One for the Money

Now I sound like Eva, handling the family. It’s true, though. Someone has to. Maybe that’s why I understand her so well. I know how responsibility drives you. Which sounds like a good thing, until you forget to eat or sleep or live your own life.

He grins. “Great.”

It does feel surprisingly great, knowing he’ll live here now. “Great.”

“Now tell me the truth… you and this Morelli chick. Are you using protection?” He uses a low, imperious tone that I assume is what I sounded like when I asked him the same question.

Which is painful, because of course I didn’t use protection the first time. Stupid of me. Impossibly stupid. I’ve used a condom every time after that, but I can hardly judge him for losing his head, since I did, too. “First of all, her name is Eva Morelli. You may call her Eva or Ms. Morelli, but not that Morelli chick. Secondly, none of your business.”

“Then why is it your business if I use protection?”

“Where did you hear about it, anyway?”

“Someone sent me a post on Instagram. Apparently you’re this influencer’s soulmate and she wants to, and I quote, cut a bitch for making you fall in love. She was mostly joking, but she had enough violence in her eyes that I wouldn’t trust Ms. Eva Morelli alone with her.”

It’s not ideal that social media has picked this up. We asked the family to keep it quiet, but it was only a matter of time before it got out. “If anyone asks you anything—”

“Don’t comment. I’ve been a Hughes my whole life, you know. I know the drill.”

“Right.” I run a hand over my face. “Listen, I don’t have a date tonight.”

“Is she getting tired of you already?” he asks with exaggerated sympathy.

Actually, she had a baby shower this afternoon. No men allowed. It will probably run late, and she’ll be tired after. Which makes me feel strangely itchy. I’ve gotten used to spending time with Eva. And spending part of the night in her bed. “Why don’t we have a movie night?”

“You and me?”

“Sure,” I say. “We could see if Dad’s up to it.”

“I want popcorn.”

“I’m sure the chef can work something up.”

A lopsided smile. “So, like a regular family movie night?”

“As regular as the Hughes ever get.”

We head down the hall into the east wing, which is where my father lives. He has a set of apartments with connecting rooms for his nurses. Everything is soft and spare here. It used to be decorated like the rest of the house. One by one things have been removed. Vases when he knocked them over. Paintings when he tore one apart. A ten-thousand-dollar Rembrandt.

His nurse smiles when we enter, but it’s not the good kind of smile. It’s the smile that says she’s already feeling sympathy for what we’ll face with him.

I nod a greeting. “How’s he doing?”

“Reactive, unfortunately. He’s been a little emotional.”

Which means outbursts, probably. Yelling. Throwing things. A movie night may not be in the cards. I step through the open threshold to a sitting area that contains a large TV. He’s sitting in the middle of a couch, leaning forward, watching the screen while tear tracks glisten on his cheeks. What the hell? I come around to see what he’s watching.

Fuck. It’s a video from my birthday party.

I don’t even know how old I was. Seven? Eight?

Dad set up an elaborate slip-and-slide system throughout the yard. Mom didn’t stop moaning about the divots in the lawn for weeks, but it was worth it. In the video, children run through sprinklers and send their little bodies hurtling over plastic. I remember the crinkly feel of it, slick from the many hoses. I remember the scent of wet grass and the mud caked on my knees when I slid past the end. I remember laughing until my sides hurt.

Dad took lots of videos when we were younger.

They were like the poetry. Preparations for when he changed.

Memories for when he forgot.

The camera turns shaky, and then it’s pointing at me. I’m grinning with a missing tooth. “Your turn,” I tell the camera. “Dad, come on. You promised you would.”

There’s a faceless laugh. “Give me a minute, son. I have to do one thing before I absolutely destroy the grounds. I’m going to be in the doghouse for a long time.”

My mother comes into view, looking torn between anger and laughter. “I’m not letting you in the house if you go down that slip and slide. You’ll have to sleep in the gatehouse with the hounds.”

The view shifts wildly, flashing briefly on a tableau of tables covered in food and balloon arches with people milling around. Then it jerks again, this time pointing at grass. “Are you sure?” Dad murmurs in a playful tone. “If I’m in the gatehouse, I can’t make it up to you.”