63. George
George
My day flew by at work. I let Lenny in on my secret plan, and we mocked up a sample page to use for my presentation to Father. I also gathered numbers and did some math. Even made a few charts. Knightley didn’t have a job.
As soon as I arrived home from work, I sensed the energy inside the house was off, like a gray mist hanging over everything. Our butler hustled over to take my coat. “Mrs. Newman passed away today, sir.”
I rested my hand on the small entryway table.
“Viola… does she… has anyone?”
He nodded. “Miss Viola was with her when it happened. Mrs. Newman asked for her and Miss Everson, and they sat with her until the end.”
I peered upstairs, as if I could see Viola through the walls and floors, as if I could see her heart and know it was safe. Not again. Please, not again. I took the stairs two at a time and knocked lightly at her door. “It’s George.”
Greta opened the door. Her face bore deep lines of anxiety. She motioned me in.
Viola sat staring out the window, hands clasped in her lap. The only motion was her thumb stroking slowly back and forth. Beyond her, darkness fell over the lake.
I closed the distance, catching my approach reflected in the glass. Hair wild. Face panicked, though I felt numb.
“I’m so sorry, Viola. She was… she was a special lady.” I put a hand on her shoulder.
“And she was old,” Viola said. “And that is what happens. And she is gone…”
Her flat voice sent a chill up my spine. I could see her retreating deeper into herself, running from the pain instead of facing it.
Exactly as she had when Mother died.
I sat beside her and grasped her hands in mine. “Viola, look at me.”
She didn’t move.
“Don’t go quiet on me, please.”
Silence.
“I’m here. What can I do? Just say the word.
Anything.” I’d promised Mother the last time we spoke that I’d watch over her.
“You don’t have to be strong. Viola, I don’t know what to do.
” My heart ached to help her, but how? I couldn’t force her to cry.
I sat with her, useless, for half an hour or more while her hands lay limp in mine and her cheeks remained dry.
Then I found Father in the library.
“She’s doing it again. Shutting down. Hiding away. Pulling deep into herself.” I paced before his desk. “Like with Mother. We need to do something.”
He said, “It’s the shock. It only happened today.
Give her some time.” Father stood and put a hand on my shoulder, stopping my pacing, but I noticed the tightness in his eyes.
He blew out a long exhale. “She was only five when… when Mother died. She didn’t know how to manage her grief then, but now she’s a grown woman.
The best thing we can do is manage our feelings so we can support her. ”
“But—”
“No buts, George. You are radiating enough anxiety to distress half the city. Calm yourself first.”
I gave a noncommittal grunt and trudged out of the library.
But I didn’t go back upstairs.