A Storied Life Read online

  Hospice. I'd never heard the term before. Good thing I'd brought my notebook with me. I prepared my pen to capture the details.

  “With hospice, a team will visit me every week to provide pain and symptom management. Their goal is to keep me comfortable. I want to be as comfortable as possible, but I don't want to sacrifice my activities quite yet either. This team should help me do that. I plan to enroll in a program this week.”

  This seemed like something the family could be on board with. Still, I waited for the dissent to come. If not here, then when Gram's eagle eye no longer observed the troops.

  Part of me felt special to be here for such a family meeting. The bigger part of me still questioned my presence.

  Gram told us she was familiar with Sanctuary Hospice. They'd cared for a few of her friends and the families had positive experiences. A positive experience with death. Wasn’t that an oxymoron?

  I didn't expect Gram would live forever. But this, death by cancer, would not be something I could ever wrap my mind around.

  My vision blurred, as I attempted to process the morning's events. Marcus insisted Gram meet with all the hospices in the area so we could compare and contrast. Predictable. A sigh escaped me.

  I stared down at the mug in my other hand. I'd forgotten it was there. I wanted to go back to bed. Gram's response to Marcus registered in the background as my anger welled up again. If she liked Sanctuary Hospice, it didn't make sense to talk to the others. Marcus claimed he didn't like to waste his time. Apparently, it didn't matter if others wasted their time.

  “Olivia Jane,” Gram declared. I startled, interrupted from my righteous indignation.

  Twelve sets of eyes swiveled toward me. The ceiling lights burned hotter from their scrutiny. I felt guilty but unsure why.

  With the room's attention fully on me, Gram continued.

  “I invited Olivia Jane here because I have a favor to ask of her. I do not know what the coming months will hold for me and I need someone to be my voice of reason.”

  “Olivia, I would like you to be that voice of reason.”

  I blinked, not knowing what she meant but well aware of the hardened glances coming my way. Gram had angered the gods. Asking a grandchild to fill the role one of her children or in-laws should fill did not appear a wise request.

  But Gram was Gram. I didn't want the family's hostility directed toward me. More importantly, though, I didn't want to disappoint her.

  For her, I would be the scapegoat again.

  Before I could squeak out a response, one of my uncles demanded an explanation.

  “Voice of reason? What does that even mean, Mom? No one knows you better than your kids.” He didn’t have to add, “especially not her.” I flinched at Dan's venom but his words weren't true.

  Gram's family loved her. No one doubted that. However, they didn't understand her. How quickly they forgot their response to her so-called “odd behavior” over the years. How quickly they grasped for control.

  I didn't know if I knew Gram best, but I resented the implication I was not worthy of the task. I forced myself to meet Dan’s eyes. I dropped the mask I honed so well and allowed the flint to take over. I chose not to back down.

  Palpable tension filled the room. Heart thudding, I held Dan's eyes. My body coiled, cold, ready for action. I silently dared him to say something, anything about me. I begged for a chance to spew everything I held within.

  Gram smoothly kept the peace.

  “Now, Dan. This is not a reflection on you or anyone else. Olivia and I have had many talks about what I want when I die.”

  We had?

  “Of course, you children know me well. You're also busy with the bank. I need someone with a flexible schedule. Y'all do not have flexible schedules. Otherwise we would not be here so early this morning.”

  They didn't have to say it—I would never be tied up at the exalted bank. I wanted to feel smug in this little victory, instead of slighted that owning my own gallery paled in comparison to the family business.

  “I know you would be here in a hot second if I needed you, but this is not about you. This is about what I need. Having Olivia take on this role will give me peace of mind. Would you argue with a dying woman's request?”

  She practically fluttered her eyelashes with this last line. Manipulation delivered with ease.

  I stared at her as if it would help her request make sense. I sorted through past conversations, trying to remember a time Gram conveyed her dying wishes to me but came up empty. Other than the occasional comment about passing her china on to me when she died, Gram stayed away from the topic of death during our brunches.

  Satisfied there would be no further argument, Gram redirected her attention to me.

  “Olivia Jane, we will talk further about what this responsibility means. For now though, are you willing to be my voice of reason?”

  I wanted to say yes, but little red flags distracted me. Never agree to something without knowing the expectations. The Frasier sensibility was imbued in me, whether I liked it or not.

  “Gram, what do you mean by 'voice of reason'?” I kept my focus on her, ignoring the snide looks, the exasperation that said, “of course, Olivia won't do what she's supposed to do.”

  I needed to know more. I did have a business to consider after all. I had to ensure I understood what was asking me to do. And make sure everyone else knew what Gram wanted me to do. Was it too much to hope for getting it in writing?

  If I was going to be the scapegoat, I refused to enter the role blindly.

  Gram's eyes narrowed the slightest bit. I'd passed the first test.

  “Very well then. Tom Abernathy is joining us to draw up papers naming you as my Power of Attorney for Health Care.” She held up a hand, warding off commentary, and continued to look me in the eye.

  “When I'm unable to speak for myself, you will make any decisions related to my health care. You and I will talk through what this could look like with the hospice folks. Marcus will continue as my Power of Attorney related to financial matters, just as we set up when Pop died.”

  That would make them happy at least, keeping me out of the finances.

  “Olivia, you’ll also be my point person in the coming days. You'll distribute information out to people as needed. I haven't accepted I'll do less and less but I know it's coming. You'll probably need to come out here more often, which I hope you won't mind.”

  We stared at each other as she talked and her eyes pierced me with an unspoken message, willing me to understand. Suddenly it came to me. She’d given me an out. Yes, my schedule lent itself to flexibility, but somehow, Gram had seen through my act. She knew my heart was not in my work. That as much as I lived and breathed art, the gallery always had been, simply, a job.

  Gram, for reasons she only knew, bestowed a chance for me to do life differently. The weight of responsibility settled. A chance to prove myself and an opportunity to repay in part all Gram had done for me. It was too much to take in, with all those eyes upon me, waiting for me to screw up once again. Long ago I'd learned the hard way not to make spontaneous decisions, but there would never be enough time to balance the pros and cons in this case.

  I said yes.

  I avoided looking at Mom or Aunt Elaine, knowing what my acceptance meant.

  I couldn't think about the days or decisions ahead. Gram chose me over the rest. The fallout would present itself soon enough.

  The family lawyer walked through the door, such a familiar presence he skipped the formality of ringing the doorbell.

  I pinned my hopes and fears on this decision, no matter what my family believed about me. Let the paperwork begin.

  Chapter Three

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, willing myself not to think of lawyerly terms, hefty decisions, and a dying grandmother. Numbness lingered. I divorced myself from the reality of what lay before me. If I started crying now, I might not stop, and tears and traffic did not mix.

  Idling
at yet another stoplight, I twisted my hair into a messy bun and boosted myself to check my reflection in the rearview mirror. I glanced at my wan expression, then turned my attention back to the road. The sun came out at last and I dangled my arm out the open window, trying to enjoy the improved spring weather.

  An unusual amount of traffic impeded my progress. Chicago area traffic could make or break a person's day. So much time was spent sitting in traffic, talking about traffic, and avoiding traffic. My thoughts wandered back to Gram. Dangerous territory.

  Instead, I searched for phone calls to return. Only I didn't want to actually talk to anyone. The daily to-do list could always be reviewed, but not right now. Thanks to the family meeting, a few items had been added to the list, but it would keep.

  On an ordinary day, music was an instant fix for whatever the mood. From the moment I bought my first CD, music was my first love. A whole world opened up outside of my parents' more limited taste. Music became a refuge, a safe place, a rallying call.

  In college, friends discovered my ability to often match artist to song within fifteen seconds. It may or may not have been my signature party trick over the years. The challenge was the perfect distraction. I decided to test my skills, turned the radio on, and listened.

  I'd recognize the lead singer of my old favorite rock band anywhere. Their first single had been overplayed but enough time had passed, so I didn't hold it against them. The song brought back good memories of high school, until I focused on the lyrics as he sang about falling apart. Great. Just what I didn't want to be thinking about. I switched the station.

  The options didn’t improve. From 80s power ballads to hip hop to hard rock, one song after another told me I was a loner, a loser, a failure.

  The message couldn't have been clearer. Errant thoughts threatened to unleash memories I kept locked away and I blinked back tears. This was not the time or the place. I jabbed the Scan button, hoping the next station would have something more innocuous. It sounded like Switchfoot, another band that reminded me of more carefree days. I started to relax.

  But then the lead singer’s voice pierced me by asking if I was who I wanted to be. No, no, no. Anger surged.

  “Rub it in why don't you!” I yelled at the radio as I slammed the power button, turning off the music. Shaken, I glanced at the car next to me, the passengers' mouths gaping. I had forgotten the windows were down as I crept along the road.

  “Uh, I lost the contest,” I offered with a grimace, then groaned to myself. Fortunately, the cars began to move.

  * * *

  I paused outside the door to Madison Gallery and smoothed my pants. Time to put my professional face on. I steeled myself then breezed inside, greeting staff. My assistant Suzy stood to the side hunched over her ubiquitous clipboard.

  A few inches taller and a few years younger than me, she was Chinese American, slender with shoulder-length jet black hair. She was dressed in her standard uniform of black, something the New York transplant hadn’t shed even after several years in Chicago.

  Suzy had worked here for three years now and truly was my right-hand woman. Her organized efficiency helped me adhere to my own systems. I had a feeling I’d be relying on her more than ever in the coming months. But for now, I wanted to pretend this was a normal day. I motioned her over.

  “Please tell me I have time to stop at Teapot.” The drive back to Oak Park had taken longer than usual but she’d texted earlier that the prospective artist was held up in traffic himself. If I couldn't wallow, I could at least have the comfort of Irish Breakfast tea. I wished I would've gone back inside my apartment, brewed the tea, and arrived late to the family meeting.

  “Like I'd enable you to drink murdered water. " She scoffed and shook her head so hard, the fringe of her bangs swayed with the motion. “He should be here in the next few minutes.”

  “Tea is not murdered water, Suzy. Black teas have caffeine just like coffee.” I nodded toward the ubiquitous mug in her hand. I embraced the comfort of our long-standing banter. “I guess it'll have to wait.”

  I wound through the gallery until I reached my office in the back, pausing at a mirror in the hallway to see if I looked presentable. Once at my desk, I rifled through the filing cabinet until I found the presentation folder for the prospective artist. Everything looked to be in order. I was fairly confident he would agree to exhibit.

  Nervous energy filled me. I glanced longingly at the closet stocked with paint supplies. If I didn't have time for tea, I definitely didn't have time to paint.

  Typically, I preferred finding prospective artists on my own, but my mentor had pointed me toward Reagan Murray's work. Few people could say no to Walter Booth, an African American curator at the Art Institute of Chicago. In any case, I rarely wanted to. I was impressed by Reagan’s approach to landscapes and portraits and the way his work revealed hidden worlds. When Walter told me Reagan was moving to the area, I agreed to a meeting. It wouldn't hurt to see more of his portfolio and see if he'd be well-suited to exhibit here.

  Suzy knocked on the door and announced Reagan's arrival. As I stood up to greet him, I caught the full impact of his piercing blue eyes. He was the kind of tall, dark, and handsome I tended to fall for. A magnetized charge grew between us. This wasn't good. My poor heart began racing again. Oh God. Knowing my tendency to become flustered around attractive men, I instructed myself to stay calm.

  After the introductions, Reagan apologized. “Sorry I'm a few minutes late. I had a flat tire and then the Eisenhower was backed up. It's just one of those days,” he finished with a rueful grin.

  Butterflies appeared at the sight of his smile. We chuckled together in commiseration and my guard mysteriously disappeared.

  “I'm having one of those days, too. My grandmother is dying of cancer.” The words hung in the air. I wanted to lasso them back, hold them close to my heart. What had just happened? My face flushed red and my eyes opened wide in horror.

  Oh. My. God. Some professional I was.

  Reagan studied me. I cringed, unsure if I should apologize for blurting it out or let my overshare stand.

  “I'm sorry to hear that,” he said. He looked deep into my eyes and something in his expression reassured me.

  “I'm so sorry I told you. I can't believe I said that. I haven't told anyone yet. I literally just found out this morning...” Words spewed out of my mouth, until I trailed off. Get a grip, you're only making it worse. “I'm sorry. You don't need to hear any of this. Let's start over. Why don't we go over the proposal and see what questions you have?”

  Reagan took a long look at me, as if trying to gauge what I needed, and I held my breath until he nodded. Relief descended as he finally sat down across from me.

  Back on solid ground, we discussed numbers and dimensions. Every four months, I selected three artists for the freestanding exhibition walls at the front of the gallery. We held a big party, which generated interest in the community, which translated to sales and publicity for the artists. The artists took control of the walls for those four months and refreshed them with new work as their pieces sold. Whatever was left at the end was integrated with the other artwork in the gallery. It kept things fresh and I loved the opportunity it presented to find new artists and support established ones.

  As we talked, I took in the man before me. He had light tawny skin and his russet hair curled at the ends. My fingers itched to wander through it. I surreptitiously slid my hands under my legs so I wouldn’t give in to temptation.

  I didn't have any rules against dating clients, mostly because the men were too old, too young, gay, or already taken, but it didn't matter whether I was interested in Reagan. It only mattered that he sign with the gallery.

  He could easily fill up an exhibition wall. I felt good about beginning a relationship with him. A professional relationship.

  I gestured to one of the prints in his portfolio. “What was your inspiration for this?” I asked.

  Reagan leaned back in his chair to
reflect. “I started drawing from a young age and picked up painting in high school. Really, though, my interest in art started with Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. Here's this guy who presents himself one way, while his soul is evil and wasting away on the inside. I wanted to tap into that dichotomy. We all hide pieces of ourselves, good and bad.”

  I nodded in understanding.

  “When Walter emailed a few pictures of your work to me, I was intrigued. You have a serious streak but then there was some whimsy at work as well. I see how it could appeal to different types of collectors,” I said. I hoped he’d keep talking.

  “Thank you,” he said, confident in himself and his work. I wondered if there was anything that made him feel insecure. I paged through his portfolio as he continued to talk about his pieces. I noted the detail in each print, whether little children playing in a woman's hair or the hidden kingdom lurking in a mountain. It could have easily been cheesy or derivative but the images arrested the viewer and gave homage to Reagan's talent.

  “I touched base with Walter when I decided to head to Chicago. He's a great guy, speaks very highly of you, by the way.”

  “Hmm. He must be up to something,” I said with a light laugh. My mentor did not dispense praise lightly. “How did you two meet in the first place?”

  “I came to the Art Institute to see the painting used for the movie version of Dorian Gray. I'd imagined it one way, of course, but what Albright painted for the movie was incredible. I had to see it for myself. While I was there, Walter was making the rounds and started up a conversation.”

  Walter was a genial man but not prone to discussions with random museum patrons. There must have been more to the story, at least from Walter's point of view.

  “He must have thought highly of you to keep in touch all this time.”

  A pleased expression crossed Reagan’s face. Our discussion continued. I could see why my mentor liked Reagan. He was engaging and passionate about his work. Best of all, he didn't have an arrogant bone in his body and he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know me.