My head jolts up. “He did?”
“Uh-huh. If he hadn’t stumbled on you just when he did, or if he found you maybe even a half hour later, you might not be alive right now.”
I let this sink in. Any minute, Tully’s apt to confront Jimmy about his counterfeit money, but I feel a rush of gratitude. And then a bolt of regret for siccing Tully on him. I never should have done that. I remember Jimmy driving me to the hospital—me being scared not because my life was in danger but because of his silly fast speed and reckless driving. He could have taken me anywhere, or he could have let me stay in my Watergate bedroom. Instead, he took me back here to ensure I’d be safe and healthy. Right about now, Tully’s probably bullying him. Or worse.
But it’s all theoretical, I tell myself, working out the possibilities in my mind. Maybe Tully’s just finding out more about where his money is or plotting with Jimmy how to get it back. But it’s Tully we’re talking about, someone who’d never resort to reason when violence was a viable alternative. And then I just know it: Jimmy’s going to be brutalized.
“What’s wrong?” Lois Belcher asks.
I grab my phone. There’s probably still time to let Jimmy know Tully’s about to come after him. I cross my fingers and dial him up. But then I hear Jimmy’s phone ring. It’s on the nightstand next to the flowers, where it’s probably been since yesterday. I start to cry. He may have saved my life, but I can’t do anything to save his.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
TRISH
Stepping into Savory Mew after coming back from the bank, I’m woken out of my shattered spirits by the sound of Anne Elise crying upstairs in the hideaway office. She’s hungry, thirsty, and in need of a calm shoulder on which to rest her tired body. I’ve lived most of my life in Georgetown, a tony enclave of privilege and power, but a sense of estrangement already settles over me. Without money, I won’t be able to afford to live here much longer. My mind is numb, empty, a cotton field that has been picked clean. I can’t even cover Laurel’s legal expenses should we convince her to bring suit against the hospital.
I grab a baby bottle from the refrigerator, stick it in the electric bottle warmer. James’s carafe of chamomile tea remains on the counter, untouched but still warm enough to drink thanks to its special thermal lining. In desperate need of a pick-me-up, I pour a cup and give it a taste. James has done something different to it. It’s cloudier than it ought to be, as if he’s dribbled a teaspoon of cream into the carafe. I take small sips to judge whether it’s to my liking, the sips just large enough to wet my tongue. It’s more bitter but with a sweet aftertaste that tingles and numbs the back of my throat. Anne Elise hasn’t stopped crying since I entered the house, and I suspect she, too, would enjoy a little chamomile calm in her life. Chamomile’s natural and totally safe, so I unscrew the top of the baby bottle, pour half its contents into the sink, and top the bottle off with tea.
Upstairs, I lift Anne Elise out of her cradle. She looks at me with anger in her eyes, her face red with anguish, her hands balled into fists no bigger than silver dollars, but she’s smart: I show her the bottle, and she opens her mouth and reaches for it. Almost immediately, she’s suckling the bottle, murmuring, seemingly contented, but then her eyes pop open. She pushes the bottle’s nipple out of her mouth with the pink tip of her tongue and fusses, and when she stops fussing, she stares at the bottle as if trying to make sense of it. The taste must set her on edge. I dabble a few drops onto her lips, which she licks, but she’s still hesitant to accept the bottle, so I jam it into her mouth, determined not to lose a battle of wills to a newborn.
“It’s only a little bitty little tea. That’s what you’re tasting.”
Rather than drinking the bottle, Anne Elise wails. I can’t get her to drink from the bottle. I force it into her mouth a third time, and this time she actually presses her lips against the silicone nipple, chugging at it. Somewhere, I remember reading a magazine article saying that people can retrain their taste buds to become accustomed to and accepting of new foods or strange tastes just by eating them three times, which is exactly what seems to happen with Anne Elise and the tea. It’s as if she’s forgotten her initial aversion to the concoction. Satisfaction comes over me. She takes a few more sips. But then a look of sudden consternation falls over her. She pushes the nipple out of her mouth.
Frustrated, I carry her downstairs, grab a formula-only bottle from the refrigerator, stick it in the bottle warmer, and pour another cup of tea for myself. There’ll be time tomorrow or some other day to teach Anne Elise to like the tea, but though she hasn’t drunk that much, the chamomile’s already done its trick on her: she’s calmer, quieter, drowsier. When the formula bottle’s warm, I feed Anne Elise, and such is her hunger that she drinks the entire bottle before I remember to burp her.
When Anne Elise falls asleep again, I take her back upstairs and lower her into the cradle. Her shallow breathing makes her seem like a lifeless doll, so calm does she appear. I stand, staring at her for ten minutes. Her chest barely rises with each breath. Is this normal? Is this how babies are meant to breathe?
The whole house is quiet. Walking downstairs, I feel like I’m a goose feather gliding in the air, ever downward. My father’s portrait catches my attention. He was a dashing man in his top hat, but I never actually remembered seeing him with the silver-knobbed walking stick he holds in the portrait. When I was a little girl, he’d bend down in the hallway before leaving for his banking offices and let me lay his top hat on his head. I remember it like it was a privilege, a grand honor. The hat itself was something magnificent, with a fine satiny finish. Constructed of stiff brushed fur felt, I’ve never since felt anything like it. But the walking stick? I don’t ever remember him with that one. In the painting, the stick’s silver knob is the size of a grapefruit, too huge to be practical or manageable. For years, I’ve searched closets and attics without success for it. Might it have been the portrait artist’s studio prop? Or did it exist solely in the painter’s imagination, a fanciful touch to convey in the sitter, my father, a nobility he didn’t actually possess?
The house abounds in objets d’art and heirlooms that can be quickly and quietly sold now that I’m in need of money. The rich always have their parachutes, their hidden assets, and I am no exception. The portrait of my father would be the first thing I’d let go, for how could I look at it after the betrayal and humiliation he’s caused? Abandonment is my father’s lasting legacy. I shiver with this understanding. He betrayed everyone who ever trusted him. My mother and the many lovers he took throughout his life. Shareholders lost vast sums when PNC absorbed his bank in the wake of his mismanagement. His best friend, Simpkins’s grandfather, was not immune to his treachery. Why did I think I’d be different?
Back in the kitchen, I polish off the rest of the tea. My Valium bottle’s on the counter, where I don’t remember placing it. Though I’m calm and mellow, I spill out a couple of pills onto my palm and swallow them. My hands are slow and shaky. I can’t remember taking many pills this morning, and yet I must have: the bottle is nearly empty. How many have I taken? Sights and sounds become foggy, dissolving into warmth and nothingness as I drift into a drowsiness that catches up fast on me. James had warned me to keep track of the pills I ingested. Should I be worried? Should I call for an ambulance? One moment, I’m staring at the porcelain teacup, wondering if I should wash it out, and the next moment I look up and see James patting my hand, asking me if I’m all right.