee in that house consisted of Sanka and powdered nondairy creamer placed in their cabinet by Betty Wedbush some ten years before. A steep downgrade from Paris to be sure, not that April could drink it before she lived in Paris either.

“No thanks,” April said. “I’m good. And Dad, please sit, I can get whatever I need.”

“All right.” He frowned and lowered himself back onto the chair, a metal thing with plastic straps that belonged on someone’s patio in 1978.

“So, where’s Brian?” April asked, backing up against the orange-tiled counter. “Let me guess, surfing.”

“Of course. Where else?”

“And Allie?”

“She went to watch.”

April chuckled. She tried to imagine herself voluntarily watching Troy play golf or racquetball. The thought never occurred to her, even the time he paid a hundred grand to play a round with Tiger Woods in some charity pro-am.

“Sweet Allie,” April said and shook her head. “They’re cute like that.”

She turned and searched the cabinets for a cup but found only a commemorative Dairy Queen glass circa 1980-something. She remembered ingesting copious amounts of milk and Hershey’s syrup from it as a kid. They’d had several similar glasses, half a dozen at least, but this was the only one to survive.

“Is the tap okay to drink?” she asked.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be? Sorry, no bottled water in this house.”

“Just asking…” April flipped on the faucet, half-expecting a stream of rust-colored water to flow from the tap.

“So, how long you staying?” her father said.

“Oh, uh—” April took three long gulps of water. It tasted like pennies but she was dry-mouthed and parched so took three more. “Until the service, I guess?”

Her father said nothing. He only frowned. Or maybe it was his regular face. April could not recall.

“I’ll come back later,” she added quickly. “Once I’ve finished my project in Paris and am back in the States.”

“Whatever you think is best,” her father said. “Don’t feel obligated to return.”

April nodded, unsure how to respond, which was par for the course when dealing with Richard Potter. It was hard to determine what was more awkward, the quiet or whatever stilted conversation they might engage in. They spoke often but didn’t know each other at all.

“So,” she said. “This is hard.”

Stating the obvious, it was one of April’s finer skills.

“I loved your mother very much,” her dad said, blue eyes veined and watering. “I hope you understand that.”

“God, Dad. Yes. Of course I understand that. Everyone that’s ever met you knows that. You loved her more than anything on this planet.”

“Yes, I did,” he said. “Her and my children.”

April resisted the urge to scoff.

“Mom was lucky to have you,” she said instead. “She may not have
known
it, but she
felt
it. I have no doubt. She
felt
it.”

“Did I tell you that sometimes she would still recognize me?”

April blinked. She
did
? Her mom possessed some cognitive function at the end? April hadn’t known there were any glimpses at all of Sandy Potter during those twenty years. If she had, would April have treated her differently? Spoken to her in some different way?

“Really?” she said. “I had no idea.”

“Yes. Every once in a long while, mind you. But it happened. I’d walk in, and she’d say my name with that big grin and those dimples. Of course I hoped for it every time.”

“That must’ve been so difficult,” April said and sat down across from him. She placed both hands on top of his. His fingers felt cold, chafed, and dry.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said, tears brimming. “I thought it was temporary. Your mom’s situation. To the very last second. I keep thinking, even now, Wait, how can she be dead? You were supposed to fix her!”

“But Dad.” It was laughable, almost. Fix her? Fix Alzheimer’s? April bit the inside of her cheek as a group of kids walked past their fence, boogie boards slung over their shoulders. “You knew there was no fixing, no cure.”

“Intellectually, yes,” he said. “And I know it sounds crazy. But right up until the end I thought it could be fixed. That they could
do
something. Doctors. Science. Whomever. When your mother went into care, AIDS was a death sentence, and now it’s not.”

“Okay, but she didn’t have AIDS. Unfortunately? That doesn’t sound like the right word. This was her
brain
, Dad—”

“I get it,” he snapped, then pulled back. He went to pat her hands but did not actually make contact, instead tapping at the air. “I get it, okay? At the last minute and way too late to do anyone any good. But I get it. I was in denial about so many things. Now that she’s gone, and you’re gone too, and also Brian, though not as much, I realize all those years, they fell through my hands so quickly, like sand. I always thought tomorrow would be okay. But time marches on. Tomorrow doesn’t care about me.”

“Yeah, that’s what stinks about time.” April ran a finger around the edge of her glass. “It flies.”