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Jax
“Why am I nervous?” I ask Dash, who’s riding the elevator in our parents’ home that looks like an East Hampton estate. Grandiose, even then.
“Because he didn’t recognize you last week? And because you’re always nervous?”
“I know, and it’s dumb.”
It’s not dumb, but I don’t want my brother to know the extent to which our company is underwater right now. Not when I still think I can move money around and fix the issue.
Who am I kidding? I’ve been reallocating funds from one line of the balance sheet to the other for weeks, trying to find ways to save so we can absorb the big losses my dad warned me about, and I still have a Grand Canyon-sized abyss between the totals.
I need to get my brain around the fact that I might not be able to fix this. Which means telling everyone—my siblings, investors, employees—that we may not survive to do business in a year.
I do not want to be the bearer of that kind of news, and the stubborn optimist in me still thinks I can find a solution. A new investor, a new source of funds, a giant bandaid when we’ve been bleeding money.
The elevator reaches the third floor, and the doors trundle open. I always wonder why the home elevator Dad purchased for his house is so much slower than any elevator I’ve ever ridden in. Maybe because he never planned to use it. Well, joke’s on us because he never did use it, and we’re only riding in it because someone thought it made sense to refinish the staircase today.
“Why is it dumb?”
“It’s not like anything’s changed the last few times we’ve come.”
“But it could. That’s why you’re nervous.”
We start down the long hallway, a parquet floor designed in an expensive herringbone pattern that I only know cost a fortune because my dad made a point of telling me. And anyone else who’s ever visited the McMansion.
Dad’s gone through a rough patch over the past couple weeks, ever since he asked me to come so he could harp on me about getting help with Fiona. I haven’t even been able to let him know I succeeded on that front because he hasn’t recognized me the past two times I’ve been here.
His blank stare chills me to my bones, and I prepare myself for a repeat today. Lately, if he does have glimmers of recognition, it’s mostly thinking my sister is our mother or thinking I’m Dash or Archer.
Sometimes, I wonder if it confuses him more when we come in pairs because it’s always a different combination of kids showing up. That would confuse anyone, dementia aside.
He repeats conversations he’s already had with each of us long ago. It makes me think he doesn’t regret the advice he gave at the time, which is something, I guess.
“This is the new pattern, maybe,” Dash says. “One step forward, three back?”
“The new drug is supposed to slow the progression, or at least maintain where he is. The protocol was pretty successful in trials.”
Dash huffs a laugh. “Well, Dad’s never been a conformist.”
“True.” Dad’s nurse called and said he was more lucid when he woke up this morning, so we hightailed it over here at the end of his morning nap, hopeful he’ll wake up and recognize us. I’ve been hamstrung trying to balance the budget without knowing where Dad spent money last year without recording any of it.
Our accountants are having a fit because mysterious losses don’t fly with the IRS. I still haven’t told my siblings about it, and we’re getting close to the deadline for telling shareholders that their investment may be a giant bust.
That shitshow just can’t happen.
“I’m here to help. Just nudge me if you need me to step in more.” Dash walks fast and talks faster. I have long legs, but I feel like I’m speed walking to keep up with him as our shoes clack on the hardwood floor.
I gave him the bare-bones description of what I need our dad to tell us without revealing our financial straits. I don’t plan to push for details or clutter up the conversation with unimportant facts. I just need to know what happened to the money. And I need to know if my dad made these murky business decisions before he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Every detail matters.
We reach the left wing of the house, which opens into a large landing rimmed with an ornate railing and overlooking an indoor orchid garden that’s tended to by a dedicated staff. Our parents were collectors of rare orchids, and even though my dad hasn’t left his room in weeks, the blooms are regularly spritzed and fed.
It all seems ridiculous to me, and each time I visit the mansion, I vow never to let my life turn into something with this kind of excess. Then I wonder if it already has.
Seeing Ruby’s wide-eyed glow every day despite having to support her sister makes me feel like I’ve been sheltered from real world problems for far too long. Maybe I’ve already lost touch.
Dad’s nurse, Betsy, pokes her head out the doorway of Dad’s room at the center of the sweeping landing. Rooms on either side are a home gym and an office. Other than the need to eat, our father never had reason to leave this wing of the house.
When he was working on a project, like building the first restaurant on the property and excavating one of the hills to house the wine cave, he’d stay up here for days and have his food brought in.
