“We don’t need much,” says Eleanor. “That’s his money.”
Now it’s Doug’s turn to kick her under the table.
“It’s not a question of what you need,” the lawyer tells her. “It’s about fulfilling the Batemans’ last wishes. And yes, we’re still waiting on the official pronouncement of death, but given the circumstance I’d like to free up some funds in the interim.”
One of the women to his left hands him a crisp manila folder. Mr. Page opens it. Inside is a single piece of paper.
“At current market value,” he tells them, “JJ’s trust is worth one hundred and three million dollars.”
Beside her, Doug makes a kind of choking noise. Eleanor’s face burns. She’s embarrassed by the clear greed he’s showing, and she knows if she looked he’d have some stupid grin on his face.
“The bulk of the estate — sixty percent — will be available to him on his fortieth birthday. Fifteen percent matures on his thirtieth birthday, another fifteen percent on his twenty-first. And the remaining ten percent has been set aside to cover the costs of raising him to adulthood from this point forward.”
She can feel Doug beside her, working out the math.
“That’s ten million, three hundred thousand — again as of close of market yesterday.”
Outside the window, Eleanor can see birds circling. She thinks about carrying JJ from the hospital that first day, the heft of him — so much heavier than she remembered, and how they didn’t have a booster seat so Doug piled up some blankets in the back and they drove to a Target to buy one. Car idling in the parking lot, they sat there in silence for a moment. Eleanor looked at Doug.
What? he said, his face blank.
Tell them we need a booster seat, she said. It should be front facing. Make sure they know he’s four.
He thought about arguing—Me? In a Target? I fucking hate Target—but to his credit he didn’t, just shouldered the door open and went in. She turned in her seat and looked at JJ.
Are you okay? she asked.
He nodded, then threw up onto the back of her seat.
The man to Page’s right speaks up.
“Mrs. Dunleavy,” he says, “I’m Fred Cutter. My firm manages your late brother-in-law’s finances.”
So, thinks Eleanor, not a lawyer.
“I’ve worked out a basic financial structure to cover monthly expenses and education projections, which I’d be happy to review with you at your convenience.”
Eleanor risks a look at Doug. He is, in fact, smiling. He nods at her.
“And I’m—” says Eleanor, “—I’m the executor of the trust. Me?”
“Yes,” says Page, “unless you decide you do not wish to carry out the responsibilities afforded to you, in which case Mr. and Mrs. Bateman named a successor.”
She feels Doug stiffen beside her at the idea of passing all that money on to some kind of runner-up.
“No,” says Eleanor, “he’s my nephew. I want him. I just need to be clear. I’m the one named in the trust, not—”
She flicks her eyes toward her husband. Page catches the look.
“Yes,” he says. “You are the named guardian and executor.”
“Okay,” she says, after a beat.
“Over the next few weeks I’ll need you to come in and sign some more papers — and by come in, I mean we can come to you. Some will need to be notarized. Did you want the keys to the various properties today?”
She blinks, thinking about her sister’s apartment, now a museum filled with all the things she will never need again — clothes, furniture, the refrigerator filled with food, the children’s rooms heavy with books and toys. She feels her eyes well with tears.
“No,” she says. “I don’t think—”
She stops to collect herself.
“I understand,” says Page. “I’ll have them sent to your house.”
“Maybe somebody could collect JJ’s things, from his room? Toys and books. Clothes. He probably, I don’t know, maybe that would help him.”
The woman to Page’s left makes a note.
“Should you decide to sell any or all of the properties,” says Cutter, “we can help you with that. Fair market value for the three combined is around thirty million, last time I checked.”
“And does that money go into the trust,” says Doug, “or—”
“That money would fold in with the current funds available to you.”
“So ten million becomes forty million.”
“Doug,” says Eleanor, more sharply than she intended.
The lawyers pretend not to have heard.
“What?” her husband says. “I’m just — clarifying.”
She nods, unclenching her fists and stretching her hands under the table.
“Okay,” she says, “I feel like I should get back. I don’t want to leave JJ alone too long. He’s not really sleeping that well.”
She stands. Across the table, the group stands as one. Only Doug is left in his chair, daydreaming.
“Doug,” she says.
“Yeah, right,” he says and stands, then stretches his arms and back like a cat waking from a long nap in the sun.
“Are you driving back?” Cutter asks.
She nods.
“I don’t know what car you’re in, but the Batemans owned several, including a family SUV. These are also available to you, or can be sold. It’s whatever you want.”
“I just—” says Eleanor, “I’m sorry. I can’t really make any decisions right now. I just need to — think or take it all in or—”
“Of course. I’ll stop asking questions.”
Cutter puts his hand on her shoulder. He is a thin man with a kind face.
“Please know that David and Maggie were more than just clients. We had daughters the same age, and—”
He stops, his eyes filling, then nods. She squeezes his arm, grateful to find something human in this moment. Beside her, Doug clears his throat.
“What kind of cars did you say again?” asks Doug.
* * *
She is quiet on the ride home. Doug smokes the other half of the pack, window down, making calculations with his fingers on the steering wheel.
“I say keep the town house, right?” he says. “A place in the city. But, I don’t know, are we really going to go back to the Vineyard? I mean, after what happened?”
She doesn’t answer, just lays her head against the headrest and looks out at the treetops.
“And London,” he says, “I mean, that could be cool. But how often are we really going to — I say we sell it and then if we want to go we can always stay in a hotel.”
He rubs his beard, like a miser in a children’s story, suddenly rich.
“It’s JJ’s money,” she says.
“Right,” says Doug, “but, I mean, he’s four, so—”
“It’s not about what we want.”
“Babe — okay, I know — but the kid’s used to a certain — and we’re his guardians now.”
“I’m his guardian.”
“Sure, legally, but we’re a family.”
“Since when?”
His lips purse and she can feel him swallow an impulse to snap back.
He says:
“I mean, okay, I know I haven’t been — but it’s a shock, you know? This whole — and I know for you too. I mean, more than me, but — well, I want you to know I’m past all that shit.”
He puts his hand on her arm.
“We’re in this together.”
She can feel him looking at her, hear the smile on his face, but she doesn’t look over. It’s possible that in this moment she feels more alone than she’s ever felt in her life.
Except she isn’t alone.
She is a mother now.
She will never be alone again.