“I’m always optimal,” says Johnny. “Just not the kind of optimal Mirren wants me to be.”

Gat smiles when I say the word suboptimal and pats my shoulder.

We have started over.

36

WE PLAY TENNIS. Johnny and I win, but not because I’m any good anymore. He’s an excellent athlete, and Mirren is more inclined to hit the ball and then do happy dances, without caring whether it’s returning. Gat keeps laughing at her, which makes him miss.

“How was Europe?” asks Gat as we walk back to Cuddledown.

“My father ate squid ink.”

“What else?” We reach the yard and toss the racquets on the porch. Stretch ourselves out on the grass.

“Honestly, I can’t tell you that much,” I say. “Know what I did while my dad went to the Colosseum?”

“What?”

“I lay with my face pressed into the tile of the hotel bathroom. Stared at the base of the blue Italian toilet.”

“The toilet was blue?” Johnny asks, sitting up.

“Only you would get more excited over a blue toilet than the sights of Rome,” moans Gat.

“Cadence,” says Mirren.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“What?”

“You say don’t feel sorry for you, but then you tell a story about the base of the toilet,” she blurts. “It’s seriously pitiful. What are we supposed to say?”

“Also, going to Rome makes us jealous,” says Gat. “None of us has been to Rome.”

“I want to go to Rome!” says Johnny, lying back down. “I want to see the blue Italian toilets so bad!”

“I want to see the Baths of Caracalla,” says Gat. “And eat every flavor of gelato they make.”

“So go,” I say.

“It’s hardly that simple.”

“Okay, but you will go,” I say. “In college or after college.”

Gat sighs. “I’m just saying, you went to Rome.”

“I wish you could have been there,” I tell him.

37

“WERE YOU ON the tennis court?” Mummy asks me. “I heard balls.”

“Just messing around.”

“You haven’t played in so long. That’s wonderful.”

“My serve is off.”

“I’m so happy you’re taking it up again. If you want to hit with me tomorrow, say the word.”

She is delusional. I am not taking up tennis again just because I played one single afternoon, and in no capacity do I ever want to hit with Mummy. She will wear a tennis skirt and praise me and caution me and hover over me until I’m unkind to her. “We’ll see,” I say. “I probably strained my shoulder.”

Supper is outside in the Japanese garden. We watch the eight o’clock sunset, in groups around the small tables. Taft and Will grab pork chops off the platter and eat them with their hands.

“You two are animals,” says Liberty, wrinkling her nose.

“And your point is?” says Taft.

“There’s a thing called a fork,” says Liberty.

“There’s a thing called your face,” says Taft.

Johnny, Gat, and Mirren get to eat at Cuddledown because they aren’t invalids. And their mothers aren’t controlling. Mummy doesn’t even let me sit with the adults. She makes me sit at a separate table with my cousins.

They’re all laughing and sniping at each other, talking with their mouths full. I stop listening to what they are saying. Instead, I look across to Mummy, Carrie, and Bess, clustered around Granddad.

THERE’S A NIGHT I remember now. It must have been about two weeks before my accident. Early July. We were all sitting at the long table on the Clairmont lawn. Citronella candles burned on the porch. The littles had finished their burgers and were doing cartwheels on the grass. The rest of us were eating grilled swordfish with basil sauce. There was a salad of yellow tomatoes and a casserole of zucchini with a crust of Parmesan cheese. Gat pressed his leg against mine under the table. I felt light-headed with happiness.

The aunts toyed with their food, silent and formal with one another beneath the littles’ shouts. Granddad leaned back, folding his hands over his abdomen. “You think I should renovate the Boston house?” he asked.

A silence followed.

“No, Dad.” Bess was the first to speak. “We love that house.”

“You always complain about drafts in the living room,” said Granddad.

Bess looked around at her sisters. “I don’t.”

“You don’t like the décor,” said Granddad.

“That’s true.” Mummy’s voice was critical.

“I think it’s timeless,” said Carrie.

“I could use your advice, you know,” Granddad said to Bess. “Would you come over and look at it carefully? Tell me what you think?”

“I …”

He leaned in. “I could sell it, too, you know.”

We all knew Aunt Bess wanted the Boston house. All the aunts wanted the Boston house. It was a four-million-dollar house, and they grew up in it. But Bess was the only one who lived nearby, and the only one with enough kids to fill the bedrooms.

“Dad,” Carrie said sharply. “You can’t sell it.”

“I can do what I want,” said Granddad, spearing the last tomato on his plate and popping it in his mouth. “You like the house as it is, then, Bess? Or do you want to see it remodeled? No one likes a waffler.”

“I’d love to help with whatever you want to change, Dad.”

“Oh, please,” snapped Mummy. “Only yesterday you were saying how busy you are and now you’re helping remodel the Boston house?”

“He asked for our help,” said Bess.

“He asked for your help. You cutting us out, Dad?” Mummy was drunk.

Granddad laughed. “Penny, relax.”

“I’ll relax when the estate is settled.”

“You’re making us crazy,” Carrie muttered.

“What was that? Don’t mumble.”

“We all love you, Dad,” said Carrie, loudly. “I know it’s been hard this year.”

“If you’re going crazy it’s your own damn choice,” said Granddad. “Pull yourself together. I can’t leave the estate to crazy people.”

LOOK AT THE aunties now, summer seventeen. Here in the Japanese garden of New Clairmont, Mummy has her arm around Bess, who reaches out to slice Carrie a piece of raspberry tart.

It’s a beautiful night, and we are indeed a beautiful family.

I do not know what changed.

38

“TAFT HAS A motto,” I tell Mirren. It is midnight. We Liars are playing Scrabble in the Cuddledown great room.

My knee is touching Gat’s thigh, though I am not sure he notices. The board is nearly full. My brain is tired. I have bad letters.

Mirren rearranges her tiles distractedly. “Taft has what?”

“A motto,” I say. “You know, like Granddad has? No one likes a waffler?”

“Never take a seat in the back of the room,” intones Mirren.

“Never complain, never explain,” says Gat. “That’s from Disraeli, I think.”

“Oh, he loves that one,” says Mirren.

“And don’t take no for an answer,” I add.

“Good lord, Cady!” shouts Johnny. “Will you just build a word and let the rest of us get on with it?”

“Don’t yell at her, Johnny,” says Mirren.

“Sorry,” says Johnny. “Will you pretty please with brown sugar and cinnamon make a fucking Scrabble word?”

My knee is touching Gat’s thigh. I really can’t think. I make a short, lame word.

Johnny plays his tiles.

“Drugs are not your friend,” I announce. “That’s Taft’s motto.”

“Get out,” laughs Mirren. “Where did he come up with that?”

“Maybe he had drug education at school. Plus the twins snooped in my room and told him I had a dresser full of pills, so he wanted to make sure I’m not an addict.”

“God,” said Mirren. “Bonnie and Liberty are disasters. I think they’re kleptomaniacs now.”

“Really?”

“They took my mom’s sleeping pills and also her diamond hoops. I have no idea where they think they’ll wear those earrings where she wouldn’t see them. Also, they are two people and it’s only one pair.”