Andy knew that she didn't give off that kind of vibe herself, nowhere near, but she still felt incredibly awkward in the home where Miranda had grown up. They'd spent last night in Mrs. Princhek's spare room, on a bed that had felt like one big creaky spring. Andy had passed a lot of time looking at the shadows on the wall, trying to piece this place together with the Miranda she knew. Miranda had told her months ago about the Michigan neighborhood where she'd grown up, but seeing it in person was something else. This house had a lot of words unsaid, muffled memories, not all of them good.
Miranda didn't talk a lot about her past. Fair enough, neither did most people, not on an everyday basis. She wasn't exactly secretive about it, not now, when she trusted Andy not to blab. But it was a given that the twins were never going to meet their grandmother, were never going to set foot in this Detroit suburb, that Miranda was never going to have the Princheks up to Manhattan for Thanksgiving dinner.
"Do the girls even know she's alive?" Andy had asked Miranda when they'd picked up the rental car. Miranda hadn't told the twins about their mission: just that she and Andy were going away "on business" for two days. The twins had taken the information with an indifference that Andy was coming to suspect was typical of fourteen-year-olds, or at least of the ones who lived in the Upper East Side.
"No," had been Miranda's clipped reply.
"Do you, um. Do you think they'd like to know?"
"It wouldn't do any good," Miranda said coldly. "You'll see." An hour later, Andy had seen.
This morning she sat with Abigail Princhek's warm, wrinkled, knobby hand in her own while Miranda glared up at the light fixture. One bulb had burned out, and Mrs. Princhek had a thing about opening the blinds. She didn't want people to look in, see what she had, and rob her. Andy was pretty sure that if they were going to get robbed then the Mercedes would be first on the list, but that didn't really seem to be the issue here.
"Mother, where's the footstool?" Miranda said.
"By the front door," her mother replied.
"No. That's what you said the last time I asked you. It is not by the door. How about the screwdriver?"
"Try Daddy's old toolbox?"
"Maybe the hall closet," Andy suggested timidly.
"Your brother will be by to fix it soon, Miriam," Mrs. Princhek said. "He promised."
"I'm sure he did," Miranda said sourly, "at least a week ago." She turned around and stomped off towards the hall closet. "Andrea, keep my mother company."
"Of course," Andy said, not pointing out that she was already holding hands with an old lady she'd known less than twenty-four hours and who smelled like mothballs. She smiled at the woman who had given birth to Miranda Priestly, who had left, and who had returned when it was too late. "Can I get you anything, Mrs. Princhek? A cup of coffee, or something else from the kitchen?"
"Are you Miriam's daughter?" Mrs. Princhek asked, giving Andy a sweet, vacant smile. She reached up and patted Andy's cheek.
Thank God Miranda was out of hearing range. Hearing that question not once, but twice since their arrival might do unpleasant things to her blood pressure. "No, Mrs. Princhek," Andy said carefully. "Remember? My name is Andy Sachs. I'm a friend of Miranda's. She told me she was coming here to, to check up on how things are going, and I said I'd come along and help."
She hadn't asked. She'd learned not to ask by now. Not when she saw that look in Miranda's eyes that meant a dark and lonely time was ahead; she'd just packed a bag. Miranda hadn't protested even once.
"Oh, that's right." Mrs. Princhek didn't stop smiling. "Are you from New York?"
"No, ma'am." They'd been through this before, too. "I'm from Ohio. Cincinnati."
"Really? I lived in Ohio for a while." Mrs. Princhek sent a furtive glance towards where Miranda had left the room.
"I like Cincinnati," Andy said, clinging to the banal. "Most of my family's still there. So I can go home for the holidays and see them all at once."
"That's nice. That's very nice." Mrs. Princhek suddenly looked sad. "I left my family, you know."
"Um. Yes," Andy said, not quite able to meet the rheumy grey eyes. Apparently the word 'family' had been a bad idea. "I heard."
"It's hard in this place." Mrs. Princhek looked restlessly around the room. "But I did come back."
Yes. She'd left when Miranda was fourteen. She'd returned twenty years later, broke and alone, to the house where she'd begun to raise three children, and she'd found that her youngest had also gone. Had changed her name and made good in the big city.
Miranda hadn't forgiven her, and she never would. Andy knew that. She was going to overcompensate with the twins until the end of time. But she still sent her mother two big checks a year to pay for her keep. Mrs. Princhek didn't want to move into assisted living, and her other two children, who lived not far away, didn't want her to either. Andy had a vague, unvoiced suspicion that they didn't want the checks to land in hands that weren't theirs, but maybe she was just being uncharitable.
"Have you ever left anywhere?" Mrs. Princhek asked, blinking politely as she jerked Andy out of her reverie.
"Have I what? Oh." Andy bit her lip. "Sure. I mean, everybody leaves places, don't they?"
"But did you ever leave anywhere important? Can you go back?" Mrs. Princhek reached up with her free hand to fuss with her permed curls. "I came back. Did I tell you that?"
"I left your daughter," Andy said quietly. "And I came back too." The only difference was, it hadn't been too late. Thank God. Thank God.
"How's that, honey?"
"Nothing," Andy muttered, realizing that she was playing mind games with an old woman who wouldn't remember anything she said in about five minutes, much less understand that Andy and Miranda shared a bed under her roof. "I, uh--"
She heard a crash from the back of the house, and Miranda's muffled exclamation. She rose quickly to her feet. "Excuse me, Mrs. Princhek. I'm going to check on Miran--Miriam, okay?"
"Okay." But Mrs. Princhek held Andy for a second longer. "What's your name, dear?"
"Andy. My name is Andy. Excuse me," Andy repeated, and tugged her hand free as gently as she could before hurrying away.
Her worst fears--finding Miranda on the ground, bleeding from the head--didn't materialize. But she did see Miranda sitting on a footstool and sorting through a toolbox.
"Hey, two for two," Andy said. "Screwdriver and footstool."
Miranda frowned up at her. "What's Mother doing?"
"Still sitting on the sofa, I guess. I heard a crash."
"I almost brained myself getting this toolbox off the shelf," Miranda grunted as she stood up. She looked around. "What time is it?"
In the living room, where Mrs. Princhek sat, an old wall clock ticked loudly enough that you could hear it in the spare bedroom. Not here, though. Andy checked her watch. "Five past ten."
"Mmm. Lauren finished her night shift at ten. I'll drive over to her house when I've changed Mother's lightbulb."
Andy grinned. "How many fashion editors does it take to--"
Miranda hefted the screwdriver and gave Andy a smug little smile. "One, if you treat her right."
It was moments like this when Andy almost blurted I love you out of thin air. But that always made Miranda clam up and look uncomfortable. And if Miranda was actually willing to crack a joke here, in this place of all places--
"Want me to go with you?" Andy said instead. "To Lauren's. Wait, which one is she?"
"My niece. Deborah's girl."
"Right. And Deborah's the one who gets the checks?"
Miranda's eyes darkened. "She's supposed to."
But a week ago, Miranda had gotten a call from Deborah asking for more money to care for Mrs. Princhek, and Deborah hadn't exactly been forthcoming about why the last check--generous, as always--hadn't lasted as long as it should have. But Miranda knew that Deborah had just moved in with her daughter and her daughter's new husband, and she suspected the latter was to blame.
"Want me to go with you?" Andy repeated. She crossed her arms and fidgeted. "Is he going to be there?"
"He's 'between jobs'." Miranda rolled her eyes. "I have no idea. Deborah said he's usually out with his buddies." She headed back towards the living room. "Bring that footstool, will you?"
"Just takes one fashion editor, huh?" Andy grumbled as she picked it up. But it was worth it to see Miranda kick off her shoes and climb the footstool, replacing the burned-out lightbulb like she did it every day.
While she was up there, she coughed on the dust. "I thought Samuel's wife came by to clean this place, Mother," she said.
"She came by yesterday," Mrs. Princhek said.
Miranda looked at her directly. "Yesterday."
"Yes. Didn't she?"
"No, Mother. She did not come by yesterday. Or the day before, or the day before, and so on, if this place is any indication." Miranda stepped down from the footstool, ignoring Andy's outstretched hand. "The carpet in the spare bedroom looks like it hasn't been vacuumed in years."
Mrs. Princhek's head drooped, her cheeks going red from shame. Andy bit her lip. "I'll do it," she said. "I saw the vacuum in the hall closet too. I'll straighten up the place while you're gone."
Miranda didn't seem to notice her mother's distress, but her eyes did soften as she looked at Andy. She didn't say 'thank you,' but she did reach out to pat Andy's elbow. "I'm leaving now. If I'm not back by--" She glanced at the clock. "--noon, will you give Mother her pills? They're in the pill counter on the kitchen table."
"Sure thing." Andy smiled at Mrs. Princhek, who had tentatively raised her eyes. "We'll have a good time. Mrs. Princhek, how about if you watch TV while I clean up in the spare room?"
Mrs. Princhek nodded and smiled again. "The Price is Right comes on in twenty minutes," Miranda said, brushing past her mother and reaching for her handbag. "Deborah says she likes to watch that. I'll be back as soon as I can." With that in place of 'goodbye,' she swept out the front door.
Andy turned back to Mrs. Princhek, who was looking at the closed door. "Would you like me to turn on the TV?" she asked.
"Where did Miriam go?"
"To see her sister. Deborah. She's going to talk to Deborah for a little bit," Andy said. "She'll be back soon. In the meantime, I'm here to look after you, okay?"
Mrs. Princhek blinked at her, and smiled a little.
"My name is Andy," Andy said, before she could ask.
Forty-five minutes later, the spare bedroom was vacuumed and Andy was loading Mrs. Princhek's laundry into the washing machine. It looked like it had been over a week since Samuel's wife, whoever she was, had stopped by to wash her mother-in-law's clothes. Andy couldn't help noticing how the garments smelled like an old woman: a faint, fragile odor like a bed that had been too long slept in.
The whole place had an atmosphere of neglect. Apparently Miranda wasn't the only one who was angry at her mother's abandonment. Mrs. Princhek's other two kids would stop by to take care of her most basic needs--that much, and no more; meanwhile, it was Miranda, Ice Queen Miranda, who dropped work for two days to fly out to Shithole, Michigan and make sure everything was okay at the first sign of trouble.
Miranda, who had let Andy come back.
She hadn't made it easy, but she'd let it happen. She had forgiven. She hadn't forgotten, of course; Andy knew that her perfidy, her carelessness in Paris, hadn't exactly been wiped from Miranda's mind. But she'd forgiven Andy all the same. She loved her.
Why? Andy found her fingers twisting in Mrs. Princhek's hand towel as she thought about it. She'd always sort of wondered why, truthfully, even now, even after three years. She wasn't all that special; a year away from Runway, learning at The Mirror, had taught her that much. Until then, despite the multiple humiliations she'd suffered at Elias-Clarke, she'd still cherished the idea that when she finally broke into "real" journalism she'd be an instant success, show them all what she was made of.
Not so much. She was good at her job, and getting better all the time, but she was still no Christiane Amanpour. She'd learned that quickly enough. And Miranda had let her come back--not to Runway, never that again, but into her life and her bed. Truthfully, Andy often avoided thinking about why. At first she'd just been desperately grateful, and kept telling herself not to ruin it by asking questions more safely avoided. And then she'd just gotten used to it.
Used to Miranda Priestly. Now there was a thought.
But now, in this dim and lonely house, looking after a woman who had not been permitted to make amends, Andy thought maybe she ought to know 'why' after all. She just didn't know how to ask. How did you, after three years? Wasn't the moment already gone?
"Hello?" Mrs. Princhek called from the living room. "Hello?"
She sounded frightened. Andy quickly dropped the towel into the washing machine and dashed back into the living room, where Mrs. Princhek was looking around in alarm as she pulled herself to her feet with her walker.
"Mrs. Princhek," Andy said carefully, not wanting to alarm her. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
"Oh," Mrs. Princhek said in relief, "it's you. I heard someone in the back. I thought some hoodlums had broken in."
At least she remembered Andy's face, and that Andy was friend and not foe. "No," Andy said, and went for a reassuring smile. "No hoodlums. It's just me, doing your laundry."
Mrs. Princhek gave her a quavering smile of her own. "Well, isn't that sweet of you?"
Andy glanced at the TV and saw that it was running an infomercial. The Price is Right was finished, and Andy had no idea what would be a suitable substitute. A new issue of TV Guide sat on the coffee table. She picked it up, thinking about the story Emily had told her years ago, about the poor assistant who'd been forced to work there after cutting herself with a letter opener. (Emily had told Andy that the assistant had sliced her hand, but after a week on the job Andy had begun to wonder if it hadn't really been her wrists.)
"Let's see what's on," she said, flipping through TV Guide.
"What time is it?" Mrs. Princhek asked.
Andy looked at her watch. "Almost eleven."
"Matlock," Mrs. Princhek said promptly. "Unless there's something good on HBO."
It was weird what people with dementia could remember and what they couldn't. Mrs. Princhek had already forgotten Andy's name, and would again, but she could remember a TV schedule that probably hadn't deviated for years, as well as most of her own past. Sure enough, when Andy checked the guide, Mrs. Princhek was right.
And as it happened, nothing good was on HBO; Miranda paid for her mother to have every channel known to man at the touch of a remote, and somehow, there still wasn't much of anything to watch. "Matlock it is," Andy said.
"Do you like Andy Griffith?" Mrs. Princhek asked.
"Uh, sure," Andy said. "We have the same name, right?"
Mrs. Princhek blinked. "You do?"
"We do," Andy said, trying not to sigh. "I'm going to finish putting your laundry into the washing machine, okay?"
"Wait. Sit with me a little." Mrs. Princhek waved at the TV. "And turn that thing off for a minute."
"Um, okay. Can I just take a minute to put--" Mrs. Princhek's eyes became very sad. "Okay," Andy repeated, and sat down. The sofa had recently been reupholstered. Miranda had told Andy that her mother freaked out at the thought of new furniture: too unfamiliar, confusing, alien in a world that was already scary enough. So they had to make do with repairing everything she already had. Miranda had plainly found the idea repulsive.
Mrs. Princhek reached out and took Andy's hand again. "Tell me about Miriam," she said. "Tell me."
Why? Andy didn't ask. You won't remember it in five minutes. I could make up anything.
But she didn't do that. Instead she said, "Mrs. Princhek, your daughter runs a fashion magazine. It's the most important one in the world. It's called Runway. Have you ever heard of that?"
"Oh goodness yes. I read Runway every month when I was younger," Mrs. Princhek said. "I had a subscription."
"You did?" Miranda had never mentioned that.
"Oh yes. All those pretty women in those clothes. All that style and elegance. That's back when people were elegant, you know."
"Yes," Andy said with a smile. "I've seen some old back issues." Miranda had every single one. They both liked the 1940s the best: the world trying its damnedest to be graceful and beautiful in the middle of war. "They're really--"
"Not like the trash you see now," Mrs. Princhek said, pursing her lips in disgust, an expression so familiar that it shocked Andy into silence. "I saw one of those new ones. I don't remember when," she added, looking hesitant. "But there was a woman in there with no pants, and holes in her shirt, and she was standing up to her bare knees in the ocean. Can you beat that? And she looked like she'd never eaten a bite in her life. And Deborah told me that ripped up shirt cost..." Mrs. Princhek's brow creased. "I don't remember. Maybe it was almost a hundred dollars. That's the silliest thing I ever heard of."
The shirt had been Rodarte. Try $800. And that particular spread had won Nigel two awards. "Um," Andy said. "Well, Mirand--Miriam does a really good job, you know."
"I'm glad." Mrs. Princhek's frown disappeared and she looked hopeful and curious again. "She runs that magazine now? I bet she doesn't let them put in trash like that."
"Tra--" Andy shook her head and tried not to sigh. Again. "Yeah, she's, she's really good at her job. The best. But, um, she doesn't like to talk about work very much, actually, so maybe you just shouldn't ask her about it." Maybe, by some miracle, the suggestion would stick. "At all."
"Oh." Mrs. Princhek frowned in confusion, and then looked sad again. "I wish she'd talk to me. I wish any of them would."
Looking at the lonely old woman on the couch, Andy's heart tugged her one way--and then she remembered the pain in Miranda's eyes whenever the subject of her mother came up, and she got pulled in another direction. Apparently none of the Princhek kids were all that good at forgiveness, but Andy had never been in their shoes and hopefully never would be, so how could she know which was right? She'd been good at snap judgments once, but a few years with Miranda had taught her to keep her mind open. (Even if Miranda herself rarely did.)
"So, do you want me to tell you more about Miranda?" Andy asked Mrs. Princhek.
"Who?"
"Miriam. Sorry. I mean Miriam."
"Sure, honey," Mrs. Princhek said, her look suggesting that anybody who didn't know Miriam's name probably wouldn't know anything else.
"She's brilliant," Andy said. "She's the smartest person I've ever met. She works incredibly hard. And she fights to stay on top." Did she ever. "Meeting her was the best thing that ever happened t--"
The front door slammed open. Andy jumped and Mrs. Princhek gave a little cry of alarm at the sound of stomping feet. Almost immediately, Andy heard Miranda's voice: "I don't know what you're thinking, following me back here like it's going to make a difference."
Andy blinked at her tone: sharp, agitated, with none of the coldness Miranda usually displayed when she was upset.
"You can't do this," another woman's voice said. "You don't even live here! Who do you think you are?"
Miranda stormed into the living room, her face bright and flushed with anger. A woman followed her. Andy took in the resemblance with interest and alarm: the same arched nose, the same build and height. But this woman's hair was grey-streaked and unkempt, and she wore a shabby housecoat. That was strange. Andy knew that Miranda made a point of giving her family nice clothes on birthdays and holidays, managing to send a gift and an insult in the same gesture.
"I'm the one who writes those checks," Miranda replied. There. That was the cold voice Andy knew. "And I am the one who decides where they will go."
"You aren't here. You aren't here every day, you have no right to judge how we use--" Deborah caught sight of Andy. Her eyes widened, and then narrowed in disbelief. "Oh Christ, Miriam. You have to be kidding."
Andy's back straightened, and her heart began hammering. But before she could decide whether she was more angry or nervous, Miranda snapped, "My name is Miran--"
"Shut up. I'm not calling you 'Miranda.' That's such a joke."
"Deborah?" Mrs. Princhek ventured in a small voice. "Miriam?"
"It's okay, Mother," Deborah said, and took a deep breath. Meanwhile, Miranda appeared to be holding on to her cool with her fingernails. "Everything is fine. Miriam and I were just talking about who's going to handle your money."
"But--" Mrs. Princhek wrung her gnarled hands. "Who does it now?"
"I do," Deborah said. "I'm the ne who looks after you, and I've been--"
"Missing in action," Miranda snarled. "How much of it has he gambled away?"
"He doesn't gamble, damn it," Deborah spat. "He plays the stock market." Miranda laughed. It was unpleasant. "You stop it! He's a good boy, though I guess he's not up to your standards, Miss High-and-Mighty New York."
"He's an idiot," Miranda said. "I don't send Mother money so your son-in-law can throw it away on worthless--"
"He's going back to school to get his business degree. He knows what he's doing. You know the market goes up and down every day, he'll get it back and more! And it's all in her name, not his." Deborah nodded towards Mrs. Princhek, who looked even more confused than usual.
That was for the best. Andy was following along pretty well, and she was starting to get pissed off. It only got worse when Deborah pointed at her and continued, "And don't act like you're some angel, Miriam. How old is she, eighteen?"
"Twenty-nine," Andy said, before Miranda could reply. She crossed her arms and tried to look disdainful; no need to give Deborah the satisfaction of seeing her anger. Or her fear.
"Twenty-nine. Christ," Deborah repeated, glaring at Miranda. "And you're what, now? Fifty-four, fifty-five? You ought to be ashamed of yourself." She sneered. "Who do you think you are, that old man who married Anna Nicole? I guess your money goes a long way."
"Oh, fuck off!" Andy yelled before she could censor herself, making Mrs. Princhek gasp, Miranda wince, and Deborah smirk in triumph. Shit. Still...no sense backing down now. Four years ago, Andy might have, but not now. "You don't know me and you have no business saying anything like that," she added, glaring into Deborah's eyes.
"I don't like that language," Mrs. Princhek said. "Deborah, you and this girl, I don't like that kind of language in my house." She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. "Why is everybody yelling?"
"I'm not yelling," Miranda said, her voice as cold as an icebox. "And Deborah is leaving."
"But you're staying? Miriam?"
"Yes. Until tomorrow. I am staying."
"Mother--"
"I don't like that language, Deborah."
"Fucking great," Deborah shouted, making Mrs. Princhek cringe. "In twenty minutes you won't remember I said it anyway--" She shut her eyes. "I'm getting out of here. We are not finished with this, Miriam."
"Make sure you slam the door behind you," Miranda said dryly, as Deborah turned on her heel and stalked to the door. Deborah did.
Andy turned to look at Mrs. Princhek, who sat trembling and terrified on the couch. "Miranda," she whispered.
Miranda glanced down at her mother, and a muscle spasmed at the corner of her mouth. She cleared her throat, and sounded almost gentle when she said, "Mother." Then she sat down next to Mrs. Princhek on the couch and, to Andy's surprise, took one of her hands in her own. "I need to talk to you about something." She looked at Andy.
"Right," Andy said at once. "Right. I'll go finish the laundry. Um. I'm sorry I used that language, Mrs. Princhek."
Mrs. Princhek didn't seem to hear her. She clutched Miranda's hand, looking into her daughter's face with a sweet, yearning expression that almost broke Andy's heart. Andy fled back to the washing machine, grateful that she had something to do.
But it only took a few minutes to throw some clothes in a washing machine, add detergent, and start the wash cycle. That left Andy twiddling her thumbs in the laundry room, wondering when it would be safe to come back out and wishing she hadn't lost her temper so badly. It had only played right into Deborah's hands, and now Miranda's bitch sister was going to think she knew everything about Andy, knew what she and Miranda were to each other.
Andy wondered about Samuel. He was the eldest of the three siblings and Miranda didn't talk about him much. Maybe Deborah just had middle child syndrome or something. Maybe that was her problem. Since she'd first learned about Miranda's family, Andy had often tried to imagine Miranda as a youngest child. It hadn't really worked until today, when she'd seen Miranda squaring off with an older sibling who clearly wanted the reins back. Good luck with that one.
"Is there coffee left?"
Andy jumped. She turned and saw that Miranda stood behind her, her lips quirked with the small pleasure of surprising her girlfriend.
"I'm not in the kitchen," she retorted, and relented when Miranda raised an eyebrow. "I'll go check."
"If these is any, could you bring it out onto the back porch? It's a pretty morning." Andy raised an eyebrow of her own. "And I need a cigarette," Miranda admitted.
"That bad, huh?"
"What do you think?"
Andy patted her elbow as she pushed past her towards the kitchen. Miranda rarely smoked, and when she did, it was because she was in dire need of comfort that nothing else could quite provide. Except maybe really fatty, delicious food, so naturally, cigarettes it was.
There was enough cold, leftover coffee for a cup and a half. Andy poured it into two mugs, nuked them in the microwave, added milk to Miranda's, and carried the lot to the back porch. She left the door open so they could hear Mrs. Princhek if she called. To Andy's surprise, Miranda sat on the steps in her wool pants; not to her surprise, she looked elegant while doing so.
"Did I mention you look good today? Very Katherine Hepburn," Andy said.
"Mmm." Miranda took a long drag and didn't look at her.
Andy thought she had it figured out, and sat down next to Miranda, offering her the full mug. "I'm sorry I blew up at your stupid, mean sister," she said.
Miranda snorted with reluctant laughter. But she still said, "Only I'm allowed to insult my family. Not you."
"All right. I really am sorry."
Miranda shrugged. "It doesn't matter." She took the coffee, and offered the cigarette to Andy, who shook her head.
"I need to call Bernadette," Miranda said, staring off into the yard, where the grass was closed in by an old wood fence. The place next door was scarcely visible beyond it, but that was okay, given that it had gone nearly totally to seed. Andy didn't think it was even inhabited. Detroit had been on a downward slide for a long time now. "I'm concerned about the Rome shoot."
"What did you talk to your mom about?"
"Lawyers. Not that she understood." Miranda took another drag and blew a plume of smoke through her nostrils, like a dragon. Andy tried not to smile. She disapproved of smoking, but she always got a kick out of that. "I didn't know. I had no idea. I should have been paying more attention."
After three years, Andy had gotten better at reading Miranda's mind, but it wasn't an exact science. "You didn't know what?"
Miranda glanced over at her. "How badly she's deteriorated. Mentally." She sipped the coffee. "I haven't seen her in five years. And Deborah never really mentioned…I didn't know," she repeated.
Andy bit her lip. "So what now?"
"She can't live alone anymore. That much is obvious. But she's frightened of rest homes."
"You wouldn't put her into a bad one," Andy protested.
"Of course I wouldn't. But she's attached to this place. It's familiar." Miranda looked around in obvious disgust, a woman who had fled the familiar as soon as she could, long ago. "We might be able to get away with hiring a live-in nurse, at least for a little while." Andy nodded. "But it's not enough for Deborah or Samuel to stop by once a day and check on her. It is simply not enough."
"No," Andy agreed.
"She can still walk," Miranda said, sounding almost as if she were talking to herself. "And she knows the house well. She can dress herself. But she can't cook or be trusted with her own medication, and she doesn't always remember to take showers, and really, it would only take one slip--"
"And she's lonely," Andy said. Miranda went still. "And she gets scared. It'd be good for her to have somebody around most of the time."
"Yes, well," Miranda said. She stubbed the cigarette out on the boards of the porch. "That too, I suppose." Her voice was flat, and very close to cold.
Andy took the hint. "So what's this about a lawyer?"
"Obviously Deborah can't have control over the money anymore," Miranda said. "I need to tie it up in a trust. Make sure that it can be used for Mother's care, and nothing else." She waved her hand. "Mark and Frank will help me go through the options." Mark was her attorney, who'd seen her through three divorces. Frank was her financial adviser, who'd helped her take her generous salary and nearly treble her net worth through investments and property. As always, Miranda had a knack for finding the best.
"Yeah," Andy said. And because something else seemed to be called for, she added, "I'm sorry you have to deal with this."
Miranda pursed her lips. "What else is new?" She sipped her coffee. "All I do is run around all day fixing things, no matter where I am. And nothing ever stays fixed. Nothing."
By now, Andy at least knew enough about the world that she could say, "I don't think anything ever does, for anybody. You can't really fix life, Miranda." She reached out and carefully took Miranda's hand in hers. Miranda didn't pull it away. "But you're doing the best you can. You're looking after her."
Of course, Andy couldn't pretend that it was done all out of the goodness of Miranda's heart, or from a place of love and forgiveness. She knew that Miranda felt a sense of duty to the woman who had borne her. More than that, it would be an absolute PR disaster if the press got wind that Miranda Priestly's mother lived in squalor while her daughter led the Manhattan high life. But still--Miranda was doing it, and with her own personal attention.
"I need to call Bernadette," Miranda repeated, as if Andy hadn't spoken. She looked down at her watch. "It's a little early, but I can give Mother her medication now. Or--" She glanced at Andy.
"I'll do it," Andy said, letting go of her hand and standing up. Miranda gave her a smile that was both tight and grateful. "You getting hungry? You didn't eat much for breakfast."
"That's because there's not much to eat. Deborah hasn't done the shopping in a few days." Miranda rolled her eyes. "She won't be in a hurry to stop by today, either."
"Okay." Andy rubbed her palms together. "Let me do that. I'll medicate her, do the shopping, and then we'll have lunch." This was the easy part--at Runway she'd learned how to take care of essential details as quickly as possible, and had built on that in her job as a reporter. It was simplicity itself to slide back into the role of Miranda's personal assistant. "You just call Bernadette and Mark and whoever else. Is that okay?"
Miranda looked up at Andy with a familiar expression on her face, so inscrutable and closed that Andy knew she was working like hell to hide her feelings. Which meant the feelings were pretty big. Andy swallowed around a lump in her throat.
"Yes," Miranda said. "Yes, that's fine."
Easier said than done, of course. Andy had no real idea of what Mrs. Princhek liked to eat. Neither did Miranda, and she obviously didn't want to submit to further questioning, so when Andy hit the grocery store she kept it as simple as she could: milk, bread, coffee, cereal, cheese, some lunch meat, some soup and meals that could be microwaved, since Mrs. Princhek didn't use the stove. Bananas for the cereal, some tomatoes that looked okay--soft things that an old woman could chew.
When Andy got back to the Princhek house, staggering in with her haul, she was greeted with a sight that made her grin: Miranda was holding forth on the phone to some unfortunate underling, and Mrs. Princhek was looking on in fascination, as if she were watching the most gripping Matlock episode of all time.
"…completely unacceptable," Miranda was saying, her lip curled in disgust. "I am very disappointed." No doubt the underling was shitting their pants right now. Andy looked at Miranda, and carefully judged that it wasn't too bad. There were different levels of 'completely unacceptable,' and the current one didn't seem insurmountable, if Miranda's face was any indicator. Whatever was happening could be fixed.
"No," Miranda continued. "There is not enough give in the budget." Andy grimaced. This year, that was actually true. "Fix it anyway. Talk to Everett. We can manage ten thousand dollars, I think."
Andy heard Mrs. Princhek's gasp, and grinned again before asking sotto voce, "Mrs. Princhek, could you show me where you'd like me to put these groceries?"
"In the kitchen."
"Well, sure. But where specifically do you…" Too late. Mrs. Princhek had already turned back to watch her youngest daughter with wide eyes. Miranda herself hadn't even seemed to notice Andy's arrival, lost as she was in Runway. Andy sighed and carried everything back into the kitchen, poked around in the cupboards and the fridge, and guessed as best she could. She might have to rearrange later--it was a sure bet that Mrs. Princhek would freak out if the food wasn't exactly where it was supposed to be.
The thought gave Andy pause as she was putting a chicken pot pie in the freezer. Mrs. Princhek's particularity was a result of her…dementia, or whatever it was, sure. She needed things to be in a familiar location. But had she been like this before, as well? Miranda certainly thrived on routine, on having things exactly where they were supposed to be, on nothing being out of place. Had she learned it--or inherited it--from her mother, before that mother had walked out?
When Andy headed back into the living room, Miranda was wrapping up her phone call. Andy was just in time to hear Mrs. Princhek say, "You got ten thousand dollars, honey?"
"I hope so," Miranda said, dropping her phone into her handbag. The latest iPhone model. Sometimes Andy worried that Miranda was more attracted to her phone than she was to Andy. "I need it to fix something that went wrong with the magazine."
"Who messed up?" Mrs. Princhek asked. "I bet you're going to fire them, if they lost ten thousand dollars."
"Well--"
"Isn't that worth more than the car?"
"It is worth approximately ten of the Datsun, yes." Miranda ran her fingers through her hair. "But in magazine terms, it isn't much. Andrea--"
"It isn't much? Ten thousand dollars?"
"No. Now--"
"That's a lot of money. That's a lot of money to throw away."
"I'm not throwing it away," Miranda said, looking at her mother, her eyes flashing. Andy tensed up, because this time it was serious. "I am doing my job. I am putting out a magazine."
"Oh." Mrs. Princhek turned her rheumy eyes on Andy. "Didn't you say something about that?"
"Yes, ma'am," Andy said, feeling her face turn red, not looking at Miranda. "I did. I told you that Mira--Miriam--" Miranda rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "--puts out the most important fashion magazine in the world. And she's really good at it."
"Oh," Mrs. Princhek repeated. She looked at Miranda again. "Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money to waste."
Miranda didn't say anything. She walked past Andy towards the back of the house.
Andy took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Did you put those groceries away, dear?" Mrs. Princhek asked her.
Lunch was a silent affair. Andy and Miranda worked together in the kitchen to fix sandwiches without saying a word to each other; Miranda had accepted Andy's gentle pat on her elbow, but that was all.
Then, after lunch, she went to her brother's apartment. Andy waved goodbye as the rental Mercedes practically peeled out of the driveway, hoping that Miranda would be in a better temper by the time she spoke to Samuel. She needed at least one sibling in her corner.
While they waited for Miranda to return, Mrs. Princhek watched Lifetime and Andy checked her messages. There were several increasingly anxious texts from the twins, a couple from Lily, and a voicemail from her dentist. Lily's texts consisted of an invitation to a gallery opening tonight, followed by an apologetic message saying that she'd forgotten Andy was out of town. The voicemail was an automated appointment reminder. That left the twins, and--Andy checked her watch--they were currently on a break between afternoon classes. Andy sighed and texted Caroline.
-Hi, are you there?
A bare moment later:
-Where r u & mom
-Taking care of some business.
This time, it wasn't enough.
-What business
-She's working out the terms of a trust with her lawyer. It sort of wasn't a lie.
-A trust for us? Don't we already have one
-No, this is something else. You'll have to ask her. I don't really understand it. Pass the buck.
-OK but where r u
-Detroit
-wtf why r u there
-No cursing, and I told you, you have to ask your mom. I'm just along for the ride.
-Don't u have 2 wrk
-We'll be back tomorrow. Calm down, everything is fine.
-Cass txtd mom earlier & she didn't call back
-She'll call you tonight. Don't worry.
-Whatevs but break is over g2g
-Ok, have a good day.
-luv u bye
-I love you too. Bye.
Andy closed her phone, looked up, and saw that Mrs. Princhek had fallen asleep on the couch. Her chin touched her chest, and her shoulders slowly rose and fell. She looked comfortable enough, so Andy rose to her feet, tiptoed to the television, and turned it down.
Then she sat down in the cozy recliner and looked up at the ceiling to think. Miranda loved Andy. Her kids loved Andy. It had hardly been instantaneous, and it had rarely been easy, but she'd been welcomed into the fold, made part of Miranda's intensely private personal world.
Of course, her situation was different from Mrs. Princhek's, Andy told herself. When she'd walked out, she'd only been a peon, not Miranda's mother. And she'd returned in one year, not twenty. So, sure, it made total sense that Miranda would forgive, would accept--
God, Andy thought, as she rubbed her hands over her face. She had to get this straightened out or it would drive her crazy. Even if dragging the truth out of Miranda would be a protracted and annoying affair, it was important.
Because it had taken a while for Andy to get over being a "post"--that feeling of being part of Miranda's life that was defined by what had come before. For a long time Andy had seen herself as someone who was post-divorce, post-Stephen, post-Paris. It had taken over a year before she'd accepted that she wasn't really post-anything to Miranda, that she didn't mark either the beginning or end of an era--she was just Andy. Andrea. Everyday Andrea.
But now, faced with a woman who seemed her own predecessor as much as Miranda's, Andy found herself evaluating her place in Miranda's world all over again. She didn't really want to. While Miranda was the most important person in her life, and always would be (she knew), Andy's whole existence didn't revolve around her. That had taken some doing, but they'd managed it. Andy had her own job, her own friends and coworkers, she liked going to the occasional movie by herself. It was just that here, now, in Miranda's childhood house and surrounded by Miranda's family, it was hard to remember that.
Good thing they were going home tomorrow, Andy told herself, and reached for her laptop bag. In the meantime, she had work to do. An article to finish--it had been hell wrangling two days away from the paper. There were only two paragraphs left, she judged. And then maybe she could work on that book she'd started on the plane, one that Miranda herself had no desire to read.
Her timing was good. She finished the article, and had just wrapped up a chapter in the book when Mrs. Princhek woke up. She blinked blearily at Andy, and then her eyes widened.
"I'm Andy," Andy said at once. "I'm Miriam's friend. Remember? I'm staying here with you while she goes to visit Samuel."
"Oh?" Mrs. Princhek blinked again, and then nodded slowly. "That's right."
"Yeah," Andy said in relief, putting the novel aside. "Can I get you something, now that you've woken up? Something to drink, or--"
"I have to go to the bathroom," Mrs. Princhek said. Andy felt a moment of profound panic before she realized it was merely a statement of fact, not a request for help. Mrs. Princhek got to her feet and proceeded out of the living room with the help of her walker.
A short time later, just when Andy'd become absorbed in the novel again (though always keeping an ear out), Mrs. Princhek shuffled back into the room. "You're Miriam's friend," she said.
Andy looked up as Mrs. Princhek sat back down on the sofa with a grunt. "Yes," she said carefully, trying to sound friendly and not gay. Miranda didn't give a damn if everybody in her family knew about them, but Andy gave a big damn if Mrs. Princhek greeted Miranda with another accusation when she returned home.
"How did that happen? She never had a lot of friends when she was little. And you're so young." Mrs. Princhek smiled. "How do you know her? How did you meet her?"
Andy smiled back, but sighed. Everybody always asked that. She supposed she couldn't blame them. And of course Andy loved the story of her and Miranda, and how it happened--but she was getting kind of tired of telling it over and over after three years. Especially because, with Mrs. Princhek, there was no guarantee that Andy wouldn't have to tell it again in fifteen minutes or so.
"I used to work at Runway with her," was all she said. "That's how we met. And I liked her. And we're friends." Keep it simple.
"Oh. But you don't work at Runway any more?"
"No. I work at a newspaper now. I'm a reporter."
"A reporter? In New York? Goodness." Mrs. Princhek gave an exaggerated shudder. "I hope you're careful in that crazy city."
"Have you ever been to New York?" Andy asked, because Mrs. Princhek seemed pretty good at remembering things that had happened a long time ago.
"No. I never wanted to. All those drugs and crime." Andy decided not to mention that as far as she could tell, Detroit wasn't exactly a model to emulate in that regard. "I went to L.A. Wanted to be in movies. I wasn't pretty enough."
Miranda had never mentioned that either. Maybe she didn't know. "Did you try?"
"I had some auditions. I was in a few commercials." Mrs. Princhek shook her head. "But I couldn't make a living. I had to leave."
"To Ohio?"
"Lots of places. And then I came back." Mrs. Princhek squinted at her. "Where are you from, honey?"
"Ohio. Cincinnati."
"Really? I lived in Cleveland. I hated it there. But I couldn't make it in L.A. How old are you?"
"I'm twenty-nine. I turn thirty in…"
"You married?"
"Um. Not yet," Andy said. It wasn't legal yet. "But someday, I hope."
Mrs. Princhek nodded. "You want to have children?"
"I don't think so," Andy said, looking down at the floor. "Not right now, anyway." And if she stayed with Miranda, which she fully intended to, not ever. Miranda was fifty-four and had no desire for more children. Andy would have to make do with step-mothering the twins, whose childhoods she'd missed, until they moved out, when she might be able to talk Miranda into another dog.
But she was telling the truth, at least: she didn't want kids, certainly not right now. And if she was lucky, the urge would never come. Or if it did, she could channel it into something else for the good of society--volunteering at elementary schools or whatever. Who knew?
"Well, that's good, you think about it carefully," Mrs. Princhek said, her voice surprisingly urgent. Andy looked up at her, and saw that Mrs. Princhek was regarding her intently. "You be ready. I wasn't ready. I made a big mistake."
"You mean, when you walked out," Andy said slowly. "Because Miran--Miriam's not a mistake. It's a good thing she was born. It's a really, really good thing."
"Oh, I…yes." Mrs. Princhek looked down into her lap. "Yes."
Then, as if Andy had just called her into being, Miranda returned. Andy heard the 'thump' of the door, and then the brisk clip of Miranda's heels. When she emerged from the hallway into the living room, she appeared a little tired but not, Andy thought, unhappy. She certainly looked less stressed out than she had when confronting Deborah.
"Hey. How'd it go?" Andy asked.
"Fine. Surprisingly so," Miranda said. And indeed, she looked surprised as she spoke. "He was reasonable."
"Reasonable about what?" Mrs. Princhek asked.
Miranda closed her eyes briefly, but when she opened them again she looked resigned, not impatient. "What I spoke to you about earlier, Mother," she said. "About setting up a trust and getting you a nurse. He thought all that was a good idea."
"Oh, that's good," Andy said in relief. Miranda nodded, but she kept looking intently at her mother.
Her mother looked back and smiled timidly. Andy hadn't noticed until now how much she seemed to shrink in her daughter's presence, almost cower. "How is Samuel?" she asked.
"He's fine," Miranda said. "He said to tell you that he'd call you sometime this evening."
"Why doesn't he come over? He and Deborah and…" Mrs. Princhek clutched her hands together. "Why don't we all have dinner together tonight?"
Oh boy. Andy almost cowered herself. But though Miranda's eyes were flinty, all she said was, "They're both busy."
Mrs. Princhek's head drooped briefly; then she reached out and hesitantly took Miranda's hand. Miranda allowed it, though she looked more stymied than anything else.
"I'm glad you're here, Miriam," Mrs. Princhek said, her voice faint and thready. "I truly am."
Miranda took a deep breath, and now she looked embarrassed. Andy bit her lip, glad that Miranda didn't know what Mrs. Princhek really meant.
They retired early that night. Mrs. Princhek was always in bed no later than eight-thirty, although she usually had to get up at least once in the middle of the night, so Andy and Miranda busied themselves with packing. Their flight out was mid-morning. Then they got in bed; Andy read her novel while Miranda sent emails and texts from her phone, periodically growling when the bedsprings creaked.
"If I'd known I'd be coming back here," she muttered, "I'd have bought a new mattress when we reupholstered the couch. She wouldn't even have noticed that."
"This used to be your room, didn't it?" Andy asked, closing her book and looking around. The room, now the spare room, was strangely impersonal: no photographs, faded wallpaper that didn't look like anything Miranda would have chosen, a creaky mattress, an old oak chest of drawers and a small closet. There was an air conditioner unit in the window for the summer, and a space heater for the winter, because the house was old and Mrs. Princhek couldn't tolerate the idea of rewiring everything, so yet again, Miranda had made do.
"Mine and Deborah's. We had twin beds then." Miranda sighed and shut off her phone. "I can't concentrate on this anymore. I'm exhausted."
Andy turned off the lamp by her side of the bed, darkening the room with shadows. "Let's get some sleep, then."
After a pause, Miranda said, in a slightly strained voice, "Let's get something else."
Andy felt Miranda's hand touch her thigh, and raised her eyebrows in pleased surprise. "I thought you were exhausted."
"Mostly." Miranda pulled Andy close and nuzzled at the underside of her jaw. "But let's make lots and lots of noise."
"Gross," Andy laughed, sitting up and pulling off her t-shirt. "You know she'll hear. She's not deaf."
"Hmph." Miranda pulled Andy back down. "I'm not up for anything athletic tonight, anyway. I am extremely old."
"Decrepit," Andy agreed as she pressed her face at the base of Miranda's throat and inhaled. "But finally, you smell good."
Miranda chuckled, and Andy felt the tension beginning to drain out of her at last. "It's worn off enough?"
"More like it's gotten down to the bottom layer." They were speaking of Miranda's current favorite perfume, Tubéreuse Criminelle by Serge Lutens. "How did you manage to put on this stuff? It starts off smelling like Vicks and mothballs."
"Only for the first twenty minutes," Miranda said mildly, because even she couldn't disagree. "And now--"
"Now it's gorgeous," Andy conceded. "It starts off as a complete turn-off, but by the end of the day…" She cupped Miranda's cheek, and then glared at her. "The metaphor is killing me. Did you do that on purpose?"
"You are what you wear." Miranda pulled her down and kissed her. "You should let me choose a perfume for you."
"Nigel would never forgive me."
"And teach you how to apply it."
"Huh? Don't you just--"
"Never rubbed to oblivion on the wrists. Never smudged haphazardly behind your ears." Miranda kissed behind Andy's nearest ear. Then she reached down to Andy's legs. "But on the backs of your knees." She caressed, and Andy wriggled. Miranda slid her hand up. "Between your breasts."
"Oh God. No way." Andy arched her head and let Miranda get at her earlobe. "I wouldn't want to compete with you."
"Who said you could?" Miranda asked, and added, "Oh, my."
"That's what I'm talking about," Andy said with a smirk, and moved her fingers.
Thirty minutes later, the dregs of Tubéreuse Criminelle were entirely eclipsed by another smell that Andy liked even more, and she and Miranda lay against each other in mutual bliss. She knew from experience that neither of them had the energy to get up and take a shower, even if they'd both regret it in the morning.
"Deborah picked the wallpaper," Miranda said, after a moment.
Andy blinked, and tried to sound casual when she said, "Yeah?"
Miranda's fingertips began to move in a steady, gentle stroke up and down Andy's forearm that was meant to soothe her more than Andy. "We got along when we were young. We got along very well. Especially for sisters." Andy tried to remember: Deborah was three years older than Miranda, so when Mrs. Princhek had walked out, Deborah would have been seventeen.
"How'd she handle it when your mom left?" Andy asked.
"Like a rock, at first," Miranda said, to Andy's surprise. "She was so determined not to be hurt. She said she'd take care of us all." Miranda snorted. "At least with Daddy around, Samuel didn't have to worry in that department." Andy made a noncommittal, encouraging noise. "But even before then. Debbie taught me to braid my hair, paint my nails, things like that. We looked at Mother's Runway issues. She never got as obsessed as I did--" Andy didn't have to see her wry smile, "--but she enjoyed them."
"So what happened? Why did it change?"
"Seventeen is too young to take care of your whole family, that's what happened," Miranda said. "Samuel wouldn't tolerate her trying to be in charge. I wasn't easy to handle either, I'm sure." Understatement of the year, Andy thought. "And Daddy was gone a lot. He worked so much. To feed us, you know, without Mother's job."
Andy bit her lip and nodded. It hadn't taken her long to realize how much Miranda revered the memory of her father as a provider, a man of stability and safety, however emotionally distant he'd been. How desperate she'd always been for the twins to have a father figure, a David Princhek of their very own, but none of Miranda's men could ever match up, not even their actual father. At least she didn't expect Andy to try.
"So Debbie got married," Miranda continued. "At nineteen, and never went to college, and she was angry when she saw I wanted something better for myself. That's when it started, I suppose. She thought I was getting uppity. Of course, I was."
Andy grinned and pressed her nose against Miranda's forehead. "Most definitely."
"And…" Miranda hesitated, but continued, "she saw Mother in me. She and Samuel and Daddy all did."
"Huh?"
"Mother was always the only one with any ambition. She wanted to make a new life for herself, wanted to get out of Detroit, because this is a hellish place, Andrea, this is Hell if you think you'll never escape it." For a moment, Miranda's grip tightened on Andy's arm. "I was so angry at her for leaving, but--but--"
"But?"
"--but she showed me it could be done," Miranda finished quietly. "And that I was going to do it. She failed, of course."
"But you succeeded." Andy rubbed her bare shoulder. "Big time."
"I suppose I did." Miranda sighed. "God, what a waste. What a waste of life in this family. They never wanted anything--I even offered a couple of times, but there's no initiative, there's no desire--my father died in the same recliner he'd been sitting in for thirty years."
And a few months later, Abigail Princhek had returned, without options and in need of her children's charity. As if she'd just been waiting for her husband to vacate that recliner and make room for her. No wonder Miranda was conflicted. No wonder they were all angry. But all Andy said was, "Some people are happier when they're not trying to make it big."
"It was too late for Debbie--she'd married a Neanderthal and had children and she wasn't moving--but I could have found something for Samuel," Miranda said, like she hadn't heard. "He just didn't want it. He came to visit me in New York, said he hated it and he didn't know how I could live there, and left. Back to the car shop! Like I'd made the most idiotic decision ever. Getting too far above my station." Miranda huffed.
"Would you do any of it over again, if you could? I mean, change anything?" Andy dared to ask.
She'd anticipated the answer. "Of course not," Miranda said in exasperation. "Those questions have never made sense to me, Andrea."
"Um. Yeah." Andy took a deep breath. It was now or never. "I need to ask you something."
Bad tone of voice. Miranda tensed up. But her voice was even as she said, "What?"
"Why'd you let me come back?"
There was a pause, and Miranda sounded a little more irritated when she repeated, "What?"
Andy took a deep breath. "Your mom left you and you're still angry. I couldn't blame you if that meant you had a problem with people leaving you…"
"Oh, for goodness' sake, not my 'abandonment issues'--"
"No," Andy said firmly. "I'm just saying. Now that I know about your mom, it makes me wonder why you took me back after I walked away. You forgave me, and took me back, and--why?" All of her bafflement rose in her voice at the last. "I'd just think that, I mean, with your history--"
"Oh, stop." Miranda sounded exhausted and kind of pissed off, and only a few seconds away from rolling over and showing Andy her back. "It's different, and you know it."
Andy swallowed hard, shocked to find herself on the verge of tears. "I've been--yeah. I've been telling myself that. But it'd be nice to hear it from…" She trailed off, aware of how dumb she must sound, how pathetically needy, when Miranda needed her to be strong and supportive.
A moment of silence stretched out so long that Andy was sure the conversation was over. A resigned sigh hovered on her lips, when suddenly Miranda said: "You asked."
"I--" Don't play dumb. Think like Miranda. "You mean, I asked to come back." Miranda nodded. Well, it was nice of her to understate it, Andy supposed, instead of pointing out how Andy had made a fool of herself at every available opportunity. "But your mother did, too."
"No she didn't," Miranda said sharply. "She just showed up. Broke and at the end of her rope, and moved right back into the house we'd all inherited. I didn't want anything to do with it, and Samuel and Debbie were trying to sell it--good luck with that now, don't you think?"
"Oh. Uh. So…"
"So what could they do? Kick her out? They called me. I was thirty-four, I'd been editor-in-chief for all of five months, Daddy had just passed away, and they called me to tell me that Mother had come back and needed our help." Miranda rolled over, but she didn't turn her back to Andy. She just lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling.
"You helped her," Andy murmured after a second, not sure that Miranda was being entirely fair to Mrs. Princhek, who did seem to crave her children's affection, however late it came.
"We did. And now we're all watching her deteriorate. Turn into a shell. She's--" Miranda heaved a gusty, grieving sigh, and rubbed her hand over her eyes. "It's not Alzheimer's, the doctors say. She's still in there. She just can't hold on to things. I don't know that we can even call it dementia. I don't know what to call it." Andy felt a little shudder run through Miranda's body. "Aging, maybe."
Then she was silent. Andy laid her head on Miranda's shoulder and waited. When no more was forthcoming, she said, "Are you worried about getting older? Now that you've seen her."
"I don't want that to happen to me," Miranda said, looking up at the ceiling. "Forgetfulness, or worse. God, I hope that's not hereditary." She gave a short, bitter laugh. "I'll just keep a closer watch on Debbie and Sam."
Andy caught herself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like when Miranda was genuinely old: Andy wouldn't just miss out on the chance to have kids, she'd be sharing her life with someone who, sooner than later (sooner, certainly, than Andy) would begin a downhill slide. Maybe not dramatic or catastrophic, but it would happen. It was easy to forget that now, when Miranda was so vital and powerful. But someday Andy would be forty, and Miranda sixty-five; Andy would be fifty, and Miranda seventy-five; and on and on and, Andy hoped, on.
Most of the time, during the daylight hours, she could either willfully forget about that, or she could deal with it, try to prepare herself for it. It was harder in the darkness, with an old woman sleeping just a few feet away, who wouldn't remember who Andy was in the morning.
"But if that happens," Miranda began tightly.
"I'm not going anywhere," Andy said at once. That much was certain, at least. She would not leave Miranda again, and she traced her fingertip against Miranda's wrist. "Inertia's powerful," she added lightly. Miranda snorted. Or gravity, Andy thought. Who could resist Miranda's pull, deep as a tide, strong as a star?
"Well," Miranda said. "We'll see, when the time comes. If it comes. How to handle it."
"Yeah," Andy said, gladly putting off that discussion for another day. She hoped she would be brave enough, if it ever happened, hoped by that time that bravery wouldn't even be an issue. She'd had the courage (or the stupidity) to jump into all this headfirst, hadn't she? And she wouldn't change a thing. She and Miranda had that in common.
"What did you tell the twins?" she asked, changing the subject. Miranda had called them after dinner, but she'd sat on the back porch while Andy kept Mrs. Princhek company again. (Andy had a hunch that she was most useful, on this trip, as a warm body in the room.)
"Most of the truth. That I was out here arranging matters with an old family member they've never met. I'll tell them the whole thing when we get home."
That should be an interesting conversation. Andy told herself that it would be irresponsible to work a late shift that day, even if she did need to make up the time. This parenting thing was hard, even if the twins did want it.
They lay in silence for a while. Andy was considering going to sleep, when:
"At first, when Mother left," Miranda said, "I thought it was because of something I'd done."
Andy held her breath.
"When you left," Miranda continued, "I knew it was because of something I'd done. There's something reassuring about certainty, isn't there?"
"Oh my God, Miranda," Andy said at once, and threw her arms around her.
Miranda sighed, and even in the darkness, Andy could see the eye-roll. "Calm down. It's all worked out, hasn't it?"
"I guess," Andy mumbled into her neck, into the mix of perfume and sweat. If she'd stayed at Runway, they probably wouldn't be here now, that was for sure.
Miranda yawned, and covered her mouth with her hand. "And I didn't exactly torture myself with guilt."
"True," Andy said, tucking herself against Miranda's side anyway.
"And you begged for my forgiveness," Miranda added, her voice ripe with sleepy amusement. "It was incredibly gratifying."
"Oh, shut up," Andy grumbled, pinching her hip. But she didn't move away, didn't loosen her grip even a little.
The next morning, Andy convinced Miranda to sit with Mrs. Princhek and watch television. Then she kept busy in the kitchen, scrambling eggs and making coffee. When all was ready, she headed back towards the living room to announce it, but stopped near the doorway when she heard Mrs. Princhek speaking.
In her quavering, elderly voice, she said, "But can't you stay a little longer? Just a day or so? We've hardly had a chance to catch up."
"No, Mother. I have to work," Miranda said. Andy would have winced, if not for the unaccustomed gentleness in Miranda's voice. "I was only able to get away for two days."
"But when will you come back? Will you come back soon?"
"Yes," Miranda said. "Yes, very soon." It was a lie, Andy knew. But a kind one; Mrs. Princhek wouldn't remember it, and it would get her through this morning intact.
Andy cleared her throat, and stepped into the room. "Breakfast's ready," she said brightly. "Mrs. Princhek, would you like me to bring you a tray?"
"No," Mrs. Princhek said, reaching for her walker. "We'll eat at the table. I have guests."
"You ha--oh, right," Andy said, feeling foolish, because she hadn't actually been thinking of herself as a guest for the past couple of days. More like a cross between a support group and a maid. "Okay."
Halfway through breakfast, Samuel arrived, letting himself in. Andy looked at him in interest: he was tall, over six feet, and lanky. His brown hair was thinning on his scalp, and he had the rough, hard hands of a mechanic. He also had Mrs. Princhek's grey eyes, but they were far more inscrutable than either hers or Miranda's. When Miranda offered him the remaining eggs, he shook his head, but poured a cup of coffee.
"I spoke to Debbie. She's fit to be tied," he said.
"Of course," Miranda said. "It doesn't change anything."
"No," he agreed. "How soon are you going to talk to that lawyer?"
"This evening. I've already set up a meeting."
"Deb'll make a fuss."
"So what? It's my money," Miranda said irritably. She gestured towards Andy. "Sam, meet Andrea." Samuel narrowed his eyes, and Miranda added sharply, "Who has cleaned this house, cooked, done laundry, and gone grocery shopping for Mother, all of her own accord."
"All right. Thank you," Samuel said to Andy, who couldn't work out what he was thinking. "We appreciate your help."
"I'm happy to," Andy said with a tight smile, meeting his gaze head-on. He raised his bushy brown eyebrows.
"I asked Miriam if she would stay, but she won't," Mrs. Princhek piped up. "Maybe you could talk her into it, Samuel."
"I've never yet been able to talk Miriam into anything," Samuel said, and for the first time, Andy saw genuine affection on his face as he looked at his younger sister. Miranda's cheeks actually went a little pink. Andy grinned to see it. "She's welcome to stay if she wants."
Miranda cleared her throat and said, yet again, "I can't." She sipped her coffee, and added, "When I get back, I'll also make those arrangements about the nurse. I'll call you when they're finalized."
"And I can pass it on to Debbie, I'm guessing."
Miranda grimaced. "If you would."
"I would, yeah." Samuel leaned back against the fridge, carefully balancing his coffee cup. Mrs. Princhek used dainty old china mugs that looked comically small in his large fingers. "Marcia didn't see you yesterday, but she told me to say that she likes that jacket you sent her on her birthday."
Miranda looked briefly surprised, but all she said was, "Good."
"Too fancy for me, though," Samuel added. "I don't know why you people pay a thousand dollars for something when you can get something else just as good for a lot less."
"I know you don't, Samuel," Miranda said, suddenly sounding tired enough that she might want a second cup of coffee. "Now there's something else I want to mention--I'm going to hire a cleaning service to come by here twice a month."
Samuel frowned. "What for? Marcia already comes by once a week to do the cleaning."
"She didn't this week. Or last week, as far as I can tell," Miranda said. When Samuel started to protest, she held up her hand. "I'm not accusing anybody--"
"I don't understand why--"
"--Marcia works, and you work, you're both busy, and don't you think it would really be for the best?" Samuel opened his mouth. "Ask Marcia, before you object," Miranda added dryly.
Samuel looked at her for a long moment, over his coffee. Then he glanced at Andy and said, with grim humor, "She always was high-handed as hell."
"Oh, Samuel," Mrs. Princhek said.
"Fine, Miriam," Samuel said. "You do what you want. You always do. Like you say--it's your money." He shrugged.
Silence fell. It was awkward. Samuel looked off in the distance, sipping his coffee.
"If you'd rather pitch in yourself, I won't stop you," Miranda said, her eyes hooded and cautious. "But I think it's only logical that I should be the one who…"
"Logic was never your strong suit," Samuel said. He looked at Andy again, and added, "That was me. I always did her math homework for her, when she blackmailed me."
"Samuel," Miranda sputtered.
"Then she had to explain to Dad how come she failed tests all the time."
"Sam!"
"You don't say," Andy said, giving Miranda a look, because no wonder the twins didn't have to do a lick of work themselves.
Miranda knew what she was thinking, and glowered at her. Then she said to Samuel, with a look that failed to be entirely severe, "If you're done clowning around--is that what you want? To help pay for--"
"I've got to go to work," Samuel announced, looking at his watch: a tarnished dial on a worn leather strap. Andy remembered that Miranda had sent him a Breguet watch last Hanukkah, and judging by the look on Miranda's face, she remembered it too. He headed for the table, bent down, and pressed a light kiss to his mother's papery forehead. "I'll see you later, Mother."
"Goodbye, Samuel," Mrs. Princhek said, her eyes lighting up at him. "Goodbye, honey."
"Sam--" Miranda began, sounding exasperated.
"You two have a good flight back. Miriam, call me when you get everything worked out. We'll talk." He gave Miranda a small smile. It turned suddenly, surprisingly sly, but before Andy could work out what it meant, he'd already reached out and ruffled Miranda's pristine white hair.
"Samuel!" Miranda protested, but he'd already vanished through the door, laughing. Andy laughed too, in spite of herself, and tried not to feel proprietary, since she pretty much had exclusive rights to making a mess of Miranda's coif.
"Well," Miranda huffed when he'd gone, patting down her hair. Andy thought she actually looked a little pleased.
"Do you think he does want to pitch in?" she asked.
"With Sam, who knows?" Miranda said. "It'll be a pride thing, but I daresay Marcia will talk him out of it." She sneered a little. "So long as she's not wearing that Balmain jacket, he might even listen."
"Are you angry at Samuel, Miriam?" Mrs. Princhek asked, looking confused.
"No, Mother. Just exasperated, as always." Miranda stood up and picked up her dishes, carrying them to the dishwasher. Also new.
"He's a good brother. He's a good son. I think so," Mrs. Princhek said.
"Andrea and I need to leave in a few minutes," Miranda said, looking up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly nine-thirty. "Have you taken your medication?"
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Princhek said.
"Um," Andy said delicately, and placed her hand next to the full pill counter by Mrs. Princhek's plate.
"Oh. I thought I…" Mrs. Princhek looked distressed, but she opened the counter and took her medications obediently enough. Then she looked at Miranda. "You're getting me a nurse?"
"Yes, Mother. We'll find a reputable woman who will come and stay with you. You won't--" Miranda gave Andy a quick look. "You won't be alone here."
"Oh." Mrs. Princhek looked down in her lap and said softly, "That sounds nice."
"I--" There was a slight catch in Miranda's voice. Andy glanced at her to see her regarding her mother with a stricken expression on her face; but then Miranda turned to load her dishes in the washer. "Andrea. The suitcases?"
"I'll put them in the car," Andy said, taking the hint. Leaving her dishes on the table, she headed for the spare room, and then hauled their two bags through the house towards the front door. Miranda's bag alone could have served as a training weight for an Olympic champion, but Andy managed it eventually.
When she'd put the bags in the Mercedes and returned to the house, Miranda was getting her mother settled in the recliner and putting the remote in her hand. "I'm sure Deborah will be by soon, once she knows that I'm gone," she said. Whatever distress she'd felt in the kitchen was no longer visible.
"I want to watch my QVC," Mrs. Princhek said. She reached out and put her hand on Miranda's arm. "Deborah will be by later?"
"I'm sure," Miranda repeated. "Andrea and I have to go to the airport now."
"Come back soon," Mrs. Princhek pleaded.
"Yes, Mother. Goodbye." She squeezed her mother's hand, pushed it off her arm, and straightened up; looked right into Andy's disbelieving eyes; and then bent back down and pressed a brief kiss to Mrs. Princhek's cheek. Mrs. Princhek beamed.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Princhek," Andy said, taking the old, gnarled hand in her own. "It was nice to meet you."
"Goodbye…?" Mrs. Princhek said, hesitating.
"Andy," Andy replied. "You're saying goodbye to Andy."
Andy drove to the airport, where they dropped off the car. Miranda spent most of the ride on the phone. Andy let her have the time, but when they were in the VIP Lounge waiting to board, she said, "So now what?"
Miranda frowned at her. "Hmm?"
"Now what?" Andy repeated. "What are you going to ask the lawyer, what are you going to tell the twins…"
"I'll let you know as soon as I think of it," Miranda said waspishly.
"I'm just asking," Andy said, duly stung.
"And I can do without the reproving looks, thank you very much."
"What?"
"Glaring at me when I didn't kiss my mother," Miranda said, looking Andy dead in the eye.
"I--" Crap. Caught. Andy stuffed her hands in her pockets and decided to brazen it out. "She wanted you to. And I thought you might just be, um, distracted, maybe you weren't paying attention."
"Oh, I pay attention, Andrea. Why else am I here?" Miranda ran a hand through her hair, and Andy remembered Samuel tousling it. "God, this family. It's a disaster. If I weren't here--"
"But you are. And it's not so bad." Andy carefully took Miranda's hand in hers, glad that there was only one other person in the lounge, a suited man with his head hidden behind Sports Illustrated. She licked her lips. "Ours is better, though. Our family. Don't you think?"
Miranda raised an eyebrow at her, and Andy squirmed. She'd been with Miranda for three years, and living with her for half that time. The twins adored her. Everybody in all New York knew that she was Miranda Priestly's girl--and sometimes she still had to prove to herself that she belonged in this life she'd chosen.
"I do," Miranda said. She added, "Feel better?"
Andy blew her bangs out of her eyes in exasperation and let go of Miranda's hand. "I just needed to have a moment." But she did feel better.
"I noticed." Miranda looked at Andy for a brief, silent moment, and then said, "I'm glad you came with me."
Andy took in a deep breath, tried not to grin like an idiot, and kept it simple: "Me too."
"Good." Miranda checked her watch. It was ten minutes until boarding time. "Now back to New York. It'll feel like arriving on another planet. It always does."
"Yeah," Andy agreed, remembering the many times she'd flown in from Cincinnati. "But it feels like coming home, too."
"It does," Miranda agreed. "Every time."
FIN