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(Matthew)
As much as I loved myapartment in Manhattan with all of its sleek, modern appeal, I’dneeded more help in the wake of the bear attack than I’danticipated. When my mother had suggested sending her jet to pickme up and bring me straight from the hospital to the family farm, Ihadn’t relished the idea but reluctantly accepted it.
The only thing farm-likeabout my parents’ home in Greenwich was the acreage. Before myfather died, the stables had been full of his prized horses, butmom had sold them off shortly after he’d passed away. She’d alwaysthought his interest in breeding them for racing was ghoulish andcruel; that distaste for genetic meddling did not extend towhatever designer yappy dog she was toting around this decade. Now,the “farm” was a mansion surrounded by untended fields of nativeflora that would have sent my ancestors into a classistfrenzy.
My great-grandfather had built thecompound in the thirties. He’d hired a landscape architect fromParis to make perfectly sculpted parks and avenues around thesprawling mansion of ivy-covered stone and mansard roofs. Mygrandfather had joked that his dad had built “a poor man’sVersailles.”
The problem with that comparison wasthat we had a lot more money than French royalty.
But what the farm lacked in modesty, itmade up for in wide, arched doors and a full-time, round-the-clockstaff, perfect for someone temporarily using a wheelchair andunable to fend for himself. And when I’d gotten out of the chair,the antique rugs on the parquet gave me more traction with mycrutches than the bare polished marble in my apartment wouldhave.
And I was definitely havingmore fun at the farm with my cane than I would have had all bymyself back in New York.
“My dear penguins. We standon a great threshold,” I called ahead of me as I exaggerated mylimp into a waddle to enter the breakfast room. “It’s okay to bescared. Many of you won’t be coming back. Thanks toBatman—”
“Stop,” Mom saidflatly.
“I can’t be the Penguin, Ican’t be Charlie Chaplin—”
She didn’t look up from heriPad sudoku to interrupt me. “You can’t be Charlie Chaplin becausehe didn’t need the cane to walk. You almost went headfirst down thestairs.”
The only reply I couldproduce was, “Pfft.” I sat at the table and leaned my potentiallypermanent walking aid against the chair beside mine.
“It isn’t that I don’t lovehaving my children at home with me,” Mom began with more patiencethan she should be showing a houseguest eight weeks into his stay.“But have you thought about your next steps?”
“Oh, believe me. I thinkabout steps. Steps from the bed to the bathroom, steps from thedesk to—”
“You know what Imean.”
I sighed. “Have I thought about how I’mgoing to transition back into my normal life?”
“Your normal life might notbe a possibility,” she reminded me gently.
She was right, and that sucked. Iwouldn’t be running any marathons any time soon. Rock climbing wasright out. And who wanted to party with a guy who’d have to keepsaying, “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up?”
“I know things are going tochange for a while.” I emphasized the last part of the sentence. Iwasn’t quite ready to accept that a bear shredding the muscles ofmy calf might have permanent consequences. “And I’ll get out ofyour hair, if you need me to.”
The hair in question was the same darkshade as mine, and artfully done despite the early hour. Mom didn’thave to make herself look perfect to hang around the house all day,but years of being a socialite in the upper echelons had made it ahabit harder to break than her smoking. She opened the gold casebeside her barely finished plate of poached eggs and slipped acigarette out—Dunhills, but she thought showing the brand packagingwas tacky—and fitted it into her antique cigaretteholder.
Mom hadn’t come from money,but she’d gotten good at pretending she was “well-bred.”Eventually, parts of the act had become her actualpersonality.
“You’re not in my hair. Doyou honestly think I couldn’t find somewhere to hide from you inthis house?” She gestured expansively around us. “It’s not me I’mworried about. You injured your leg. You didn’t die.”
“I could have.” Withinforty-eight hours of the initial incident, I’d been in surgeryagain, for a blood clot that had been more painful than what thebear did and way more life threatening.
“But you didn’t.” Mom washaving none of my bullshit. “You’re not going to entomb yourselfalive in my house.”
“No, I’m going to have mygood friend Fortunato do that for me.” I sat back as one of thekitchen staff assembled my plate from the sideboard; I wasn’t greatat carrying stuff and walking, yet.
“Fortunato was the one whogot walled up,” Mom corrected. “I’m serious. You have friends. Youhave a life. You were always so busy; I couldn’t get you on thephone.”
“I’m still busy. I wasworking until three this morning,” I pointed out.
“I don’t care about thework. I care about the fact that you’re a forty-year-oldman—”
“Thirty-nine for three moremonths. Watch your mouth.”
“Hush. If you’d asked me atthis time last year what I wanted for you, I’d have said I wantedyou to settle down. But if this is how you’re choosing to do it,Howard Hughes, I’m not sure I approve of the outcome.” She took adrag off her cigarette.