The Carriage House by Louisa Hall Read Free Book Online

William’s humbled state. She stayed an unprecedented hour late to fold the laundry so she could eavesdrop on the family meeting that Adelia convened. The daughters’ reactions were muted. They rolled over when Adelia announced she was moving in, which was odd. Louise was expecting some fireworks from Elizabeth, some levelheaded reasoning from bland Diana. She had hoped for more vitriol from Isabelle. But there was no grand display. As one demented family unit, they moved right on to the issue of the carriage house.
    Tying Margaux’s socks into loose knots, Louise wondered at people’s appetite for defeat. They pretend they’re avoiding it their whole lives, but when it finally arrives at their front door, they fall into its arms with gratitude, allow it to shag them for a year, then watch in horror when it leaves them for a blond girl with a marketing degree. When the kitchen-table meeting was adjourned, Louise carried her laundry basket up to Margaux’s room. Her charge was preoccupied with painting a pale pink streak in a landscape of gray wisps and white space. Louise set the basket down noisily, hoping to attract some attention. Margaux ignored her. Louise rattled the glass of ice water on the bedside table. Still nothing. Finally, she sat down on the bed and jumped right in. “Are you angry that Adelia’s moving in?” she asked.
    Margaux heaved a sigh and turned to address her interlocutor. She looked tired but present. In fact, the sharpness of her presence seemed almost uncomfortable to her. She winced slightly, peering out at Louise. “I’m sorry?” she asked. There were shadows under her eyes.
    “Adelia,” Louise repeated. “Are you angry she’s moving in?”
    “Adelia?” Margaux asked. As soon as she said the name, her expression began to recede. Louise watched each step of its steady retreat. Her face relaxed, and the Serengeti started to shimmer around her. “She’s a friend of his,” she finally said from somewhere off in the distance, then turned back to her canvas and resumed painting.
    “But they’re not little kids,” Louise insisted. “It’s not a sleepover.” Louise knew she was breaking cardinal rules for interacting with delusional patients but now she was no longer Louise the Caretaker but Louise the Artist, Louise the Seeker After Novelistic Truth.
    Margaux sighed. “No,” she said, agreeing mildly. “No, it’s not.”
    “The point is, you still think of William as your husband, don’t you? You remember that, don’t you? That he is your husband?”
    Margaux stopped painting. Her brush hovered an inch away from the canvas. Louise wondered if she was angry for once . Some Alzheimer’s patients are aggressive, disturbed by all the unrecognizable people who keep intruding in their lives, but Margaux was never violent. She floated around serenely. Still, could she really remain calm while Adelia moved into her house, down the hall from her husband, one floor beneath the bedroom of her youngest girl? Louise watched Margaux’s frozen hand, holding her breath, waiting for a response.
    “For God’s sake,” Margaux finally said. “Let it be. You’re a stranger in this house.” And then she returned to her canvas, looping the pink streak around a new blank space.
    From that day on, Louise kept herself busy with taking note of everything. In the grocery store later that week, she ran into Beebee Cheshire from the house next door. Casually, while pretending to test the ripeness of peaches, Beebee asked whether Adelia’s car in the driveway suggested perhaps that she was living with the Adairs.
    “She is,” Louise said, watching Mrs. Cheshire for material.
    A peach was bruised in the spirit of victory, then replaced and passed over. “That’s shocking,” Mrs. Cheshire said. “Don’t you think?”
    “Well, it’s not really any of my business, is it?”
    “To just swoop in,” Mrs. Cheshire continued. “I never put this past her, of course. I’m only disappointed