“There is something we can do now to help him,” she said.
Meredith looked startled. “Help who?”
“Dad,” Nina said impatiently. “Isn’t that who we’re talking about?”
“Oh. Is it?”
“He wanted us to get to know Mom. He said she—”
“Not the fairy tales again,” Meredith said. “Now I know why you’re so successful. You’re obsessive. ”
“And you aren’t?” Nina laughed at that. “Come on. We can make her tell us the story. You heard her tonight: she said there was no point arguing with me. That means she’s going to give up fighting. ”
Meredith stood up. She was a little unsteady on her feet, so she clutched the back of the chair for support. “I knew better than to try to talk to you. ”
Nina frowned. “You were talking to me?”
“How many times can I say it: I am not listening to her stories. I don’t care about the Black Knight or people who turn into smoke or the handsome prince. That was your promise to Dad. Mine was to take care of her, which I’m going to do right now. If you need me, I’ll be in the bathroom, packing up her things. ”
Nina watched Meredith leave the kitchen. She couldn’t say she was surprised—her sister was nothing if not consistent—but she was disappointed. She was certain that this task was something Dad had wanted them to do together. That was the point, wasn’t it? Being together. What else but the fairy tales had ever accomplished that?
“I tried, Dad,” she said. “Even getting her drunk didn’t help. ”
She got to her feet, not unsteady at all. Tucking the decanter of vodka under one arm, and grabbing Mom’s shot glass, she went upstairs. At the bathroom’s half-open door, she paused, listening to the clink and rattle that meant Meredith was back at work.
“I’ll leave Mom’s door open,” she said, “in case you want to listen in. ”
No answer came from the bathroom, not even a pause in crinkling of newspaper.
Nina walked across the hallway to her mother’s room. She knocked on the door but didn’t wait for an invitation. She just walked in.
Mom sat up in bed, propped up on a mound of white pillows, with the white comforter drawn up to her waist. All that white—her hair, her nightgown, her bedding, her skin—contrasted sharply with the black walnut headboard and bed. Against it, she looked ethereal, otherworldly; an aged Galadriel with intense blue eyes.
“I did not invite you in,” she said.
“Nope. But here I am. It’s magic. ”
“And you thought I would want vodka?”
“I know you will. ”
“Why is that?”
Nina moved to the side of the bed. “I made a promise to my dying father. ” She saw the effect of her words. Her mother flinched as if she’d been struck. “You loved him. I know you did. And he wanted me to hear your fairy tale about the peasant girl and the prince. All of it. On his deathbed, he asked me. He must have asked you, too. ”
Her mother broke eye contact. She stared down at her blue-veined hands, coiled together atop the blankets. “You will give me no peace. ”
“None. ”
“It is a child’s story. Why do you care so much?”
“Why did he?”
Mom didn’t answer.
Nina stood there, waiting.
Finally Mom said, “Pour me a drink. ”