Page 97 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Ricki’s sisters gasped at his outdated terminology. Heart thundering, Ricki quickly jumped in.

“He’s right,” she told them. “You’re not going to insult me in my own home. You know what? I fought my whole life to try to impress you three, to gain your approval, as if you’re perfectionpersonified. But you’re two-dimensional paper dolls! I’mrelievednot to be you.”

Furious, Ricki pushed her stool back from the table.

“No, you’ve never made a public mistake or gotten a C in school or dated the wrong guy. But have you ever had an independent thought? Or taken a risk? Your sameness is maddening. Same charities, same art on your walls, same clothes, and the same bland-ass McHusbands who abandoned their own career ambitions to work for Dad. I don’t care if you approve of me. I’m proud of the beauty I brought to the world… even if it’s for a short time.” She glanced sadly at Ezra. “There isn’t one way to experience a life well lived. And I’m glad I chose my way.”

Rashida let out a long-suffering sigh and folded her napkin on the table. “Ricki. We’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you. And you’ve embarrassed us at every turn. Do you know what Daddy had to do to give us a privileged life? You should be grateful—”

Just then, Rae interrupted. “I used to dream of being a dentist. Why do you think I refresh my veneers every five years? It’s not because my smile isn’t perfect. It’s because I enjoy observing the sublime, sculptural craft of it!”

Ricki shrugged. “Well, why didn’t you go to dental school, then?”

“Because we’re not dentists!” she shouted. “And family comes first! Why should you get to run off and chase such a silly pursuit, when we couldn’t?”

And there it was. After all this time, Ricki saw things clearly. Her sisters were resentful because she had the balls to do exactly what she wanted. And she always had.

“Listen,” she said, her voice leveling. “Parents work hard so their kids can have choices. That’s true privilege, not being tied to a life you don’t want, out of necessity. Life’s too short. I could go at any time. Y’all may have regrets, but I don’t want any.”

“Ricki, sweetie. You are one of us. You can’t run from who you are.”

“That may be true. But Icankick you out of my home.”

Her sisters were shocked.Rickiwas shocked. She couldn’t believe she finally had the nerve to take a real stand against her sisters. She felt triumphant, almost dizzy with victory.

Rashidaginarae gathered their matching designer purses and marched toward the door in outrage, but not before Ezra—who did, in fact, regret butting into their argument—packed each sister a Saran-wrapped piece of pie.

Back home, the elder Wilde sisters reported to Richard Sr. and Carole that Ricki had lost her mind. That she was dating a suspiciously good-looking farmer and they were living in sin in the back of her store. Distressed, Carole took two Xanax and slept for eighteen hours.

But Richard sat there taking in the news with characteristic silence. After he’d dismissed his daughters, and Carole had vanished up to their bedroom, he stayed there sitting at the table, lost in thought. He was, in his own way, quietly, fiercely proud. And he had an idea.

CHAPTER 22

BURYING A GRUDGE

February 27, 2024

Della didn’t like podcasts. Or at least, she didn’t like the one she was currently being subjected to, which was also the only one she’d ever heard. Being lectured at by a stranger was no fun unless it was Joel Osteen or Oprah doing the talking.

She was resting on her chaise lounge, her chenille blanket pulled up to her chin. Naaz had put on the podcast for her, and the host’s singsongy northern British accent softly lilted through the nurse’s portable speaker. The series, calledNormalizing the Great Transition, explored death rites from around the world.

In the past fifteen minutes, Della had learned that (1) Rastas avoid dead bodies because it makes them unclean; (2) the Malagasy people of Madagascar open up tombs every few years to dress up the corpses in new fashions; and (3) the Tinguian people of the Philippines sit their deceased in a chair, pop a lit cigarette in their mouth, and then party all around them.

That last one sounded like a good time, actually.

Della was waiting for Ricki and Ezra. She’d called Ricki thismorning and invited them both to an early lunch. She’d needed some time since Ricki’s last visit. It was a lot, being expected to believe these tall tales. But she missed her granddaughter. The call must’ve startled Ricki half to death; the poor thing practically wailed in relief when she heard Della’s voice. Della had put on her most luxurious silk pajamas and ordered from Sylvia’s. The food was for Ricki and Ezra, of course. She hadn’t had an appetite in days.

Della wasn’t feeling like herself. Actually, that wasn’t true; herbrainwas exactly the same as it had always been. Her inner voice was the same one that had spoken back to her at fifteen, twenty-nine, forty-two, and now ninety-six. It was her body that was beginning to feel foreign. Same product, unrecognizable packaging. Yes, she’d been elderly for a long while, and over time, she’d even started to enjoy the scent of the muscle-soothing Tiger Balm she massaged into her hands.

But lately, when she looked in the mirror, it seemed as though her face had acquired thirty more wrinkles. Her figure was so stooped, she couldn’t stand up straight even when she tried. She was weakening, more and more.

Now she shuffled when she walked (well, when she felt like walking, which was rarely). Her left eye, cheek, and shoulder drooped a little. Her Zumba and water aerobics classes? Off the table. She hadn’t joined her Links Elder Steppers Walking Club on their biweekly jaunts around the Upper West Side in almost a month, though she saw the girls yesterday when they stopped by with a vat of somebody’s daughter’s gumbo.

You know your lights are going out when folks start bringing you home-cooked meals, she thought.

In lieu of meaningful physical activity, Della beat off boredom by doing small-scale things, like dusting her Lladró figurines.Combining tea leaves to concoct new flavors. This morning, she wore a new Fashion Fair lipstick she’d read about in herEssencemagazine subscription (Naaz had helped her paint it on with a lip brush). Della was determined to live as vibrant a life as she could until her last breath. Even if on some days, the most she could do was swipe on a dazzling lipstick.

Naaz had moved in to provide around-the-clock care, and her only job was to help Della feel as comfortable as possible in her final weeks or months or whatever. The “whatever” was the worst part. Della just wished she had a say, some control. It seemed undignified, sitting around waiting for death to claim you. It seemed passive, meek. And she loathed not being in control. Everything else was okay. She wasn’t really in much pain, so she didn’t want to depend on the morphine. She just felt exhausted.

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