Find You First: A Novel

Prologue

Outside Springfield, MA

Todd listened to the phone ring, waited for a pickup. Two rings, three. You had to give these old folks time to get to the phone. Maybe they had to use a walker, or were in a wheelchair. Even if they had a cordless next to them, half the time it was tucked down into the BarcaLounger and when it started ringing they didn’t know where the hell it was.

Hello?

Good, okay. A woman, and she definitely sounded elderly. You had to be careful. Sometimes their grown kids would be visiting the home when Todd made his calls, and if they answered, the best thing to do was just hang up. They’d know something was up from the get-go.

Todd said, Grandma?

It was always a shot in the dark. Did she even have grandkids? And if she did, were any of them boys?

The old lady said, Eddy?

Bingo.

Yes, yes, it’s Eddy, Todd said. Oh Grandma, I’m so glad I got hold of you.

How are you? she said. "Hang on, hang on, let me turn down Jeopardy! I haven’t heard from you in so long. Your father, he was going to come by the other day and I waited and waited but—"

Grandma, I’m in trouble.

What?

I’m in trouble and you’re the only one that can help me.

What is it? she asked, her voice filled with grandmotherly alarm. What’s happened?

I got arrested.

The old lady gasped. Oh no, Eddy, where are you?

At the police station, he said. Which, of course, was not true. Todd was sitting at the kitchen table in his mobile home. In front of him, a laptop flanked by a can of Bud Light and a half-eaten slice of pizza.

What did you do? the old lady asked.

It’s not my fault. The other person cut me off, and I swerved. I didn’t want to hit this lady, she was pushing a stroller? You know? With a baby in it?

Oh my, oh dear—

"And I hit the tree, but the cops found some stuff in the car, that was definitely not mine, it was something one of my friends left in there, and it was only an ounce, you know? But because it was in my car . . . so they’re holding me unless I put up this bail thing. I don’t know what I’m going to do."

Well, you have to call your father. He’ll—

No, I—I just can’t. He’s just going to kill me. I’ll need time to explain what happened, and you know what he’s like. He might even leave me in here, try to teach me a lesson, which isn’t fair, because, honest to God, it wasn’t my fault, and in the meantime, I have to pay this bail and—

How much is it? she asked.

Todd smiled to himself. The hook was set. Now all he had to do was reel her in and get her in the boat.

It’s twenty-five hundred, he said. I just don’t have that kind of money. I was wondering . . . I hate to ask . . .

If you don’t pay how long will they keep you in jail? Her voice sounded increasingly concerned.

I don’t know. A few days, I guess. They’ll throw me in with the general population, you know? Some of those guys in there, I just . . . some of them are big, and really mean, and probably . . . I just hope no one tries to . . . I mean, you know what can happen to a kid in jail.

Was he laying it on too thick? You could overdo it. Todd believed that the first few times he ran this game, he went a little too far, made it sound as though he was about to be gangbanged by the Aryan Brotherhood. Best to let the mark use her imagination some.

The good thing was, most oldsters still used landlines. You got the address of a seniors’ residence through some online trolling, used a reverse directory to get the names of everyone who lived there, and you had a long list of potential marks. If they’d all owned cells, this would be a hell of a lot harder. Todd, of course, used cells. Always used disposable burners when he was doing this. Switched to a new one every week. Didn’t want these calls getting traced back because, eventually, Grandma would discreetly ask a family member if poor little Eddy or Timmy or Walter sorted out his troubles with the police, at which point someone would say, Oh no, how much money did you send?

Todd always asked for $2,500. A nice round, believable number, he figured. You didn’t want to go so high that the oldster was scared off, but not so low as to make it not worth your while.

He’d been thinking, maybe this would be his last one. He was making okay money at the computer store. Just part-time, but it looked like they were going to up him from three shifts a week to four. And ever since he’d met Chloe—talk about having your mind blown, connecting with a half sister you never knew you had—he’d been feeling kind of ashamed about how he’d been supplementing his income. So, yeah, maybe this was it. Last time.

Maybe.

It’d be nice to tell her when she came for her next visit, driving up from Providence in that ancient Pacer of hers, that he wasn’t going to do this anymore. Of course, that would mean confessing to it in the first place. It was funny how he felt a need to unburden himself to her. She’d had that effect on him. He believed she suspected he was up to something illegal. She spent a lot of time around old people—her grandfather was in some kind of home and she visited him often—and wouldn’t think much of him taking advantage of them.

I . . . I could give you the money, the old lady on the other end of the line said.

Todd’s mouth was getting dry. He had a sip of beer.

Grandma, if you did that, you’d like, you’d be saving my life.

Do I bring it to the police station? I could get one of the staff here to take me. I could ask Sylvia. She’s really nice and—

No, no! Todd said quickly. No need to do that. The police said all you have to do is call Western Union. You can do it over the phone. Soon as they have the money, they give it to the police and they’ll let me out of here. Have you got a pen and paper? I can give you all the information.

Hang on.

Todd heard her set down the receiver, some paper shuffling. Her voice, distant: I think the pen slipped down between the cushions. Oh, wait, I think . . .

God, they could be so pitiful. Todd comforted himself with the thought that these people didn’t have that much longer, anyway. They got swindled out of a few bucks, was it really going to make all that much difference? If they ran a bit short one month, they could always ask their own kids for—

Someone banged on the door of his trailer, so hard that it made him jump. Three times. BANG BANG BANG.

Mr. Cox! Todd Cox!

A man, shouting. What the hell was this? Especially at this hour. It was after nine at night. Todd didn’t get a lot of visitors here. His mobile home sat just off the road but was shielded by a line of trees. It was pretty quiet, except for the occasional blast of sirens from the fire station on the other side of the property line.

Todd glanced out the window, squinted. There were two people on the steps he’d fashioned from several cinder blocks, lit dimly by the outside light. A man and a woman, late thirties, early forties. What was that clipped to the belts of their jeans? Badges? Fucking badges?

Todd Cox, are you in there? the man shouted.

Who is it? he yelled back, like he didn’t already know.

Police.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

I’ve got pen and paper! Grandma said, her voice now clear as a bell.

Todd flipped shut the burner he’d bought online for twenty bucks. Next to the laptop were printouts of old folks homes across the country, as well as an overdue Visa bill and a recent Verizon statement for his personal iPhone. He grabbed the printouts and stuffed them into the utensil drawer as he headed for the door.

How’d they find out? How’d they get on to him? He’d been so careful. New phones all the time, different Western Union accounts, always covering his tracks. Todd figured, given that they weren’t in uniform, they were detectives. Not good. Not good at all.

Mr. Cox, open the door, please. The woman cop this time. She sounded like a ballbuster. Deep voice, commanding.

Where the hell could he go? The trailer’s back door was on the same side as the front door, so he couldn’t sneak away. So he went to the door, took a breath, tried to look like he didn’t give a fuck about anything in the world, and opened it. When he did, he was able to see a dark panel van parked next to his ten-year-old Hyundai.

They flashed their badges.

Detective Kendra Collins, the woman said.

The man said, Detective Rhys Mills.

So, like, what’s up? Todd said.

We’d like to come in and talk to you, Mills said.

What about?

We can talk about that when we get inside.

Todd nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You got a warrant? he asked.

Kendra Collins frowned. Why would we need a warrant, Mr. Cox? Have you been doing something you shouldn’t?

No, shit, no, nothing like that, he said hurriedly, forcing a grin. I just thought that’s what you’re supposed to say when the cops want to come into your house.

Todd backed away from the door, allowing them room to step in. They each gave the trailer a disapproving look as they crossed the threshold and found themselves standing in the kitchen area. There was a small living room, if you could call it that, to one side, and a narrow hallway leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom on the other. The sink was filled with dishes, and the counter was buried in beer cans and empty takeout containers.

Todd said, Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m clean, like, if you’re looking for drugs or anything, I haven’t been doing anything. I don’t do that stuff. Seriously.

Rhys Mills surveyed the mess in the sink. You’re Todd Cox? Twenty-one years old? Born in New Haven, September tenth, 2001?

Yeah, one day before all the shit went down.

Kendra, standing behind him, asked, Your mother is Madeline Cox?

That’s right, he said, turning to look at her, his back to Detective Mills. This got something to do with her?

Kendra took out her phone, opened up the photo app, and said, There’s something I’d like you to have a look at.

She extended her arm, holding the phone low so Todd had to bend over to look at it.

I can’t really see—

Look closer, she said.

Todd tried to focus, leaned in. That was when Rhys came up behind him and jammed the needle into his neck.

What the— Todd turning abruptly, slapping his neck as though he’d just been stung by a bee. But Rhys was quick, and had not only completed the injection but withdrawn the syringe before Todd could swat him.

Almost immediately, Todd became unsteady on his feet. Jeshush . . . wha the fu was . . .

He looked quizzically at Rhys, who stood there, smiling grimly. Sorry about this, Mr. Cox.

Kendra said, Back in a sec, Rhys. She exited the trailer.

Where’s your pardner go . . . Todd said, throwing a hand up against the wall to steady himself.

It shouldn’t take long, and you shouldn’t feel any pain, Rhys said, a hint of sympathy in his voice. It’ll all be over soon. He’d taken some rubber gloves from his pocket and was pulling them on, snapping them when he had them up to his wrist.

Todd began a slow slide down the wall. When his butt touched the trailer floor he rested his head against the wall, watching the room spin.

The trailer door opened and Kendra, who had also donned gloves, came in with two large canvas bags. She dropped them to the floor, unzipped the first one, and took out something shiny and black that had been folded several times. She unzipped it and opened it wide.

A body bag.

Best to get him stuffed in here before he shits his pants, she said. I don’t want to have to clean up any more than necessary.

Rhys nodded in agreement.

Todd wasn’t dead yet, but he didn’t have enough life left in him to be at all cooperative when it came to getting into the bag. Rhys got his hands under Todd’s arms and dragged him on top of the bag, worked the sides up and around him, and then started to zip it up, starting at the dying man’s feet.

He paused before closing the bag over Todd’s face and looked into the dying man’s unfocused eyes, his dazed expression.

This is always the interesting part, he said. The moment of passing.

He zipped the bag shut. From inside, one muffled word from Todd: Dark.

How much longer? Kendra asked Rhys.

He shrugged. Minute tops.

There was some minor rustling inside the bag for a few seconds, then nothing. Kendra watched the stillness for a moment, then opened the second bag and started taking out cans of Drano, scrubbing brushes, spray bottles of bleach, cleaning cloths, paper towels, garbage bags.

Rhys said, Bathroom’s all yours.

Kendra frowned. Come on.

Rhys shook his head adamantly. You know I can’t handle that. If the bathroom’s only half as bad as this kitchen, it’s going to be like a latrine behind enemy lines.

God, Kendra thought, Rhys could be such a germaphobe. He could kill a guy, but ask him to clean a toilet and he looked like he was going to lose his lunch.

She said, What d’ya think this guy was into? He was scared shitless we were real cops.

Mills looked at the phone sitting on the laptop. Burner. Drugs, maybe. He paused. Doesn’t matter.

Kendra said, Be a lot easier if we could just torch the place like the last one.

If there wasn’t a goddamn fire station on the other side of those trees, I’d say yeah. But they’d be here in seconds. Place’d never have a chance to burn.

They were methodical. Kendra, giving in to her partner’s squeamishness, found her way to the back of the trailer and attacked the bathroom. She cleaned out the sink and shower, then poured Drano into the drains, ensuring that anything in the traps would be dissolved. This was followed by a thorough cleaning of every surface with the spray bottles of bleach. Toilet, walls of the shower, even inside drawers and cupboards.

Into a garbage bag she tossed Todd’s hairbrush, razor, toothbrush, partially used bars of soap, every toiletry item he might have used. She didn’t just empty the small trash container. She bagged the container, too. Plus towels, washcloths.

How’s it going up there? she called out.

Down the hall, from the kitchen, Rhys said, Gettin’ there.

Kendra, needing a break, traveled the narrow hallway to where it opened onto the kitchen. The countertops were clear and clean, the empty stainless-steel sink glistened, and the front of the fridge didn’t have a single, visible smudged fingerprint.

She whistled. This place almost looks good enough to move into, if it weren’t a fucking trailer.

It took the better part of four hours. The last thing they did was go back out to the van for a high-powered vacuum to give the place one last, good going-over. Gathered by the door were the body bag and ten stuffed garbage bags that included, among other things, all the clothing from Todd’s bedroom closet and drawers, the laptop, the bills, some list of seniors’ facilities found in a cutlery drawer, all the cutlery itself, trash from under the sink, the half-eaten slice of pizza.

You look under the bed? Rhys asked her.

Not an idiot, Kendra said. Good thing, too. Found an empty beer can. I’ll do a walk-around outside, in case he tossed any.

Rhys dangled a set of car keys from his index finger. I’ll take the Hyundai. Let’s load as much as we can into the car. Anything that won’t fit, we’ll throw into the van. Hit the funeral home first, then the junkyard.

She glanced at her watch. Nearly two.

Any luck, we’ll have everything done by daybreak. I’m gonna sleep for a day.

You wish.

They each took an end of the body bag and tossed it into the trunk of the Hyundai. They managed to get several bags in there, too, then filled the back seat. The remaining bags went into the back of the van.

They took a moment to catch their collective breath.

I reek of bleach, Kendra said. Calling us cleaners, that’s supposed to be a euphemism.

You want to follow me or you want to head out first?

I’ll follow you. Not sure I remember the turn.

Shit. The phone.

I bagged the phone. It was by the laptop.

No, that was a burner. Cheap flip phone. He must have had a personal phone. There was a Verizon bill by the laptop.

Kendra said, It’s probably with him, in his pocket, in the body bag.

We’ll look for it later.

They were both silent a moment. Rhys tipped his head back, put his right hand to his forehead as he looked up at the stars.

Then he brought down the hand, let out a long sigh, and said, Two down. Seven to go.

Three Weeks Earlier

One

New Haven, CT

You’re dying.

Dr. Alexandra Nyman was expecting some reaction when she delivered her diagnosis, but Miles Cookson was busy looking at his phone.

Did you hear me? Alexandra asked. I know that’s blunt, but you’ve always told me to be straight with you. There’s no way to sugarcoat this.

She’d come around her desk and was sitting in a leather chair next to Miles’s, angled slightly so that her right knee was inches away from his left. She held a file folder with half an inch of paperwork stuffed into it.

Miles, still staring at the phone, both thumbs tapping away, said, I’m looking it up.

You don’t have to look it up, she said. I’m sitting right here. Ask me anything you want.

He glanced at her. You’re wrong, Alex. I can’t be dying. I’m fucking forty-two years old. It’s something else. Has to be. Look at me, for Christ’s sake.

She did. Miles presented as someone in good shape. Five-eight, trim at 160 pounds. She knew he’d run marathons into his thirties, and still jogged a few times a week. Nearly bald, but he made it work in a Patrick Stewart kind of way.

Miles, we did the tests and they—

Fuck the tests, he said, putting down the phone and looking her in the eye. All my so-called symptoms, you can put them all down to stress. Are you telling me you’ve never been short-tempered, or restless, or have things slip your mind now and then? And yeah, okay, I’ve been a bit clumsy. Falling over my own feet. But it can’t be what you’re saying.

She said nothing, but decided to let him vent.

Jesus, Miles whispered. How could I . . . It’s tension, stress, simple as that. You fucking doctors, you’re always looking for trouble where there isn’t any. Finding a way to justify all those years you went to school.

Alexandra frowned, but not critically. She understood the anger.

Sorry, Miles said. Cheap shot.

It’s okay.

It’s . . . it’s a lot to take in.

I know.

It’s not stress, is it?

If all you had was some restlessness, a bit of forgetfulness, even the odd mood swing, I would agree with you. But stress doesn’t explain the involuntary body movements, the jerking, the twitching you’ve been—

Fuck, he said. Fuck fuck fuck.

And I should clarify what I said, about you dying. There’s no cure, there’s nothing we can do. I can prescribe tetrabenazine, which will help with your symptoms when they become more pronounced, but it’s not a cure.

Miles laughed sardonically. Why couldn’t it have been cancer? There’s stuff they can do for cancer. Cut it out, hit it with chemo. But this?

There’s no getting around it, Alexandra said. Huntington’s . . . it’s like you take Alzheimer’s, ALS, and Parkinson’s and put them all into a blender. Your symptoms are very similar to any of those.

But worse.

She said nothing.

The other day, he said, I wanted to put one foot in front of the other, something as simple as that, and my brain was like, no way, Jose. Not happening. And then, a second later, it was okay. Dorian, my assistant, had set up a meeting, told me all the details. Five minutes later, I could barely remember any of it.

I know.

I go through periods, I feel restless, like my skin’s crawling, I have to do something, I can’t relax. He paused. How bad will it get?

It’s a brain disease, she said matter-of-factly. You’ll lose more and more motor control. Unlike ALS, where you can remain mentally sharp while your body’s ability to do things deteriorates, Huntington’s will impact your cognitive abilities.

Dementia, Miles said.

The doctor nodded. There will come a point where you will need constant care. There is no cure. They’re working on it, and they’ve been working on it for some time. One of these days, it’ll happen.

But not soon enough to help me, he said.

Alexandra said nothing.

Who’s doing the research? How much money do they need? I’ll cut them a check so they can get off their asses and do something. What do they need? A million? Ten million? Tell me. I’ll write them a check tomorrow.

The doctor leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. This isn’t something you can buy your way out of, Miles. Not this time. All the money in the world won’t bring about a cure overnight. There are some very dedicated people working on this.

Miles turned his head, looked out the window as he took that in. How long?

Well, that’s the thing. Whether it’s Huntington’s, or cancer, or your heart, whatever, predicting life expectancy is a mug’s game. Look at Stephen Hawking. When he was diagnosed with ALS—you know, Lou Gehrig’s disease—they gave him two years. He lived for several more decades. Last year, I had someone in for a checkup, gave the guy a clean bill of health. Dropped dead two days later of a heart attack.

This isn’t helpful, Miles said.

I know. For you, it could be four or five years, maybe less, or maybe you’ve got twenty years. When we did your genetic test, we were looking for a high nucleotide repeat. Below thirty-six the likelihood of Huntington’s is much less, but when you get up around thirty-nine, then you’re—

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Apps, I understand. DNA stuff, not so much.

Alexandra nodded her understanding. Sorry. Too technical. Look, we’re going to want to do regular assessments, see how you’re doing. That may give us a better understanding of your long-term prognosis.

I could live a long time, but it could be hell, he said.

Yes. Here’s the bottom line. You know what you’ve got. If there are things you want to do, things you want to accomplish—amends you want to make—now is as good a time as any. Maybe you end up doing it with plenty of time to spare. But a diagnosis like this, it sharpens your focus. Helps you set priorities. She sighed. I’m sorry, Miles. I’ll be with you every step of the way. She paused. There’s something else we should talk about.

God, not more bad news.

No, but let me ask you about family history again. Did either of your parents have Huntington’s?

No, he said. I mean, not that I know of. I suppose one of them could have but it never had a chance to show itself. They died in a car accident when they were in their forties. My dad was a drunk. He ran their Ford Explorer into a bridge abutment on the Merritt Parkway.

You have a brother, yes?

Miles nodded. Gilbert.

The thing about Huntington’s is, it’s very much an inherited condition. You’re right that one of your parents might have developed it had they not died prematurely. You could have inherited it from one of them. If a parent has Huntington’s, there’s a 50 percent chance that any of their children will have it, too.

Pretty high odds.

Right. So, there’s a high probability that your brother has it, too. I think he should be tested. She hesitated. Are you close?

He works for me, Miles said.

That’s not what I asked.

We’re . . . close enough. Things got a bit strained after he married Cruella de Vil.

I’m sorry?

Caroline. I’m not . . . a fan. But I’m not exactly her favorite person, either. He thought about what the doctor had said. I’ll talk to Gilbert. Suggest he get tested. Or maybe . . .

Maybe what?

Nothing, he said.

Alexandra waited, trying to will him to be more forthcoming. When he wasn’t, she forced a smile.

There is one tiny piece of good news, she said.

This isn’t like that joke, is it? Miles asked. Where the doctor says, ‘I have bad news and good news. The bad news is you’re dying, but the good news is I’m sleeping with Brad Pitt’?

Alexandra said, No, not like that.

Okay. Tell me.

Well, you’re not married. You have no children. If you did, this would be devastating news for them. It’d be terrible enough to learn you’ve had this diagnosis. But on top of that, they’d have to deal with the news that they might have it as well. One chance in two. That would be, for you, I think, an extra emotional burden you really don’t need at this time.

Miles stared at her, expressionless.

Miles? she said.

Sorry, he said. Just blanked out there for a second.

Alexandra grew concerned. "Do you have children, Miles?"

And Miles thought, Isn’t that just the fucking million-dollar question?

Two

Providence, RI

Chloe Swanson had the minitripod set up and ready to go.

She wasn’t using anything fancier than her iPhone for this. That was all she needed for this project. After all, didn’t Steven Soderbergh shoot an entire movie with an iPhone? If he could do that, couldn’t she? But she didn’t want the camera to be all shaky for the interview, so she’d brought along a minitripod to attach it to. Bought it used at a Providence camera shop for a third of what a new one would have cost her.

She positioned it on a stack of books on an end table, which she had moved around in front of her grandfather’s wheelchair so that it was aimed at him at eye level. She wanted to frame the shot so she wouldn’t see his bed in the background. The room was so small it wasn’t easy.

Chloe was initially going to film this in one of the nursing home’s common rooms, but her grandfather didn’t want to go down there. He’d had something going with one of the other residents, a woman in her mideighties, but they’d had a recent falling-out. Chloe had tried to piece together what had happened, and astonishingly, at least to Chloe, it appeared to have something to do with sex. The old lady was interested, but Chloe’s grandfather, not so much.

Anyway, Chloe hadn’t wanted to do the video in the common room anyway. Too much background noise. There was one guy, had to be close to ninety, who was always making these unbelievable horking noises, like he was trying to cough up something that was all the way down in his shoes. Chloe wasn’t without sympathy. Her heart went out to a lot of the residents of the Providence Valley Home, the place her mother most often referred to as the Fairfield Valley Home for the Bewildered.

Chloe didn’t like it when her mother made jokes about old people. What was funny about losing your balance, falling down, having to wear diapers, forgetting your loved ones when they came to see you? Where were the laughs in that? Sure, Chloe was only twenty-two and didn’t have to worry about getting old for a very long time, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have to care. She’d been here often enough to visit her grandfather that she’d made friends with several of the residents, and had started thinking about a more ambitious project that would involve interviewing a number of them, not just her mother’s father.

Everybody had a story to tell.

And it was Chloe’s hope that interviewing her grandfather would fill in some of the gaps in her own story. Not all of them, of course. There was one huge, missing chapter in her life it was unlikely she’d ever know anything about. Kind of like a five-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle with one missing piece. Problem is, that piece takes up half the puzzle.

Chloe wanted to know who she was.

Her grandfather was thin and round shouldered, with a few wisps of hair that did little to hide his array of liver spots. Most days, Chloe might find him sitting in pajamas and a bathrobe, but today he had put on a jacket, white shirt, and tie. Chloe thought she could fit her entire hand between the collar and the old man’s leathery, wrinkled neck.

That’s really a camera? he whispered.

It’s my phone, she said. You’ve seen my phone before. It does all kinds of things.

He licked his dry lips. But where’s the film?

It’s digital. Are you ready?

Fire away. I’m not going to need my lawyer, am I? He grinned, flashing his dentures.

I don’t think so, Chloe said. Unless you’re going to confess to something awful you did back in the day. Were you a hit man or something? Did you work for the mob?

He shook his head. Just Sears.

I’m going to pick up from where we talked last time. Is that okay?

He nodded.

Don’t look into the camera. Just look at me. We’re just having a conversation. Okay?

I get it, he said weakly.

Chloe tapped the screen on the phone, settled into her chair opposite her grandfather, and said, So how did you handle it, when Mom came out?

Came out of what? he replied, grinning slyly.

Chloe chuckled. When she told you she was a lesbian.

Oh, that, well, he said. It didn’t happen all at once, you know. She kind of hinted about it. The clues were there if we were paying any attention. Your grandmother, Lisa—bless her heart—and I couldn’t help but see the signs, but sometimes, even when it’s right there in front of your face, you pretend not to see it. Any boyfriends she had, it never lasted long. I think I took it better than Lisa did, to tell you the truth. I think Lisa was always counting on a big wedding for whenever Gillian found Mr. Right. You know?

Sure, I get that, Chloe said.

Twenty-five, thirty years ago, it wasn’t all ‘I’m here, I’m queer, I don’t care what you think.’ It’s different now.

Maybe not as much as you think. Tell me more about how Gran felt.

The man’s face saddened. She had a hard time with it. People’d ask, hey Lisa, when’s Gillian settling down? She’d always say she hadn’t found the right guy yet, or she was working on her career, that kind of thing. But she was already living with Annette at that time. Lisa, she’d tell anyone who asked that they were just roomies, saving money by sharing accommodations.

I liked Annette, Chloe said. She was a good mom.

That still sounds strange to me, he said. When you’ve got two of ’em. How long’s it been? I lose track of time these days.

I was ten, Chloe said.

Wow.

Anyway, did there come a point when Gran accepted it?

I guess. She had to move with the times.

How did she handle it when Mom told you she was pregnant?

Her grandfather let out a little hoot. Boy, that was something. Turned her world upside down. But not for long. She figured your mom finally started playing for the right team. That she was sneaking out on Annette and having a real goddamn heterosexual affair. Be the first time she’d have approved of adultery, I’ll tell you. She had no idea for some time that there was—gotta watch how I say this—no kind of hanky-panky going on. That the whole thing happened in a doctor’s office.

A fertility clinic, Chloe said.

"Yeah, right, one of them. We didn’t know much about those. A child needs a father, your grandmother kept saying. A mother and a father. Two mothers, that was just unnatural. When she found out it wasn’t an affair, she was disappointed. The old man looked down, unable to look his granddaughter in the eye. I won’t lie to you. I kind of felt the same way, at first. It took me a while to realize that as long as you were loved, that was the only thing that mattered."

"Did you talk to