“Sorry I didn’t call last night,” I apologized. “Things were a bit . . .” Nightmarish? Ghoulish? Insane? “Hectic.”
“I was worried about you. When are you coming home?”
“There’s been a development,” I said cautiously.
“What sort of development? Not trouble with the will, I hope?”
“Nothing like that,” I assured her. I was deeply regretting my Stupid Lie. I had told my wife we had inherited millions of dollars. How the hell am I going to walk that back?
“So what, then?” she asked.
“There’s a possibility . . . ,” I started, then said a silent prayer for courage, “that my mother is not actually dead.”
The line went silent. I tried to imagine what was going through my wife’s head. Some might have found it wonderful news that a loved one who had been thought dead might still be alive. But Marcela had never much liked Mom, and of course there was the money.
“Marcela? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“There’s a lot we still don’t know—”
“Well, what do you know?”
“Her casket was empty.”
“And you found this out, how?”
“We dug it up.”
“I see.”
“We don’t know where she is, but we’re pretty sure she’s alive.”
“So she just wants you to think she’s dead?”
“So it seems.”
“So she’s coming back, then?”
“Most likely. Though we have no idea when, or where to look for her.”
There was a tense beat of silence. And then: “I’m coming down.”
Click. The line went dead. It was only a ninety-minute drive from Santa Barbara to LA. Marcela could get the kids packed and ready in an hour. Which meant another stressful element of this whole fucked-up equation would be upon me before lunch.
I thought about what Nathan said. He was right. I should have taken better care of Mom. She was sick and needed me. I had my reason for not saving my mom’s life. And she was on her way down with our two kids.
CHAPTER 56
* * *
MARCELA
“Wake up, sweetheart. We’re going to LA,” I said to my seven-year-old as I smoothed his hair off his perfect little face. I had already packed the suitcases and loaded them into the car. I didn’t know what the hell was going on with Charlie’s deranged family, but with new-house money on the line, I’d be a damn fool if I didn’t get my ass down there and find out.
“To see Gran-gran?” Zander asked, and I had to think about how to answer that.
“Well, to stay in her house, for sure,” I offered. We hadn’t told our son that Gran-gran had died yet; we were hoping to make the news go down easier with a trip to Disneyland that Gran-gran paid for from heaven.
“She’s not going to be there?” he pressed as I handed him a clean shirt and pants.
“It’s a surprise,” I said. “Now get dressed while I make us breakfast.”
I changed Theo’s diaper, then buckled him in his high chair with a handful of Cheerios so I could make pancakes for his big brother. As I dropped two frozen breakfast sausages into a pan of sizzling oil, I shuddered to think how fucked up a person would have to be to want to carve up her children and mine them for spare parts. I mean, seriously: What kind of batshit-crazy bitch would ask her own son to give her a kidney? And then fake her own death to punish him for refusing!
“Zander!” I called out. “Breakfast is ready!”
As my son dug into his pancakes, I picked up my phone and texted: I’m coming to LA.
Charlie and I had been married for eight years, but my seven-year itch started long before we hit that ominous milestone. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I met my true love at our wedding. I hadn’t anticipated ever acting on it—it just happened. Over and over and over again.
Please don’t, the text reply said.
Yes, Louisa was generous with me and Charlie. We never asked her to throw us a lavish wedding; she did it to satisfy her own ego. I would have been happy with a simple ceremony on the beach in bare feet and braids in my hair. But Louisa insisted on inviting a full complement of family and friends. I largely ignored most of the guests—they were of no interest to me. Except for one.
Already packed, I texted back. The phone rang two seconds later.
“Finish up and clear your dish to the dishwasher,” I instructed my seven-year-old as I left the room to take the call.