Page 3 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Three

When Gail drops me off at the care home, I’m still shaking. She says something as I go, but my swirling rage and impotence drowns it out.

I love my aunt. Adore her. But right now, as she tries to tell me it won’t be that bad, that she’ll come to Paynes Hollow with me, all I can feel is the scorch of betrayal.

I’m being unfair. I know that. Gail asked the lawyer every question she could think of to get me out of this devil’s bargain. What if I refuse? Does the property go to Gail and her brother? She could gift me her share that way.

No, if I refuse, it goes to distant relatives, and I can’t even tell myself maybe they need the money—they run a Fortune 500 company.

The only person I want to see right now is my mother. I want to see that light in her eyes that tells me she’s my mother again.

After Dad died, Mom and I muddled through, growing closer in our grief and confusion. But then I hit my teen years, and when I lashed out, my wonderfully calm mom was so implacable it only enraged me more, like punching a brick wall.

Gail would blame my trauma, but I blame me.

At the time, though, I blamed Mom—blamed her for marrying Dad, for not seeing what he was.

All breathtakingly unfair, but at fifteen, I was a seething black hole of repressed rage and hormones and grief, and I aimed it all at my poor mother, to the point where I’d moved in with Gail.

I can’t give my mom back what should have been our last few good years together, but I can make damn sure she gets the best care now, whatever the cost.

Even if the cost is going back to Paynes Hollow?

I stride through the care-facility doors, inhale the smell of fresh-baked cinnamon buns, and my pulse slows. Then I see Vickie, looking up from her paperwork to shake her head, and my insides shrivel. It’s all I can do to cross those last few feet to her.

“I’m too late,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“It was my grandfather’s funeral. I couldn’t get away.”

She reaches over to pat my hands. “I know. And it was such a brief episode that you might not have made it even if you came right away. But it was so good to see, and I think we’re going to get a lot more of those.”

“With the new medication,” I say.

Her warm smile falters. The new—and very expensive—medication. “It might not be that. Your mother is such a strong woman. I’ve seen this happen, where they rally on their own, and if anyone can do that, it’s your mom.”

It’s a kind lie, but still a lie. If Mom is improving, it’s the trial medication. Vickie was responsible for advocating to get Mom on that trial, but it’s ending, and if she stays on it, there will be a price. A steep one.

A price for better medication. A price for this place, modern and yet cozy, like a Norwegian spa specializing in hygge living, as warm and comforting as a hug.

I didn’t put my mother here. Given the choice, I’d have cared for her myself, which would have been a disaster to rival the Titanic, and at the end, we’d both have gone down with the ship.

Driven by guilt and love, I’d have surrendered any dreams of my own to care for my mother, who would have fought me every step of the way—with love when she was lucid and fury when she was not.

My mother’s legendary calm slips as her memory does. She has rages, as if when her mind relaxes, her own suppressed anger at Dad finally rushes out.

Mom put herself here, without telling me, and as always, she did the right thing. She found this place, and it is exactly right for her.

“Is it okay to see her?” I ask tentatively.

Vickie smiles. “I believe so. Her episodes have been rarer, too.”

I know that. I’m here daily, and I’m as involved as I’m allowed to be. She has been getting better.

Because of the medicine I soon won’t be able to afford.

In a home that I soon won’t be able to afford.

Unless …

I clamp down on the thought. I’d spend a month in that hellhole, only to discover that I’d failed to fulfill some minor stipulation and I’d lose the property.

My grandfather had been careful to close off every loophole, but I’m sure he introduced a few. Just to torment me. A final act of spite, punishing me for the sin of turning in my murderous father.

The lawyer’s words ring in my head as she’d read from the note my grandfather left. Not a private note. One that he ordered to be read aloud to all.

I understand that Samantha was a child when she thought she saw her father do that terrible thing.

I understand that she truly believes she saw it, and that he could have done such a thing to another human being, much less a child.

But she is wrong. I may not have been able to make her see that in life, but I can do it now, after my death.

She will return to Paynes Hollow, and she will spend a month there, and she will remember the truth. She will finally remember the truth.

Fresh rage whips through me. There is no doubt of what I saw. My father never tried to deny it. He ended his life because of what I saw. He left a goddamn suicide note, begging my forgiveness, ranting about inner demons.

He never denied what I saw or my interpretation of it.

Vickie leads me into the sunroom, my favorite spot in the home.

It’s empty, as it usually is. You’d think that if loved ones cared enough to pay for this home, they’d be here as often as they could, but that’s my naiveté talking.

Paying for an expensive long-term-care facility only means you have money, and sometimes, having money means you can plunk Grandpa in a place like this and wash your hands of him, content in the knowledge you’ve done your duty.

I take a seat by the window overlooking the Seneca River.

“Gail,” a voice says, and my heart cracks a little as I rise to face the woman entering the room.

She’s petite and beautiful, with hair just beginning to gray, her face unlined.

She looks thirty-five, not fifty-five, a cruel trick, as if some higher power made up for her mind’s rapid degeneration by letting her body stay young.

“Mom,” I say. “It’s me. Sam.”

She stops short. Then she smiles. “Ah, you and Sam are playing a joke on me.” She wags a finger. “My daughter would never dress like that. If you want to do this properly, you need to show up in jeans and hiking boots.”

I look down at my funeral garb. She’s right, of course. This dress is far more Gail than me. Yet Mom makes the mistake no matter what I wear. I look too much like my aunt, and Mom still expects me to be a teenager.

I don’t keep trying to correct her. I know the drill. One or two attempts is fine, but more will upset her.

As her mind wanders, my trick for communicating is to imagine if the situation were reversed, and Mom kept insisting it was a different year or she was a different person. I would find it funny at first, but eventually I’d get angry.

“Do I smell cinnamon rolls?” I ask.

Mom sighs as she sits across from me. “They’re as bad as your brother, always bringing me treats.”

I tense. By Gail’s “brother,” she means my dad, who always brought us both treats, and Mom always teasingly scolded him until I offered to eat hers, too.

“It’s a lovely day,” I say. “Maybe we could go for a walk along the river?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s safe,” Mom says. “You never know what’s in the water.” She folds her hands in her lap. “Those cinnamon buns smell like they’re almost done.”

I smile. “Sure, we’ll wait for your cinnamon bun, Mo—Veronica.”

She leans forward, as if someone might be listening. “Have you seen Sam lately? I know she’s busy, but she never comes to see me anymore.”

“I was here yester—” Deep breath, even as my hands shake. “She’ll be here soon.”

Mom’s hands twist in her lap. “I think she’s still angry with me.”

My eyes fill. “No. She’s not angry with you. If she ever was, she didn’t mean it.”

Mom nods, gaze down.

“Really. Sam loves you so much. She’ll be here tomorrow. I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so,” Mom says, in a tiny voice that breaks me in two.

An hour later, I’m hurrying out of the building, trying not to cry, when someone hails me. I turn to see the administrator bearing down.

“Ms. Payne,” he says, panting slightly as he catches up. “We need to discuss your account.”

I raise a hand. “I know. I’m behind on the latest payment—”

“You are two payments behind. It is the sixteenth. August’s payment was due yesterday.”

“I’ll have July’s payment on Friday.”

“And August?”

“I … I’m speaking to my mother’s insurance company next week. They promised to cover part of her stay, and they’re dragging their heels.”

“I understand, but you need to pursue that separately. We have bills to pay, too, Ms. Payne. If you cannot catch up by next week, you will need to make other arrangements for your mother.”

I open my mouth, but he’s already striding back into the building.

I stand there, staring at the door as it closes behind him. I’m not sure whether I want to scream or cry. Both. At once. I want to rage against the world that did this to my mother. That put her through that hell with my dad and then took away her mind.

Ten million dollars, a voice whispers in my head.

I swallow hard.

I keep saying I’d do anything for my mother. I gave up on med school for her. I left a good job for her. I moved back to Syracuse for her. I let my cat die for her.

Maybe I should be raging at the world that keeps demanding more sacrifices from me, but every time I feel that, I think of my mother, and her sacrifices, what she endured and keeps enduring.

I say I would do anything, but I won’t spend a month at Paynes Hollow? I’m not being asked to sacrifice a limb. It’s a month in a cottage on a private beach, for fuck’s sake.

The world that keeps demanding more has finally offered something in return.

Compensation beyond my wildest imaginings.

Enough money that I could write a single check to cover Mom’s stay for the rest of her life.

Enough money to keep her on that trial and buy every medication she needs.

Enough to get her the best help—private nurses, dedicated caretakers, anything she might need as she deteriorates.

I could give her that. I just need to have the guts to do it.

As I walk to the bus stop, I call Gail.

“Hey,” she says, her voice tentative.

“I need to be sure,” I say.

“Sure about…?”

“That it’s real. That if I spend a month there, I’ll get the money for Mom. That there’s no way this is a trick, no loopholes I can stumble through. I don’t need ten million dollars. But I have to be sure that I will get enough.”

“Of course.” Her voice firms, and I can imagine her straightening. “Let me call Ms. Jimenez. I’ll tell her we want to talk. I won’t let you go through this if there’s any chance your grandfather is playing games. And I won’t let you go through it alone.”