Still Me

‘Difficult?’ I whispered.

‘Louisa, don’t get all sappy on me again, for heaven’s sake. When I can’t do things for myself. When I’m properly unwell. Honestly, I don’t imagine I’ll be with my son for more than a few months. I suspect that’s why they felt so comfortable asking me.’ She let out a dry chuckle.

‘But – but I don’t understand. You said you’d never leave this place. I mean, what about all your things? You can’t just go.’

She gave me a look. ‘That’s exactly what I can do.’ She took a breath, her bony old chest lifting painfully underneath the soft fabric. ‘I’m dying, Louisa. I’m an old woman and I’m not going to get an awful lot older, and my son, who I thought was lost to me, has been gracious enough to swallow his pain and his pride and reach out. Can you imagine? Can you imagine what it is to have someone do that for you?’

I thought of Frank Junior, his eyes on his mother, their chairs pressed together, his hand holding hers tightly.

‘Why on earth would I choose to stay in this place a moment longer if I have a chance to spend time with him? To wake up and see him over breakfast and chat about all the things I’ve missed and see his children … and Vincent … dear Vincent. Do you know he has a brother? I have two grandchildren. Two! Anyway. I got to say sorry to my son. Do you know how important that was? I got to say sorry. Oh, Louisa, you can hang on to your hurt out of some misplaced sense of pride, or you can just let go and relish whatever precious time you have.’

She placed her hands firmly on her knees. ‘So that’s what I plan to do.’

‘But you can’t. You can’t just go.’ I had started to cry. I’m not sure where it came from.

‘Oh, darling girl, I do hope you’re not going to fuss about it. Now, now. No tears, please. I have a favour to ask.’

I wiped my nose.

‘This is the difficult bit.’ She swallowed, with some effort. ‘They won’t take Dean Martin. They’re very apologetic but there are allergies or some such. And I was going to tell them not to be ridiculous and that he had to come with me but, to be honest, I’ve been rather anxious about what will happen to him, you know, after I’ve gone. He’s got years left, after all. Certainly a lot longer than I have.

‘So … I wondered whether you would take him for me. He seems to like you. Goodness knows why after how dreadfully you used to cart the poor creature around. The animal must be the very soul of forgiveness.’

I stared at her through my tears. ‘You want me to take Dean Martin?’

‘I do.’

I looked down at the little dog, who waited expectantly at her feet.

‘I’m asking you, as my friend, if … if you would consider it. For me.’

She was peering at me intently, her pale eyes scanning mine, her lips pursed. My face crumpled. I was glad for her, but I felt heartbroken at the thought of losing her. I didn’t want to be on my own again.

‘Yes.’

‘You will?’

‘Of course.’ And then I started to cry again.

Margot sagged with relief. ‘Oh, I knew you would. I knew it. And I know you’ll take care of him.’ She smiled, for once not scolding me for my tears, and leant forward, her fingers closing over my hand. ‘You’re that kind of person.’

They came two weeks later to take her away. I had thought it faintly indecent haste, but I supposed that none of us was sure quite how much time she had left.

Frank Junior had paid off the mountain of management charges – a situation that could be seen as only slightly less altruistic when you realized that this meant he could inherit the apartment rather than it being claimed by Mr Ovitz – but Margot chose to see it as an act of love and I had no reason not to do the same. He certainly seemed happy to have her with him again. The couple fussed over her, checking she was okay, that she had all her medication, that she wasn’t too tired or dizzy or feeling unwell or in need of water, until she flapped her hands and rolled her eyes in mock irritation. But she was going through the motions. She had barely stopped talking about him since she had told me.

I was to stay and look after the place ‘for the foreseeable’, according to Frank Junior. I think that meant until Margot died, although nobody said it out loud. Apparently the realtor had said that nobody would want to rent it as it stood, and it was a little unseemly to gut it before the ‘foreseeable’ so I had been awarded the role of temporary caretaker. Margot also made the point several times that it would help Dean Martin to have some stability while he adjusted to his new situation. I’m not sure Frank Junior felt that the dog’s mental wellbeing was quite as high on his own list of concerns.

She took only two suitcases and wore one of her favourite suits to travel, the jade bouclé jacket and skirt with the matching pillbox hat. I dressed it with a midnight blue Saint-Laurent scarf knotted around her narrow neck, to disguise the way it now emerged, painfully bony, from her collar, and dug out the turquoise cabochon earrings as a final touch. I worried that she might be too hot but she seemed to have grown ever tinier and frailer and complained of cold even on the warmest of days. I stood on the sidewalk outside, Dean Martin in my arms, watching as her son and Vincent oversaw the packing up of her cases. She checked that they had her jewellery boxes – she planned to give some of the more valuable items to Frank Junior’s wife, and some to Vincent ‘for when he gets married’ and then, apparently satisfied that they were safely stowed, she walked over to me slowly, leaning heavily on her stick. ‘Now. Dear. I’ve left you a letter with all my instructions. I haven’t told Ashok I’m going – I don’t want any fuss. But I have left a little something for him in the kitchen. I’d be grateful if you could pass it on once we’re gone.’

I nodded.

‘I’ve written everything you need for Dean Martin in a separate letter. It’s very important that you stick to his routine. It’s how he likes things.’

‘You mustn’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s happy.’

‘And none of those liver treats. He begs for them but they do make him sick.’

‘No liver treats.’

Margot coughed, perhaps with the effort of talking, and waited for a moment until she could be sure of her breath. She steadied herself on her cane and looked up at the building that had housed her for more than half a century, holding up a frail hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Then she turned stiffly and surveyed Central Park, the view that had been hers for so long.

Frank Junior was calling from the car, stooping so that he could see us more clearly. His wife stood beside the passenger door in her pale blue windbreaker, her hands pressed together with anxiety. She was apparently not a woman who liked the big city.

‘Mom?’

‘One moment, thank you, dear.’

Margot moved so that she stood directly in front of me. She reached out a hand, and as I held him, she stroked his head, three, four times with her thin, marbled fingers. ‘You’re a good fellow, aren’t you, Dean Martin?’ she said softly. ‘A very good fellow.’

The dog gazed back at her, rapt.

‘You really are the most handsome boy.’ Her voice cracked on the last word.

The dog licked her palm and she stepped forward and kissed his wrinkled forehead, her eyes closing and her lips pressed to him just a moment too long so that his wonky eyes bulged and his paws paddled against her. Her face sagged momentarily.