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“Why not? It’s the truth. He’s a deadbeat who didn’t want to care for his child. I know you were at the hospital to see Eric. What kind of genetic condition is he carrying?”
“A horrible one if you must know. Huntington’s disease.”
Her face morphs to absolute horror, causing lines to form on her face that even her Botox can’t numb. “Jillian, that’s … that’s a …”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“By the time you get to be my age, you’ve heard of it all. I saw it on60 Minutesonce. It’s the absolute worst genetic disease someone can get. When will the results be in?”
“Soon.”
She paces her bedroom and looks at the plush carpet as if it has the answers. “You knew about this when you slept with him? Have you known all these years?”
“I just found out.”
Her pacing stops. There’s a sinister straightening to her back as she looks at me with a stern expression. “How convenient.”
Now, it’s my turn to place a hand on my hip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He all of a sudden reappears in your life. Comes back to makemydaughter, the one with a successful business and property, the one who has the means, take care of him.”
My jaw drops at her insinuation. “Those are cruel accusations, even for you.”
“He went out and had his fun. Now, he needs to make sure he doesn’t die alone in some state-run nursing home. He knows you have money. It’s written all over you.”
“This is deplorable.” My raised voice is shaky.
“That disease can last a decade. Is that what you want for yourself? For your daughter? To play nurse to an invalid for years?”
“I can’t hear any more.”
“It’s honesty, Jillian. You give me grief for wanting you to meet someone and settle down. I choose good men for you. Successful men. Not ones who turn their backs when you’re desperate and alone. Not ones who rebuke their fatherly duties. Even if he doesn’t have this gene—and let’s hope he doesn’t because that could mean your daughter is cursed—what kind of man are you teaching your daughter to admire? Not him. Not a lowlife.”
If I thought my mother had an actual caring bone in her body, I’d be open to her concerns. If she showed more depth of feeling for the situation and what it could mean for Ainsley’s well-being, I’d understand. She doesn’t care about my and Luke’s story. Yes, it’s fraught with misery and untold truths, but it’s our story. It’s Ainsley’s story. I’ll be damned if she destroys my daughter’s view on this world with her own sinister one.
I turn my back to her and open the bathroom door. Luke is standing with Ainsley in his arms. She’s finished the ice pop, and her coloring looks a touch better.
“We’re leaving.”
I usher them out of the bathroom and into the hallway.
My mother is fast behind us on the stairs. “Where are you going?”
“Taking my family home,” I answer her. “Since Dad is so concerned about us, please let him know Ainsley is fine and we left.”
“What am I supposed to do about the bedsheets?”
I stop on the landing and turn to her as she lays a hand on her necklace. “Clean them yourself.”
“You are just rotten. I should tell your father about this attitude. Just like your grandmother. You think the rules don’t apply to you.”
“Grandma might have been hard, but she didn’t take shit from anyone, and neither do I.”
Luke, Ainsley, and I walk down the front steps. He lays Ainsley in the backseat, but leaves the door open, then walks to the front seat.
“She gave you a false sense of self.”
“She helped me when no one else would. I had to lie to you and Dad in hopes that you’d accept my mistake, and you still shunned me all those years.” I’m fired up as I take a step toward her and look her dead in the eye. “You care more about optics than reality. I’d rather be a poor wedding planner who lives in a shack with a man who is about to die a horrible death that will waste away my own days than play Stepford wife to one of your doctors. I’m done trying to be this perfect picture for you to showcase to others when you don’t even care enough about what’s right here in the flesh. Hell, Dad wasn’t even up there while his granddaughter was practically passed out on the bathroom floor or even down here since I’ve been shouting at you in the foyer. He’s probably on the back veranda, having a cigar, ignoring the fuss. No wonder you’re having secret lunches with married doctors.”
