Chapter 167 Vivienne’s Question
Chapter 167 Vivienne’s Question
She held the line for a moment.
“Was he capable of anything real?” she asked. “Gerald.” She paused. “Did he ever genuinely care about anyone?” Another pause. “Not strategically. Not because caring served a purpose.” She held the line. “Actually. Really. The way normal people care.”
The kitchen was quiet.
I had not been expecting that question.
Not because it was strange, it wasn’t strange. It was the question that made complete sense coming from a woman who had spent eight years being his daughter in the way that meant being used rather than loved and who had spent the years since trying to understand what that meant about her own experience.
Was any of it real?
Did any of it count?
I was quiet on the phone for a few seconds.
“Let me think,” I said.
“Take your time,” she replied. “I’ve been waiting to ask it for a year.”
I thought about Gerald.
Not the Gerald of the recordings and the court documents and the forensic audit trail… that Gerald I had thought about extensively and had processed and had arrived at a settled understanding of.
The Gerald I had known across breakfast tables.
The Gerald who had passed the salt and asked about school and had occasionally… not often, not consistently, but occasionally… done something that looked like the ordinary texture of family life.
The Gerald who had spoken at David’s memorial service. I had been twelve. I had watched him speak about my father with what had appeared to be genuine grief and had held his hand when people offered condolences and had put his arm around Margaux in the way that people did when they were solving something real.
Had any of that been real.
I thought about his letter.
The four pages. The careful handwriting. The things he had chosen to say at the end of his life when there was nothing left to gain from saying them.
He was worth more than I was. I knew that then. I know it now.
That line.
I had read it many times. Had sat with it for three days.
Had told Zael what it said.
I had never decided what to make of it.
“Vivienne.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve read his letter,” I cleared my throat. “The one he sent from prison.” I paused. “You know he sent it?”
“I received one too,” she said quietly. “Mine was shorter.” A pause. “He told me he was proud of how I handled the situation. Specifically the evidence I gave.” Another pause. “It was the first time he had ever used the word proud in connection with me.” She held the line. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”
I held the phone.
The same question.
Both of us.
Was it real?
“Here’s what I think,” I said. “I think Gerald had a capacity for something that looked like caring. That functioned like caring in certain circumstances.” I held the phone. “With Margaux… in the beginning, before everything calcified, I think what he felt for her was real in the sense that it altered his behaviour. He wanted her to be well. He wanted her to be stable.” I paused. “Not because of what it gave him strategically, he was already positioned enough that her stability wasn’t necessary for his plans. He wanted it because something in him responded to her.” Another pause. “That might be the most real thing about him.”
“But,” Vivienne said.
“But he couldn’t sustain it,” I replied. “Whatever real thing was there… he consistently chose his interests over it. Not once. Every time there was a conflict between something real and something useful he chose useful.” I took a breath. “Which means the real thing was never strong enough to override the calculation.” I paused. “I don’t know if that means it wasn’t real. I think it means it was real and insufficient.”
Vivienne was quiet.
“Real and insufficient,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied. “He had something. It just never beat the math.”
She was silent for a moment.
“What about me?” she asked. Quietly. “Did he care about me?”
Silence.
The question underneath the question.
The one she had actually been carrying.
I thought about it honestly, the way Vivienne deserved, the way anyone who had asked me a question that mattered deserved.
Gerald and Vivienne.
Eight years.
He had used her. That was undeniably true. Had shaped her into a tool and had aimed her at his targets and had told her she was the contingency not the plan.
But…
I thought about his letter.
I was proud of how you handled the situation.
The first time he had used the word proud.
Written three months before he died when there was nothing left to gain.
“Yes,” I answered. “I think he did.” I held the phone. “Not enough. Not correctly. Not in any way that protected you or deserved your loyalty.” I paused. “But I think something in him registered you as significant. As yours rather than just useful.” I paused. “The proud in his letter… I don’t think that was performance. I think it was the real thing.” A beat. “Small. Late. Insufficient to make up for any of it.” Another pause. “But real.”
The line was quiet for a long moment.
“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” she said.
“I didn’t expect to say it either.”
“You thought about it properly.”
“You asked me a proper question,” I said.
She held the line.
“It doesn’t fix anything,” she said.
“I know it doesn't.”
“But it’s something,” she breathes on her end. “To know it was real even if it was insufficient.” She paused. “It means I wasn’t completely wrong to believe it.” Another pause. “I was wrong to trust it. I wasn’t wrong to feel it.”
“No, you weren’t wrong to feel it.”
The February afternoon continued around me.
Lisa sleeping in the next room.
Portugal on the other end of the phone.
Vivienne somewhere warm building something real asking one question she had been carrying for a year.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re always welcome.”
“Seraphine…”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to be okay,” she said. Not asking. Stating.
I held the phone.
“I know,” I replied. “I’ve known for a while.”
She made a sound.
Not quite a laugh.
Something lighter than what she had arrived with on the call.
“I’ll let you go,” she said.
“Vivienne,” I said before she ended it.
“Yes.”
“Build something good.”
A pause.
“I already am,” she replied.
She ended the call.