You shake your head. "I'm just saying that CalTech isn't the worst option, and she's already been accepted. It's a great fallback school if she doesn't get into MIT."
"But her heart's so set on it," Whitney says. And we can for surely get her in at MIT if we give them, like... a billion dollars. That's how it works, right?"
"I'm against it," you say.
"Why?" Whitney demands.
"On principle--"
"Oh, PRINCIPLE!" Whitney hisses, still keeping her voice down so that the others in the waiting room don't overhear. "I forgot you were a man of such PRINCIPLE!"
"It's not what Ophie would want," Rose offers.
"No one asked you, moo-cow," Whitney says.
"Well, she's right," you say. "Ophie would want to succeed or fail on her own merits. She doesn't need our help anyway. Do you really think she won't get in, with her scores and extracurriculars?"
"It's just so fucked-up that Amber got into both schools before Ophie did," Whitney says. "No offense to Amber. But Ophie has the better scores. What's up with that?"
You and Rose shrug in a way you hope looks like you're as confused as Whitney is. In fact, you both happen to know that Amber's admissions essays were not essays, but long recitations of the adjuncts' sordid secrets. Her acceptance letters to CalTech and MIT came practically as soon as the essays were postmarked.
"This is Ophie we're talking about," you say, laying a reassuring hand on Whitney's arm. "You don't have to fight her battles. She'll make her own way."
Whitney sighs, pensive.
A couple moments later, you hear the ICU's doors swinging open. Renee comes out. Vivian is on her feet immediately -- Whitney just glances up from where she sits. Both are tense, and expecting the worst.
"He'd like to see you, Alabaster," Renee says. Her voice is beleaguered and morose. So not the worst, then -- but the time is coming. You glance Whitney's way. She nods as she lays her palm over your hand on the chair's armrest and pats it. Vivian sits again, and Renee sits at her side, to hug and console her.
---
David Darkbloom was hale and hearty for a 79 year old man. He ate well, had long since given up even occasional smoking, jogged, meditated, watched his cholesterol. Drank only on special occasions. Didn't even listen to music too loudly. But one day he started feeling weak and tired all the time, which progressed to loss of appetite and near-constant nausea. A couple weeks later when he went, at Vivian's stern insistence, to get it checked, he learned that the cancer had metastasized to so many vital organs that he was practically more cancer than man. Less than a month after that, here he is -- on death's doorstep.
You find him sitting partly upright in bed, the upper half of it adjusted to a 60ish degree angle. The sight of him turns your stomach. In such little time, this tall and solid and well-built man has become a skeleton wrapped in brittle gray skin. Even his breaths, shallow though they are, cause him obvious pain. He opted against palliative chemotherapy, so his hair remains, although his signature beard is gone.
"You wanted to see me?" You ask.
David nods, with some difficulty, and turns his head your way as far as his aching muscles will allow. "One last meeting, Alabaster, yes," he manages.
You purse your lips. "Is this a business meeting -- or a family meeting?"
David laughs a forceless and rickety laugh. "There is no difference between the two, with us, is there?"
Into the room now comes a man you recognize -- David Darkbloom's personal attorney, a one Mr. Epstein. Although Darkbloom developed a close and abiding friendship with the Mallorys, he never quite trusted them enough to let them represent his personal interests, somehow paranoid that they would execute legal maneuvers favoring their daughter over his. He was probably right. The ties that bind you all are sometimes messy.
"I am going to die soon," Darkbloom says. Never one to mince words. "Very soon," he adds, and swallows hard. He blinks a couple times as if focusing his strength. "Has Ophie gotten her acceptance letter to MIT yet?"
"Any day now," you say. "It could even be in the mailbox right now."
He nods. "I'm running short of time... but I do not want to go until she gets her letter. Will you -- let me know just as soon as she does?"
You promise him you will.
"There is a matter -- to settle here," Darkbloom says. "My will is in -- need of an update. That is why I've taken the liberty to call on my -- personal attorney."
Other than the pauses in his cadence, he gamely covers the enormous pain that simply speaking causes him.
"What about your will?" You ask.
He nods at Epstein, who does the heavy lifting of explaining on his behalf. "David's fortune is to be divided more or less equally among his daughters and Renee Carte. But his stake in the company and the attending question of a successor remain up in the air. He seeks your input on the matter."
"Your successor is Renee -- right?" You ask Darkbloom.
"You know the funniest things," Darkbloom says. "I have never told you what my will says."
"It's my job to know things."
"In any case -- she refused me steadfastly," Darkbloom tells you. "Not that she -- has ever gone willingly to my suggestions. She -- would listen to you, I am sure."
You stride past Darkbloom's bed, to go and stand at the window, your back to him. But Darkbloom's croaking voice follows your transit:
"There are options besides. -- Vivian and Whitney are both fine choices. Or..."
"Uh huh," you say dryly, a revulsion rising in your stomach -- the kind of revulsion that always rises whenever you rise at Darkbloom Enterprises.
"Alabaster, will you face me, please."
You face him. Darkbloom stares at you for many long moments, considering his words with care. Then he comes out with it: "You came into my life from another world, didn't you?"
You glance sidewise at Darkbloom's lawyer, who nods and steps out of the room.
"Why do you think so?" You ask Darkbloom.
"I would be a fool if I didn't," he says. "There is nothing more -- I can do -- so at least allow me the satisfaction of knowing in my twilight hours -- why precisely you came."
"I wasn't here for you," you say. "I was here for Whitney, and Vivian, and Renee. And everyone else, too. I had to be here, to change the way things went the last time."
"Congratulations," Darkbloom says. "You veered me off whatever -- catastrophic path I was charting. And what was it?"
You shake your head. "It's not worth going over. You don't want to hear it. I've spent a long time trying to forget it myself."
"You passed through the conformal boundary from -- one universe to the next, and -- so resolutely prevented me from developing -- the tools to do it again -- whatever happened, back then, must have been -- truly awful, I surmise..."
You stare hard at a light in the ceiling, and think for a moment. "Whitney would be a good CEO. She was only young when she was CEO the last time. And it was such a terrible burden... it got dumped in her lap by complete surprise at the worst possible moment. She had no experience and no desire to lead your business. She became the least popular and most investigated woman on the planet. I don't think she slept for over a year. But she didn't do half-bad, even then. So I guess what I'm saying is that she'd do an amazing job now, if you gave it to her. Vivian would also be a good pick -- I shouldn't need to explain why. Same with Renee, if she'll take it -- she'd pick up right where you left off and never miss a beat."
"And you?" Darkbloom asks.
You shake your head.
"You've been like a son to me," he says. "This company is yours as much as it is theirs. I would gladly hand it off to you -- if you think -- handing it to them would be unfair. I sense you do."
"Does there even need to be a Darkbloom Enterprises?" You ask.
Darkbloom can't swallow a pill that bitter. "You would ask me to dismantle my girls' legacy?"
"Yours."
"And how would they feel about it?" He asks.
"In the long run? Like a burden had been lifted. I told you how much it weighed on Whitney to have it the first time, didn't I?"
"Circumstances were different, no? -- And how would our competitors fare in the power vacuum? Are you sure you wouldn't -- rather be on the inside -- steering things the way you deem, in your apparent wisdom?"
He's got a point.
"Have you lived your perfect life, Alabaster?" Darkbloom asks.
"Nothing's perfect. But I'm happy. That's as much as I can ask, isn't it? It's not a perfect life, but it's a good one."
"I am glad to hear it. As insistently as you've tried to break the cycle -- it may be your last journey through it. Even the most regular cycles can be suddenly broken -- is that your goal?"
"No. I'm pushing ahead under the assumption that this is my last chance. But the only thing I ever cared to stop was the suffering I saw the last time through. And if I ever live again, I live again. And if I don't, well then... it was fun while it lasted."
Darkbloom nods. "You're performing admirably. Continue doing your best."
"I'm going to miss you," you admit, through the lump in your throat.
"Don't. We may see each other again after all. Maybe you'll even regret it."
Well, anything's possible.
"I leave it to you, Alabaster. I can't -- see clearly, what is fair, equitable, and wise -- not where my family is concerned. So think about it. I will offer succession to whoever you believe is best."
[ ] Whitney
>[x] Vivian
[ ] Renee
[ ] Alabaster
[ ] Someone else
[ ] No one
"Hello Sir," Anna says.
"Geez. You're picking up her phone calls now, too? My sister, the senator, should have aides for this kind of thing."
"I don't think my wife, the senator, wants her aides to waste their time on calls from her grumpy little brother," Anna counters.
Between you and Anna, imperiously appending "the senator" to mentions of Cerise hasn't lost its novelty since her election a few months ago. It drives Cerise bonkers. You hear Cerise now, faintly, crying out from an adjoining room: "stop doing that!"
"My wife, the senator, is mad."
"Does my sister, the senator, have time for chitchat with her grumpy little brother?"
"Maybe not." Anna pauses. Then: "She's getting out her paddle... she's really mad now."
"If not her grumpy little brother, then how about the grumpy CEO of a Fortune 100 company?" You say.
Anna is mute for a few moments before beginning, "did he..." and trailing off.
"No. David's still hanging on. But it's gonna happen soon."
You hear rustling, and then Cerise's voice. She's equal parts mad and worried: "He's not giving it to you, is he?"
"He might. What do you think?"
"Fuck that, is what I think. Let someone else have it."
You nod, as if Cerise can see you. "Well. How's the vote looking tomorrow?"
"I've done everything I can. It's gonna pass anyway. I'm sorry, Alabaster..."
You lightly pound the bedspread in frustration. "Maybe I should take the position, then. How else are we gonna stop another -- you know--"
"Another four-two-one?" Cerise finishes. "You're too paranoid. You put the brakes on that shit years ago. Just because Uncle Sam is getting rights over tech that *might* be developed one day -- doesn't mean it will be. Besides, you've got Alex on it, right?"
"Sure," you allow. "But..." you trail off, thinking.
"Do I need to say it? It's your motto, fucker," Cerise reminds you. "Everything works out. Like magic."
"It's not magic," you tell her. "It takes work. But I guess it'll all be fine -- once you get elected President in three years."
"Tch-- don't even start with that shit. Haven't I done enough?"
"When are you forming an exploratory committee?"
"Never! Shut up! I'm not forming a goddamn exploratory committee!"
You hear Anna's voice call out: "December 31st!"
Then Cerise's voice, just a sharp grunt of "You--!!" followed by sounds of rough scuffling, Anna giggling, sharp slaps of wood against flesh. And: "Stop! No, stop!! Stoo-oopp!! Hahah!"
You hang up and leave them to their fun. A few moments later, the en suite bathroom door muffles the squeal of the shower's faucet shutting off. The patter of water dies out, soon to be replaced with the gentle rustling of towels. Then Renee steps forth, from the door and a billowing curtain of steam, all wrapped in terrycloth, both torso and hair. The towel around her body is too small and doesn't conceal her ass. That nice, round, thick ass of hers -- seeing it wagging in front of your face as she walks past, you're just as incorrigible as you were when you were a teenager. You slap it, and enjoy the jiggle of her reddening flesh.
"Hey-- don't start things you can't finish," Renee grumps, wheeling on you.
"Is that a warning or an invitation?" You wonder.
Renee tugs at her towel and frowns, unamused.
Although she recently crossed another big age milestone, the big ███-oh, her body is blessed with good genetics. She's still firm where she needs to be, soft and smooth in the other spots. Save for a little grey and some laugh lines, you'd think she was 20 years younger. She still fucks like she's 20 years younger, too. And hey -- you're no spring chicken anymore yourself. You've recently gotten to the point where you contemplate the true value of things you drop on the floor, weighing whether they're worth the trouble of picking up again.
Renee brushes her dripping hair in front of her vanity, and you watch her in silence. When she's satisfied, she crawls back into her bed with you. The two of you adopt the stance of chatty lovers, facing one another on your sides, propped up on elbows.
"Thanks for keeping me company tonight," Renee says.
"Sure. You wanna go grab some subs?"
"...In a bit," she says.
"Round three?" You ask, quirking an eyebrow and glancing at her cleavage.
"As much as I'd love to --" Renee begins.
You understand. She was barely in the mood the first couple times. Other things are on her mind.
"I shouldn't be sad that that asshole is on his way out," Renee says.
You lay your hand over hers on the bedspread. "Why don't you want to take over the business?"
Renee rolls her eyes. "Jesus. Because of course he told you."
"I already knew."
"Do I look like a CEO to you?" Renee demands.
You shrug. "Why not?"
Renee shifts onto her back, and stares at the high-flung ceiling. You scoot closer to her, still on your side, gazing down at her. "It belongs to his girls," Renee says.
"Is that really why you don't want it, or is that just a convenient excuse? If you don't take it, he has to choose between Whitney and Vivian. Think about what that says to the one he doesn't choose. They--"
"It has to be Vivian," Renee cuts in.
"Hmm?"
You back off as Renee rises to her butt. Her expression is grim and stony. "Vivian wanted to take over for David from the time she could first talk, and probably before that. Darkbloom Enterprises has defined her entire life. Because it defined David's life. See? It was the only way she ever had to connect with him. It was the only leverage she could use to make him pay attention to her. And Vivian loves David like you can't even imagine. You think you can, but you can't. Of course Whitney loves David too -- in her own way -- but it's a love that comes with a billion caveats and terms and conditions and apprehensions and -- because Whitney expects David to be the asshole he really is. She never cared about his business, his legacy, all the stupid shit he rambles on about... am I getting through? Whitney sees David and his business for what they are. Flawed, burdensome, and probably not worth the trouble. She cares only in spite of her better judgment. She cares the way a daughter has to care. Vivian might be brainier and more analytical but she doesn't see David nearly as realistically. She still has blinkers on for her dad. In Vivian's eyes... David may as well be Superman. And she'd do anything, anything at all to be worthy of the image she has in her head of him. Would Whitney be upset about getting passed over? Yes. But Vivian would be gutted. She'd carry that sadness with her for the rest of her life. David listens to you, not to me, not to his daughters. Not to anyone else the way he listens to you. So if he's trying to pawn the choice off on you -- then make the right choice, Alabaster. Don't give it to me, don't give it to Whitney. Give it to Vivian."
A couple stray tears trickle down her cheeks, and so you kiss them up.
---
"To my youngest daughter, Vivian, my estate at 43819 Poe Road, Palo Alto, California, including the 42-acre parcel of land surrounding it, the house proper, and all furnishings and other items within, save for those otherwise explicitly willed to my other named survivors."
David's attorney Mr. Epstein sits at his hospital bedside, reading the will aloud, as David draws increasingly labored breaths with the help of an oxygen mask. You, Whitney, Vivian, and Renee are gathered round. David has taken the perhaps unusual step of having his will read to his inheritors prior to dying, so that if any dispute should arise, it can be settled amicably via last-moment addendums and edits that he will authorize. Always the rational and analytical one, David.
"...shall go to Renee Carte, including the following vehicles currently in the garage: a 1969 Ford Mustang, a 1983 DMC DeLorean, a 2009 Chevrolet Corvette, and a 2035 Tesla Model A. To Whitney Soliloquy, titles and possession of the remaining cars in the garage not previously enumerated. Sale, maintenance and modification of any vehicles willed to either party must only be done with the express consent, and preferably participation, of both."
David is pleased at this, and nods along to his attorney's monotne voice. Whitney and Renee smile at one another. But as for you, you're beginning to zone it all out, an hour into the reading. That is, until unexpectedly you hear:
"...and to Alabaster Soliloquy:" (Your heart skips a beat. You fear the worst.) "possession of a life-sized replica of an artwork entitled 'The Expulsion from the Garden of Eden', granted in the hope that it will be neither sold nor destroyed, but displayed prominently in his home and passed down to his daughter Ophelia."
David locks eyes with you, and gives you a meaningful yet boyishly mischievous look. You'd like to tell him "fuck you," in a kidding-on-the-square sort of way, but now isn't the time.
Over the next twenty minutes come some fractions of his fortune apportioned to people outside the family. Such as this:
"...leadership of the new foundation will belong to Sable Best, who, as chair, may disperse up to $100 million per year in scholarships to promising students with an interest in computers and robotics, as she deems. An additional $100 million per year can be dispersed to FIRST robotics programs across the nation, and yet anohter $100 million per year to schools for furthering education in technology. ... Chairing the foundation may require her full focus and energy. Should Mrs. Best wish to step down from her role as CTO, then, pending the assent of the board, I nominate Alex Best to replace her..."
You know there'll be no objections to that. Alex sits in for Sable at most board meetings anyway.
When out-of-family business and charity is dispensed with -- at last, then, the time has come to name successors.
"The next item concerns ownership of David's stake in the company," Epstein informs you. "Due to the structure of the board, owning his 50.01% share means--"
David interrupts Epstein, pulling the oxygen mask off with some effort. His voice is whisper-weak and you have to perk your ears up to hear him, even standing so near. His face is as pallid and gray as a corpse's already.
"This is a family business," he tells you. "One may be CEO in name... but the legacy is all of yours. You must carry it on yourselves, now... I trust that you can."
"Who is it?" Whitney asks.
David nods at Vivian. Vivian, who until now has been solemn and quiet, suddenly goes slack in the face, and her eyes widen. She rises. "No -- you cannot be serious--"
"David has willed his stake in the company to you," Epstein tells her. "That makes you the next CEO."
You expected Whitney to be upset, and Vivian to be happy. This is the exact opposite result. Whitney looks so relieved that she's about to swoon. Vivian balls her fists and locks her elbows, muscles so stiff her shoulders rise.
"Who will be COO in my absence?" Vivian demands.
"That is... for you to decide," David tells her. "I trust you entirely."
"This is completely unacceptable," Vivian barks. "Beyond the pale. You have done nothing to prepare me for this move, father. You surely must realize--"
"I have been preparing you since you were born... have I not?"
"--we have competitors nipping at our heels internationally, a precarious legal situation unfolding domestically, new products in the midst of disastrous launches, a souring public persona--"
David seems hurt at these reprovals, and cannot muster a defense. So Renee steps up:
"There's never a good time to become the leader," she says. "There's always a disaster about to happen. He's giving it to you because you can handle it."
"You'll do great," Whitney insists, her typical to-the-point self, rubbing the small of Vivian's back.
"No!" Vivian says. She shrugs violently and forces Whitney's hand off of her. "This not acceptable! This is not acceptable! You have not prepared me! You..." A frog develops in her throat. "You are leaving at the worst possible moment!"
You understand, and so does Whitney, and so does Renee. This isn't about how prepared or not she is to step into a new job. Throughout David's sickness, Vivian has been so composed as to be utterly inscrutable. This news is what has finally uncorked the bottle. And now she's on the verge of a panic attack, which manifests as rage: "You horrible -- unbelievable -- what do you expect of me? How could you make me? How could you? You gave me absolutely no time to prepare! Why?"
"Vivian--" David says.
"Why? Why didn't you see a doctor when I told you to?"
She turns away from him, and falls to her knees, sobbing. Renee is the one who tries to comfort her this time. She kneels and pulls her into an enormous hug, pressing Vivian's face to her chest. She whispers something into Vivian's ear only Vivian can hear. It doesn't help. Vivian keeps weeping.
"I can take it," Whitney says. She has a catch in her voice too. She accepted her father's impending death a while ago, but seeing it tear Vivian apart tears her apart, too.
"What?" You say.
"I can be CEO if you don't want the job, Viv. It's fine."
Vivian replies only by limply pounding Renee's coat with her fist. She does not even turn her face away from Renee's bosom.
"Shall I authorize a change to the will?" Epstein asks.
"It should be Vivian," David says. "Do not change it."
"I don't want it," Vivian says pitifully, body wracked. "I refuse. I won't take it!"
"You are the one with the skills... the intelligence and acumen... to see it through," David says. "There are trying times ahead... you can steer the company through... such dire straits."
Whitney slumps. It took no small amount of bravery to offer herself up for the CEO position. She was brushed aside without even getting a direct response. It leaves her deflated. And there's an air about her of quiet despair. She's too selfless to let on, but that hurt. Whitney may be used to people underestimating her, but David's tactless choice of words has been the worst insult of all. It makes it sound as if he doesn't think she can handle things.
Renee can also tell her daughter is hurt. So she says: "David thought you both would be good CEOs. He asked Alabaster to decide -- and Alabaster came to me. In the end, we thought Vivian should be the one. She's always wanted it--"
"I can't," Vivian sobs, as Renee pets her. "I can't."
Whitney rubs her forehead with the heel of her palm as if trying to erase a smudge of dirt. You sit beside her and take her hand. "It's fine," she insists. She's waging an internal battle with herself to keep from making this moment all about her. She wants to support Vivian when Vivian needs it most, and ignore the sting of being passed over. But it's obvious she's taking it personally after all, just like you feared.
David looks as miserable as you've ever seen him.
"Will you help your sister... in her new role, Whitney?" He asks. "She needs it."
"Of course."
"I trust you entirely to do it."
"Of course you do," Whitney says. Her voice is as taut as a new drum.
Vivian shakes her head violently and grips the lapels of Renee's coat.
"I..." David begins, but trails off. He never could navigate a fraught interaction with either of his daughters. Dealing with both at once is insurmountable.
"I get it," Whitney insists, "really. Vivian's smarter -- she'll do better -- that's how it is. I'll help her."
You squeeze her hand. You whisper in her ear: "whatever you're thinking right now is wrong."
"That would be pretty normal," she mutters back. "I'm an idiot. Dad knows it too."
"Ask him," you say.
"Why would I--"
"Ask him what he thinks of you. You should hear it from him while you can."
Whitney takes her hand back. "I already know. Viv doesn't need more stress -- to see me mope --"
"Whitney thinks that you think she's stupid," you tell David. Loud enough for the whole room to hear.
"That is... so far beyond correct..." David says, and trails off. Useless. Goddamn you, David Darkbloom, you think. You needed him to say something much better than that. Whitney's chest shudders as she draws a couple breaths and tries to keep from falling completely apart.
"This isn't the time," she manages. "You don't have to lie to me. I'm being here for Viv, and for you... isn't that enough?"
"But you must know--" David says.
"I know!" Whitney cuts in. She's on her feet. "I know I'm not what you wanted! I know I'm a disappointment! So whatever! I'm over it! I don't need you to lie to me on the way out the door so you can feel better! I might be stupid, but I'm not dumb -- we all know what you think of me -- so -- so whatever!"
She presses both hands against her face and stands there, very still, struggling not to cry the way Vivian still is. You stroke Whitney's shoulders, Renee hugs Vivian tight, but you can't console them.
David clears his throat and makes his voice as loud as it will go, which is not very loud at all:
"Whitney, you were never... never once, a disappointment. Nor you, Vivian... if I could have molded two daughters myself from the clay like God... I could never have made them as well as you. You... were both the best of me. I have so often thought... in my darkest moments... that I was as consumed by pettiness... as my own father. Maybe I was. But I had you both... and that was worth it all. You have intelligences... of different kinds... Vivian, you are smart... Whitney, you are wise. Both in a measure I could never have achieved... you girls were only the best parts of me... parts within me I let decay in pursuit of... unattainable goals. But you shine. You two... are all my joy... my love and will and vision... with nothing petty or vindictive or malicious... with not an evil atom between you... and together you are greater than me. You may mourn me... for a time... but never mourn for what I think of you. In no corner of my heart... was there ever any disappointment... or desire that you should be some other way... in no part of my mind... did I think you stupid... Whitney... you are the complement Vivian needs. And Vivian... is the complement you need. I give you both my legacy now... it is yours to keep... but promise me, to keep it together. Stay together always."
All Whitney can possibly say to this is a single syllable: "Dad..." But within that single syllable is a lifetime's worth of reconciliation.
Vivian wriggles free of Renee's grip and looks up at Whitney. "I so desperately do need you," she says. "I make so many mistakes -- the time I nearly forced us to buy that fraudulent genetics company -- the time I tried to charge customers for account deletion. If I am CEO, I will ruin this company."
"You'll do fine," Renee insists. "Especially with Whitney as your COO."
"What about you, Mom?" Whitney asks.
"I'm an old woman. Retirement sounds pretty great."
"Yeah fucking right," you tell her. "You're sticking around as an adviser."
"Two advisers to the CEO is one too many," Renee says. "I wouldn't want to give conflicting advice. Besides, I know how badly you take disagreements. Such an ego..."
"We'll present a unified front," you tell her. "I'll even let you have half my office."
Renee frowns at you. "Oh God. You're not going to let me retire til I'm 80, are you."
"Nope," Whitney agrees.
"You mustn't," Vivian adds. "We need you, too."
"80 is a pretty long way away, though," you say. "I mean. Can we really make her work here for the next 50 years?"
Renee's frown deepens. "Don't try to flatter me after enslaving me, you little shit."
If Whitney or Vivian have laughed since David got sick, you haven't seen it. But they do it now -- even through the tears.
---
Out in the hallway, cattycorner from David's ward, is a set of three green waiting chairs lined up all in a row. Their armrests are low square hoops made of orange-varnished wood. A small person could lie across the three seats by squeezing under the gaps in the armrests.
Just such a small person is doing just that.
Wes lies there, schlubbing it the way she always is. Hoodie and shorts and tennis shoes. She's all entangled with the chairs, body contorted, as if she was flung there from a speeding vehicle. The back of her head rests flat against one of the seats, while her elbows are looped over the armrest to hold her cell phone in front of her face while she browses. One of her legs bends up and over two of the armrests so that her calf rests atop them. Her other leg is dangling over the edge of the seat at a weird angle, the tip of her shoe almost touching the tile floor. She's taking up all three chairs like this.
You approach. "I'm looking for somewhere to sit."
"Cool," she says, never ripping her eyes away from her phone. The hallway's fluorescent lighting makes her eyebags look even more severe.
You snatch her phone away from her.
"Hey!" She cries. She tries to sit bolt upright. Unfortunately she didn't think about her body position. She bangs her windpipe against the underside of the armrest at high velocity. "Ghh--!!" She cries, then coughs as she clutches at her neck. She struggles herself into a sitting position in the middle chair, hunched over with her elbows in her lap. She hacks and sputters. She's definitely hamming it up.
You sit down beside her, and cross your legs, ankle on knee.
"I'm... dying..." she croaks.
"You're not dying."
"I'm dying... my own father killed me..."
"Stop that," you say. "This isn't the time."
Wes realizes the circumstances and quits pretending that she's dying. She gets her breathing back to normal and slumps against the chairback beside you.
"Can I have my phone?" She asks.
"In a second. You need your daily two minutes of human interaction first. Where's your sister?"
Wes blows her unkempt bangs from her face. She lolls her head, cheek resting on her shoulder, to peer at you. "Bathroom. She's got neeeerves."
"Did she get her letter?" You ask.
"Fucked if I know."
"Wes--"
Wes scuffs one of her shoes on the ground. "She doesn't tell me shit."
"Watch your mouth," you warn her.
"Pfft. You think I curse? You should listen to Amber when you're out of earshot. Anyway. No. Ophie didn't tell me what the occasion was. She just wanted me to drive her here." Wes pantomimes using a steering wheel, then sighs pensively. "You know, it's real ducked-up that she's gonna be moving to the east mother-ducking coast and she still doesn't have a ducking driver's license. You gonna fix that, Dad, or what?"
"We're working on it. She's still a little scared of driving."
Wes laughs. "What a baby. You need to stop treating her like she's a little kid. Driving is so *easy*. I've been doing it for years."
"Less than one," you say.
"Nah. K-mom taught me how to drive when I was 12."
"She did what?" You snap.
"Pffthaha. That's exactly how N-mom reacted when she found out about it, too."
"Goddamn it--"
"Watch your mouth," Wes says.
"Why am I just hearing about this now?" You demand.
Wes shrugs. "Because K-mom said, 'don't tell your mom.' And I said, 'does that mean I can tell my dad?' And she said, 'absolutely not.' So I didn't. I'm a good girl."
You shake your head.
"My phone?" Wes asks. "I was watching something."
"What were you watching?"
"Renren-sama."
"Renren is shit," you say. "I'll give you your phone back when you have better taste."
"Basshole!" Wes says. She kicks your foot. "You're just like N-mom! Freaking nazi!"
You click your tongue against your palate. "You'll thank us when you're older. Hey, why were you lying on these chairs like that? It didn't look very comfortable."
"Anti-homeless architecture is real messed-up stuff," Wes says. "I just wanted to rest my eyes for a little bit -- but they build public-use furniture so that you *can't* get comfortable on it."
"These are chairs," you say, rather obviously, "they're not made to lie down on."
Wes sagely pokes an index finger in the air. "Yeah, and they're made that way on purpose. It's the actively hostile design of public spaces. Amber told me all about it."
"Don't listen to what your sister tells you."
"She's right, though."
You shake your head. "You shouldn't need to rest right now anyway. It's 2:00 in the afternoon. Haven't you been sleeping?"
"Sure."
"In bed?"
"At school."
"Wes," you say chidingly.
"As if you're anyone to even judge. Aunt Whitney already told me alllll about how you were in high school. Apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, huh? Give me my phone back!"
"You need to take better care of yourself. That means sleeping at normal hours."
She flaps her hands like a bird's beak. "Blah blah blah. Do as I say, not as I do. Gotcha."
"And you should dress a little better, too," you add, taking a moment to glance her over from head to toe. "No one likes a schlub."
Wes looks appraisingly down at herself. You can tell that remark landed a little harshly. She sticks her hands in her hoodie's front pocket and jostles her legs. "I'm not a schlub."
"Who's going to want to date you if you don't even brush your hair? Tell me."
She huffs. "Whatever. I stole these shorts from Aunt Whitney. And you're over the moon for the whole tomboy gf chic, so I *know* there are people on this planet who would go for my look too."
"Great," you say. "You can date a guy just like your dad, then."
Wes fakes gagging noises.
"You said it yourself. That's the kind of guy who likes the look."
"Well maybe I'm not looking for guys," Wes says, leaning way around in her seat to defiantly glare at you from head-on, her hands still in her hoodie's pocket. "Maybe I'm a butch lesbian like the moms are."
"That's fine too," you say, unfazed. "You can date someone just like N-mom, then."
Wes again fakes gagging. She slumps back against her chair again.
"Did either of your moms come, by the way?"
"No. They're out on a date with Aunt Rose."
"Which one?"
"The one you're married to. Keep better track of your wives, huh?" She kicks her legs straight out, and hops to her feet, hands still in her hoodie's front pocket. She circles around to stand before you.
"If you want to do something nice for your folks," you say, "why don't you head up to Meiji's and grab us some dinner. Your aunts could use something other than hospital food right now. I could too."
Wes holds out a hand, palm up. You open your wallet and drop a credit card in it. But she doesn't retract her hand, and stands there expectantly for what she really wants. After letting her hang for just long enough to make it awkward, you finally give her her phone.
"Sieg heil," she grouses.
Footsteps catch your attention. You glance down the hall to find an unwelcome visitor has arrived: Chloe. She's in her typical businesswear, and she's being followed closely by her personal bodyguard. She smiles warmly when you lock eyes with her.
Wes repeats herself -- this time directing it at Chloe. "Sieg heil!" She shouts down the hall, and even gives Chloe a salute to match, stomping one foot for effect.
"Go get us some food," you whisper. "I'll text you our orders in a few minutes."
Wes snrks. "If that psycho doesn't go full-on stabbedy-stabby first," she says.
You grimace. Wes is only joking. She has no idea how close to home it hits for you.
Wes spins 180 degrees and goosesteps off. You stand now, too, and watch her until she rounds the corner -- then you go intercept Chloe in the middle of the hall.
"Why are you here?" You say.
Chloe swipes a strand of hair behind her ear. "To pay respects." Further up the hall, you see a group of well-dressed men delivering bouquet after bouquet and fruit basket after fruit basket to the reception desk near the front of the hospice ward. The attending nurses there are bewildered and making confused noises at the Chinese men, trying to bid them to stop, but the men either do not understand or do not care (most likely both). There are enough flowers here to furnish a botanical garden and enough fruit here to feed an island nation for a month. Chloe has always liked being ostentatious.
"We didn't ask for any respects," you tell her.
"I pay them nevertheless."
"Uh huh. Well the homeless shelters around town will appreciate your donations," you tell her. She doesn't seem to mind being told that none of these gifts will reach David Darkbloom or his family.
"Has David decided on a successor yet?" She asks.
You stare at her as her bodyguard passes you by and sits in the chair you so recently occupied. The silence lingers, and Chloe realizes you're not going to tell her.
"Well then," she says coolly, as she smooths her skirt, "please pass on to the lucky new CEO my tidings. Broad Dynamics is still amenable to a merger, at your yet-to-be-revealed new leader's earliest convenience."
"How do you know you're not talking to the lucky new CEO right now?” You ask.
"Father thinks it will be you. I said to him: such a move would be far too rational for the likes of David Clay Darkbloom. Paternal love blinds him to the leadership deficiencies of his daughters. He will give it to one of them."
"Help us choose, then. Who do you least want it to be?"
"You."
"Very funny," you say. "Reverse psychology isn't your strong suit."
"I am being quite honest with you," she says. "If you become CEO at Darkbloom Enterprises, it dashes any possible hope of you crossing the aisle, so to speak. Our board still has a place of honor reserved for you."
"I'm sure it does. It's gonna stay reserved for a pretty long time."
"Forever?" She asks.
"I'm thinking forever, yeah."
"I see," she says with a sad smile. She draws a little breath, fixes the sadness in her smile like adjusting an off-kilter painting, and changes topic: "Tomorrow at lunchtime, all employees at Broad Dynamics will bow their heads in silence for two minutes, out of respect for David Darkbloom, and in mourning of his passing."
"He's not dead yet," you tell her.
"He will be dead by the end of the night," Chloe says.
"We don't know that. I never said--"
"You did. Your face told me so." She runs her fingertip from the topmost button of your shirt, down, to your belly, and sighs. "You are an easy person to read. I know at once when your 'we don't know' means tomorrow ... and when your 'forever' means maybe sometime sooner."
Even now, you clam up when Chloe gets too close. Struggling to conceal the catch to your voice, you tell her: "I've never heard you say a single nice thing about David. Why only now that he's dying?"
"Just because we have been adversaries, does not mean I do not respect him. On the contrary. I respect him immensely. You see -- David Darkbloom was a peasant with delusions of grandeur--"
"Some way to respect him."
Chloe is still right up in your personal space, and she refuses to step out of it. You hope she doesn't have anything. "The history of both our nations is rife with great men who were peasants with delusions of grandeur. The Hongwu Emperor was a peasant with delusions of grandeur. Mao Zedong was a peasant with delusions of grandeur. American deity Abraham Lincoln, was a peasant, with delusions of grandeur." She strokes your chest a little. "Do you know, Alabaster, what the difference between a madman and a genius is? The genius is one who through the force of his will makes his delusions into reality." She stops stoking your chest, and smiles up at you. "Or her delusions, as the case may be."
"Papa--"
You and Chloe glance simultaneously sidewise to find Ophie approaching from down the hallway. She draws alongside you, to meet Chloe with a typically stoic curiosity.
Chloe, bristling, at last quits your bubble of personal space. She regards Ophie like a passerby at the park uncertainly eyeing someone's large dog. She always gets this way. Ophie is some sort of Chloe-warding talisman. The two have, as far as you know, never spoken a single word to each other, but Chloe is clearly frightened of Ophie all the same. And so it is today. Chloe, with only a curt nod in your direction to bid farewell, turns away from the two of you. Over by the wall, her personal guard rises to his feet again. He swoops around to follow behind her, his taller frame obscuring hers, and only her pumps clacking down the sterile tile of the hospital halls tell you that she hasn't just vanished from existence entirely.
Ophie glances up. "Papa -- look."
She hands you a trifolded letter. You scan it. You laugh.
"And you were worried," you tell her.
Only the almost imperceptible hint of a blush signals her bashfulness. Of course, she doesn't reply. You ruffle her hair. This just brings her blush out a little more strongly.
"Do you want to show your grandfather?"
"Is he able to see me?" Ophie asks.
You nod. "I'm sure there's nothing he'd love more."
---
Whitney is all nerves and jitters. When you come back into the room, she's jostling her legs up and down -- when she sees you and Ophie, she immediately stands. You give her a reassuring nod and nudge her back to sitting. You join her with Renee and Vivian at David's bedside.
Ophie hasn't been by in about a week because she was so consumed with final exams, and neither you nor Whitney wanted to put her through the added stress of hospice visits. But she doesn't blanche to see David in his decrepit state. To her, he's still Pop, and he always will be. She goes to his bed and grips the beige side-rail. Unable to wait, and too excited to explain, she just presses the letter into his hands. He's slow on the uptake to accept it, and fumbles in unfolding it. Craning his neck and blinking repeatedly, unable to focus his dying eyes, he says: "Vivian," at which Vivian immediately retrieves a pair of big round spectacles from a nearby table. She puts them on his face for him. David adjusts them, eyes scanning as he takes in the words.
It's Ophie's acceptance to MIT. David doesn't need to read very far to understand it. He glances up from the letter with a sort of catlike head-bob and smile, the last ember of his leonine personality coming through unextinguished. It's a broad and genuine smile, not one for only masking pain. For the first time in weeks and for probably the last time ever, you guess he's forgotten what agony he's in right now. He beams.
"What is it?" Whitney wants to know.
Renee folds her arms and answers, having figured it out: "She got in."
Whitney's smile outmatches her father's. She swoops Ophie into her arms, hoists her, and spins around with her a little. Whitney is strong enough and Ophie small enough for her to do it. Ophie is only a little dizzy when Whitney sets her back on solid ground. You wouldn't be able to tell she's off-kilter at all except for the fact that she lightly braces herself against the bed's rail again.
Vivian is more subdued than her sister, half from a sadness that won't leave her heart, and half because she had the least doubt of anyone other than you. "Congratulations," she tells her niece. "Although I will remind you that I already congratulated you when you sent in your application. There was never any question."
Ophie nods at Vivian. Then she looks back at David: "I'm so glad you got to see this, Pop."
There's an actual twinkle in his eyes. He raises his arms. Even Ophie, socially-awkward Ophie, understands what he wants, and has no problem with a hug right now. She hugs him close and tight. His head resting on her shoulder, David says: "you make me proud."
"I will, Pop," Ophie promises.
David pulls back. Holds her shoulders. Shakes his head. "No. I mean that you do already."
Ophie isn't sure how to respond. She just nods. "Mm."
"All of you," he says, looking from face to face. "I..." there's a lingering pause, before he finishes simply: "Thank you."
Ophie settles in with the rest of you to keep vigil. She sits between you and Whitney. You all talk with David, as much as his condition allows. He hasn't put the breathing mask back on and he hasn't been wired up to the usual battery of IVs. The nurses aren't coming by with the usual regimen of medications. You know there's an order in place not to resuscitate.
As his strength begins to flag and the final drowsiness encroaches, he asks Ophie to sing for him. The two have always shared a love of The Beatles. Though David used to rib her for having a Ringo Starr song as her favorite -- this is the song he requests.
Ophie holds his hand in both of hers. Her singing voice is as pretty as her mother's, but in a different kind of way. Ophie's voice is slow and methodically enunciated, whispery almost to the point of ethereal. Despite the low volume, it carries perfectly. You can hear every word she sings:
I'd like to be
Under the sea.
In an octopus's garden, in the shade.
He'd let us in.
Knows where we've been.
In his octopus's garden, in the shade.
I'd ask my friends to come and see
An octopus's garden with me.
We would be warm
Below the storm.
In our little hideaway, beneath the waves.
Resting our head
On the sea bed.
In an octopus's garden, near a cave.
We would sing and dance around.
Because we know,
We can't be found.
I'd like to be
Under the sea.
In an octopus's garden, in the shade.
In an octopus's garden, with you.
In an octopus's garden, with you.
By the time Ophie has finished singing, David Darkbloom is dead.