Inheriting edith, p.1
Inheriting Edith, page 1
DEDICATION
For my muses, Ari and Lev
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my editor, Amanda Bergeron, whose encouragement and insight brought these characters to life. Thank you to my former agent, Mollie Glick, whose tenacity and honesty I will miss greatly, and to my current agent, Jess Regel, whose enthusiasm has meant so much.
Thank you to my husband, Ronen Shacham, who spent countless weekends covering for me as I worked on draft after draft. And to my mother and father, Sue and Ethan Fishman, and my brother Brenner Fishman, whose faith in me is a gift for which I am always grateful.
Thank you to Kathi Tobey, for your help in better understanding memory loss from the inside out.
And finally, thank you to my boys, Ari and Lev, for teaching me so much and making me a better writer in the process.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .* About the author
About the book
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Praise for Inheriting Edith
Also by Zoe Fishman
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
A beach house, thought Maggie, her head spinning like the revolving glass door that deposited her back onto Eighteenth Street. People headed home after work bumped and jostled along the sidewalk as she slipped in unsteadily.
“A house in Sag Harbor.” Just the words Sag Harbor conjured up images of the kind of life she had never known. Sand dunes and waves; sea grass and farmers’ markets; rich women with their sun-kissed faces stretched tight like rubber bands.
“Are you sure?” she had asked incredulously when the lawyer had told her upstairs.
“Yes, Miss Sheets,” he had replied brightly. “Here it is, plain as day,” he explained, tapping the will with his finger. “She wanted you to have it.”
Maggie shook her head, still not believing him. They hadn’t spoken in over four years. It made no sense.
“Sag Harbor is lovely, Miss Sheets. A beach town with a New York mentality.”
“Oh, do you have a house there?” she asked, not really caring if he did.
“No, we have a place upstate. My wife hates sand.”
Maggie had nodded absently, thinking that hating sand said a lot about a person. She had to hate sand on principle, because of the way it crept into every uneven ridge of a hardwood floor; collected in grainy, wet piles in the bathtub and settled in the rumpled ridges of bed sheets. It was impossible to clean. But to hate it as someone who didn’t clean houses for a living, who probably employed someone just like Maggie to do it for her, that implied something else entirely.
“But back to you,” he continued, “and Sag Harbor. The house comes with something.”
“Something?” Maggie asked.
“Or someone, I should say.” Maggie’s stomach dropped. Of course.
“Her mother.”
“Yes, yes—so you know Edith?”
“Know? No, I wouldn’t say that. We met once.”
“So you know that she had been living with Liza when she passed.” Passed, thought Maggie. Liza had killed herself. Passed was not the right word, not even close.
“Yes, I know.” Maggie looked down at her feet, thinking about Edith. What must it be like for her now, she wondered, in the aftermath of her daughter’s death? Maggie hadn’t exactly been a fan of Edith’s—she had treated her like the help at the one lunch they’d shared, despite Liza’s repeated attempts to clarify the fact that they were friends—but no mother deserved her child dying before she did. The lawyer clasped his hands in front of him on the desk.
“Edith has recently been diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer’s,” he announced.
“Oh no,” said Maggie. “I had no idea. Liza and I . . . we hadn’t spoken in some time.”
“Yes, apparently the diagnosis was quite recent. Two months ago, to be exact.”
Maggie rubbed her temples, overwhelmed. “I’m sorry, isn’t there a family member better suited for this?” she asked. “I clean houses, Mr. Barnes. I don’t— I’ve never cared for an elderly person. I don’t have the first clue about it.”
Maggie’s mother had been dead a long time, and her father had begun a new life with new kids shortly thereafter. She’d never even seen either of them old, she realized, much less cared for them. She thought back to all of the times Liza had scolded her about her financial recklessness; her relationship decisions; her lack of ambition; the fact that she wore a denim jacket in February. Why would she choose her for this?
“No, I’m afraid not. Edith is the only remaining member of Liza’s immediate family, and as an only child she had no siblings.”
“And what if I don’t take the house? What happens to it? And Edith?”
“The house goes on the market and Edith goes to an assisted living facility nearby,” he answered.
“And Liza didn’t want that.”
“No.”
Maggie wondered when Liza had written the will, and whether or not she knew that she was going to kill herself at the time. She felt a stab in her heart, imagining Liza sitting at her desk in her old apartment, making the decision to bequeath everything to Maggie of all people, snacking on her fluorescent orange peanut butter crackers, the crumbs of which always ended up everywhere, and sipping from one of her Diet Coke cans that always left impossible to erase rings in their wake.
“Liza, would it kill you to use a coaster?” she had asked once.
“Yes, it would kill me,” Liza had replied, not looking up from the book she was reading on the couch as Maggie stopped mid-vacuum to point out the ring of condensation on her coffee table. Maggie’s choice of words seemed so thoughtless now.
No mutual friend had called Maggie to alert her of Liza’s death—there were none of those four years after their friendship had ceased to exist. Maggie had read about it online, scrolling through headlines in bed.
For days Maggie had wandered through her life like a visitor, her head like a tethered balloon, filled with memories. And then, the voicemail from the lawyer, telling her to come in, that he had news. She still couldn’t believe it—any of it. Liza had known so many people. Why had she chosen Maggie for this? Maggie supposed it could be her way of apologizing, but it was so dramatic, so beyond what the situation called for. But who even knew if it was an apology at all?
Regardless of Liza’s intentions, there was no denying what this offer meant. A paid mortgage and a monstrous stipend that would last far beyond the foreseeable future. Security for her daughter, Lucy. Cleaning houses to support herself was one thing—to support two and pay for childcare was quite another. It had been hard, since Lucy had been born, there was no denying it. Maggie thought about the beach; sand between her toes and Lucy giggling as she ran from the shoreline, the waves crashing behind her. It would be a nicer life there, for Lucy. Easier.
And there would be no more housecleaning, except for her own. She’d begun to resent her job lately. Scrubbing floors while she paid for someone else to watch Lucy didn’t make sense. In terms of financial freedom, Liza’s offer was akin to winning the lottery for Maggie.
And yet, the winnings included an uptight old lady who Maggie would have to play nursemaid to. It also meant uprooting their lives to live in a place where they knew no one; and more than that she would be submerging herself in the sadness and guilt Liza had left in her wake. Maggie didn’t believe in ghosts, but the remorse she felt about her friend’s death already felt like being haunted, even at a safe distance. Across the street, the light flashed Don’t Walk, but Maggie, glancing both ways quickly, darted across the intersection anyway.
Maggie had met Liza ten years before, when she was twenty-eight. A lifetime ago, now. She had just begun working for the agency, just started to clean houses for a living, which on paper she knew seemed really sad for a college educated woman, but in reality paid her bills far better than her desk job ever had.
It was fancier even than she had initially thought, the agency she worked for, catering exclusively to rich people with deep pockets. Maggie enjoyed the work, much preferring hard labor to sitting in a chair all day, her ass growing as she indulged in the endless supply of stale leftover Danish and soggy pasta salad from the steady stream of meetings in the conference room across from her. Plus, there was tremendous satisfaction in knowing that even the wealthiest people were dirty behind closed doors.
She’d been excited to know she was going to the world-famous author Liza Brennan’s Upper West Side penthouse. And it was just as she expected, with its built-in bookshelves crammed to bursting, its expensive artwork and French cotton bed sheets as soft as silk. There was nothing fussy about her apartment, but it looked expensive nevertheless. Liza had good taste. She bought the things Maggie would have bought, if she had had the means.
When she had first begun cleaning it—once a week on Thursday mornings—Liza would greet her and then leave, her laptop and papers peeking out of her navy leather satchel. Soon, though, she had asked if Maggie minded if she stayed—her focus was hopeless at coffee shops, she admitted—and Maggie said of course, she didn’t mind, although truthfully she did. As a rule, she hated when her clients hung around, watching her every move, making sure she wasn’t snooping or half-assing it. But Liza was different. She kept her eyes on her computer or the book she was reading without so much as glancing Maggie’s way. It made her want to work harder, that trust. And she had.
“I could eat dinner off this floor,” Liza had remarked, when Maggie bid her farewell, her small cart of cleaning supplies in tow. “Thank you.” And then she would hand Maggie a fifty-dollar tip without so much as a flinch.
Maggie walked around the perimeter of Gramercy Park; the wrought-iron fence separating the plebeians like herself from its impeccably groomed grounds and residents. Was plebeian the right word? she wondered. Liza would have known.
A few months in, she and Liza began to talk. “What’s your story?” Liza had asked one morning, startling Maggie, who was scrubbing Liza’s sink in yellow gloves up to her elbows. Her hands were as dry as driftwood, with cuticles as flimsy as tissue paper. No way around it in her line of work, but the gloves helped.
“My story?” she had replied.
“Yeah, how’d you end up cleaning apartments? You don’t exactly seem like the toilet scrubbing type.”
Maggie wasn’t one for sharing much of anything about herself, but there was something about Liza that made her feel at ease, something familiar. They became unlikely friends. Until they weren’t.
Maggie hustled past the bodegas and the thrift shops; the wine bars and the bar bars; the Peruvian place; the Chinese restaurant; the nail shop where she had once had her eyebrows waxed into commas.
“Hey, Jose,” greeted Maggie, her voice cracking.
He looked up from the tiny black and white television perched on the table beside him and nodded. Once July hit, Jose would emerge from the basement apartment he had owned for close to forty years and take up a daytime residence on their stoop. Sunup to sundown, he sat in his green folding chair and watched baseball in his shorts and V-neck T-shirt; his bald head and forearms were brown by the time September rolled around.
She took the four flights of stairs two at a time, panting as she got higher. At her door, finally, Maggie turned the key, only to have the chain abruptly stop it from opening.
“Mommy!” bellowed Lucy.
“Hey Miss S.,” said Dahlia, unlocking the chain. Lucy sprang forward like an Olympic sprinter, attaching herself to Maggie’s legs with unbridled glee. A delicate flower, she was not, her daughter. “Lucy’s been real good. Had her snack, played with some puzzles—”
“Sesame!” Lucy shrieked, interrupting her.
“Yeah, we watched a little bit,” admitted Dahlia.
“It’s okay. She’s a handful today. I get it.” She pulled her wallet out of her bag and handed Dahlia her pay, noticing that she only had two twenties to last through the rest of the week.
“Thanks, Miss S.” Dahlia folded the cash into a neat U and slid it into the back pocket of her shorts. “Bye Lucy.”
“Bye Dawwa,” replied Lucy. “Hug!”
Dahlia laughed and bent down. Lucy pulled her head close, like the Don of Avenue B, and then released it, pleased with the blessing she had bestowed and ready to move on to the next order of business.
As Dahlia slipped out the door, Lucy galloped around the apartment, neighing. Maggie noticed for the millionth time just how much she looked like her father. The blond curls; the brown eyes; the dimple that had gotten Maggie into trouble in the first place.
“How was hanging out with Dahlia?” asked Maggie. “Did you guys play horsey?” she asked, collapsing onto the couch in a sweaty heap as Lucy climbed onto her lap. Once settled, she drank from her sippy cup of milk in silence, crossing her chubby legs in contentment.
“You sad, Mommy?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m sad.”
“About that lady?”
“Yeah.”
“Where she at again? She died?”
“Yes, baby, she died.”
The morning after reading about Liza, Maggie’s eyes had been red and swollen from her tears, so much so that she could barely open them. When Lucy had asked her what was wrong, Maggie had had no time to concoct a sensitive story about the circle of life.
“My friend died,” she had told her, surprising herself with the word. She hadn’t considered Liza a friend in a long time.
“What’s ‘died’ means?” Lucy had asked.
“Gone.”
“Oh.”
She had patted Maggie on the hand and returned to her favorite activity—lining up her parade of tiny plastic zoo animals—as Maggie stared blankly out of their lone window into her neighbor’s empty kitchen, exhausted.
Maggie looked around the room now—the puzzles and crayons, the threadbare rug, the Ikea kitchen table and chairs she had bought when she was fresh out of college—and sighed. She looked at her hands, as dry as chalk.
She thought about Liza; what her advice would have been had someone else left Maggie their home and mother.
What’s the problem here? Liza would have asked.
But the mother— Maggie would have argued.
So what about the mother? How hard can making sure an old lady takes her medication be? If you don’t take this offer, you’re an idiot. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.
And then she would have moved on to another topic of conversation. Maggie could take her advice or not, it was up to her. That was how their relationship had worked, until it didn’t.
So this was Liza’s final piece of advice. Take my house and mom, take Lucy out of that tiny apartment in that crazy city and start over. Maggie didn’t like being told what to do usually, but this was different. Since Lucy had been born, she had felt like she was drowning, slowly but surely, the water inching up all around her.
And so she would.
CHAPTER 2
Edith woke. Blinking in the darkness, she knew even before turning to the clock on her bedside table that it was 5:22 AM. Her body, stubborn old thing that it was, would not sleep a minute more. The world outside her bedroom windows was silent, but soon the birds would begin their inquisitive chirping; the bugs their interminable buzzing and the twenty-somethings their incessant shrieking and splashing in the pool next door. It was the middle of summer, but Edith wished it was the end.
Every year it was the same. Spring would arrive, timidly at first—a daffodil here, a crocus there, an unexpected sunburn across the bridge of her nose while she was out walking—and then, right behind it: people. So many of them, in their shiny cars filled to bursting with designer weekend bags and organic snacks; the women’s tresses highlighted just so and the men’s receding hairlines artfully disguised, their children spilling out like groomed monkeys. Edith despised them. Sag Harbor was her home year-round—through the sunshine and the snow, the open windows and the grumbling furnace—but these people, these were quite literally fair-weather friends.
Edith stretched carefully, wincing at the papier mâché–like stiffness of her eighty-two-year-old joints. It was hard, this aging thing, especially since her body had once been as limber as a rubber band. She had been a dancer when she was young; her body her instrument. Now it felt more like an old car, with a faulty transmission. The wrinkles that rippled out from the corners of her eyes and across her cheeks and forehead like the waves of a pond didn’t bother her as much as the fact that her body just wouldn’t move like it used to, stalling out when she least expected it. Bending over and getting up hurt now, and stairs were best avoided, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. She made herself walk every morning, no matter how difficult it was. She was still the boss of it, thank you very much. And her mind, too, no matter what that fancy doctor in Manhattan said, in her condescending and nasally voice.
Irritating or not, she had scared her, and so Edith took her pills every morning before brushing her crisp white bob, donning her khaki Bermuda shorts and sleeveless chambray blouse, slipping into her sandals and climbing into her car to drive the short distance to the beach, where she strolled the shore for twenty-five minutes precisely. She loved the way her muscles responded to the soothing lap of the waves against her feet, unfurling like flags to remind her of their strength, and the way the sun hung hesitantly in the sky, groggy from a night’s rest. It was her favorite time of the day.
