Chapter 1

Britney

            “If you think this class is all about dusting off ancient books and wearing togas, I encourage you to pick up your stuff and leave right now,” I say, not unkindly but in a way that can’t possibly be misinterpreted.

            Level 1 Philosophy can be a slog, especially to students who take it without really thinking it through; the ones that think it will be an easy ‘A’; a credit filler.

            Not in my classroom. I like to be approachable and fair but I’m not messing around. You apply yourself here, you will do well. If you don’t, there’s the door.

            It’s a formula that works for me and I’ve done all right for myself so far. Of course, I much prefer teaching the graduate students but we all have to start somewhere. If I can get at  least one freshman excited about philosophy from this class, I consider it a win.

            My voice, clear and bright without being overly loud, fills the lecture hall. In true Yale fashion, it is creaky, old and hallowed. The students, some slouching, some nodding with feigned understanding and others not even trying to engage, fan out around and upwards of me as I stand in the apex of the semi-circular room.

            I hold court. I enjoy it. I’m not afraid to admit that I always have. Although I had to work damn hard to get here.

            “Philosophy is not just ideas and theories. It is critical thinking, it is the practice of logical analysis, and clear writing. It will challenge you---“

Buzz.

The sound immediately gets under my skin.

“It will challenge you---“

Buzzzzzzz.

“I remind everyone to review the area of the syllabus pertaining to cell phone use in this class---“

Buzzzz.

Some students check their bags; others hold up their phones to prove to me they are not the offender.

Buzzzzz.

Then, with a small kind of horror, I realize the source. It’s mine. My phone is ringing in my own classroom. This never happens. Everyone I know never calls me when I’m teaching.

Instead of offering excuses, however, I simply stop talking and reach into my pocket. It’s a Boston area code but from a number I don’t recognize. Normally, I would put such a call straight through to voicemail but something compels me to answer. Even during class.

Turning my back to the students, I answer. “Yes? This is her.”

The voice on the other end is clipped and efficient. A nurse from a hospital in Boston. My Aunt Felicia has been in a car accident. It’s serious. Do I want to be at her bedside?

Things both speed up and slow down at the exact same moment. I feel my hand ending the call. I hear my voice dismissing the class and alerting my other classes that I will be gone for the rest of the day.

I feel the tires under my car as I drive the two plus hours from New Haven to Boston. I smell the disinfectant of the hospital and squint at the bright, antiseptic lights of the waiting room.

And then I hear the words from the attending physician, “She suffered a heart attack and slammed into a pole. We did our best but I’m sorry, there was too much damage…”

Just like that, the one person in my life that I respected and admired has left this world. As a philosopher, you’d think I’d have something pithy and comforting to say, some nugget that would shed light on the situation, make everything seem okay.

But I don’t. I am simply a woman standing in a hospital, being handed my aunt’s purse and other belongings. “We are sorry for your loss,” I am told.

After that, the days are slightly blurred. I am grateful for the never ending energy and can-do attitude of Vanessa, my best friend. Though slightly more adventurous and impulsive than I, she is tireless when it comes to problem solving and will always be there in a pinch.

Together, we arrange Aunt Felicia’s funeral. A simple but elegant affair attended by only a handful of colleagues and acquaintances. Shaking hands, arranging details with the caterer and funeral director and seeing Felicia given a proper send-off helps numb feelings that lurk at the corner of my conscience.

After the funeral, I am left to face the hole in my life by Felicia’s absence. Never married and stubborn to a fault, my aunt took me in when no one else would. It was because of her I attended Yale and became the ambitious person I am today.

Through her mental, emotional and financial support, I was able to set my sights on the goal she herself had achieved: being a dean at one of the most prestigious schools in the country.

For a young Black woman with no family support, that was no easy feat. My parents, for all their outward shows of pride, never really spent any of it on me. Theo, my little brother, received all the real love they could spare.

Fortunately for me, Felicia was there to fill in the gaps.

And now she’s gone. Just like that.

“Thank you all for coming today. I’m sorry this conference room is so crowded,” the attorney, Madison Ford, explains.

I sit, my posture as straight and tall as possible, in the chair furthest from the proceedings, i.e. the reading of Aunt Felicia’s Last Will & Testament. Why my entire family had to be summoned to this event is beyond me. A legal formality, I suppose.

Ms. Ford’s offices are peak Boston – cramped and filled with too much stuff. My parents and little brother sit at one end, their faces closed and distrustful. I try my best to stay as aloof and unreadable as possible. They never cared about Felicia. Mary, my mother and Felicia’s younger sister, looked upon her like a foreign species.

I cannot fathom why they all have to be here now. All I want is for this whole strange formality to be read as quickly as possible so I can return to New Haven and get on with my life.

“As you may know, Felicia held several properties in and around Boston,” Ms. Ford begins, followed by a listing of houses and condominiums and even one entire building in what I perceive to be very high-end neighborhoods.

She invested well, I think to myself, feeling strangely detached from the proceedings.

“All of these properties are designated as rental income and, I’m happy to say, are performing well,” she intones, with the voice of someone who has personally benefited from Aunt Felicia’s patronage.

“Which only leaves the primary property – a large American four-square, which served as Felicia’s primary place of residence, has been left solely to Britney Hale.”

I nod sadly. Fond memories are associated with that house and while I am glad I will be its sole owner now; I suspect entering it now will bring some painful memories.

 A ripple of frustration goes through my immediate family at the other end of the conference table. I ignore it.

“And now it is my duty to disclose just how the remaining properties are to be disbursed.”

Silence descends in an instant. If there’s one thing my family understands, it’s when free stuff is being handed out. Ms. Ford has their rapt attention. After a breath, she finally speaks.

“Britany Hale. She is the sole owner of all properties listed herein.”

The quiet shatters like crystal.

“What?”

“There must be a mistake?”

“Nothing for me – her own sister?”

I say nothing, clammed up in shock and not a little bit of smug satisfaction. Truth be told, the burden of now owning --and having to maintain -- such properties is a daunting one but the look of shock on my family’s faces is quite rewarding.

They never cared about Felicia in life but they sure as hell care about her motives now.

“Give us some, Britney. Perhaps you could share a little?” my mother begins.

“Yeah, you’ll need help maintaining them all,” my father continues.

“I could help out. I’m skilled with such things. And you live so far away,” Theo offers.

I say nothing. Ms. Ford, for her part, looks like she has more to say. Her mouth keeps opening and closing, her hands flailing just a little, trying to get these greedy customers to settle.

“If you’ll just listen…there is a catch…a small one but not insignificant…”

I raise my hand so I can listen to Ms. Ford and my family members finally hush. It gives me a strange thrill to wield a small amount of power.

“As I was saying, there is one catch to this arrangement. An unusual one, I might add,” she says in a rush, happy to finally have the chance to speak.

“The decedent has speculated that the properties will only transfer with free and unfettered title if and when Ms. Hale marries. This must occur within six months as of today’s date.”

I am utterly and completely stunned. Somehow, I manage to croak out a question.

            “What…happens if I don’t….?”

She’s ready with a stunning answer. “The properties will be swiftly divided amongst your family. Including the primary house. You will not receive anything.”

“What?!”

The gleeful feeling I held only moments before has completely disappeared and my family sits in smug defiance.

“We need to talk about this,” I protest. Now it’s Ms. Ford’s turn to raise her hand.

“Happy to do so. In private. The rest of you are free to go. I will obviously be updating you again six months from now.”

My family stands, their faces still confused but happier with this news. They think it’s a slam dunk. Possibly because it is. I’ve never been interested in marriage. My life is my own. I’ve never felt the need to share it with anyone.

Moments later, they have left, not even bothering to say goodbye. I stare above them, stone-faced, waiting until the door shuts behind them. As soon as it does, I turn in my chair.

“Why? Why would she do this?”

Ms. Ford’s face slackens a little. It’s clear the ordeal has tired her out. I wish I could sympathize but I’ve just been dealt a crappy hand and I want answers.

“Your aunt, from what I understand, was worried you would end up like her. An old maid. To be clear, she loved and admired you and was so proud of all you achieved. But she wants you to share this wealth – what she called “lonely earnings” with someone. Do that, and everything is yours.”

I am stunned. I thought my aunt and I were always united in our worship of work as the only form of happiness. The only way to live. And here she is forcing me to marry? And for what? Some houses and rentals?

Lucrative ones. Don’t forget.

“And there’s no—“

“There’s no way around it. Iron-clad.”

I don’t remember leaving the room, but I clearly do because when I open the door, I spy Vanessa sitting there, her face twisted in anger as she stares down my mother. She had come with me today as support and unfortunately had to face my family when they came gloating.

“Look who it is, The Heiress. Except who would want her?”

A moment ago, I didn’t want these properties. They felt burdensome. Now, a blade of white-hot anger tears through me. My mother doesn’t deserve them. Doesn’t deserve to benefit from Felicia’s hard work.

I do. I have sacrificed so much.

And who says no one wants me? Who says I can’t be married?

“You really think that of your own daughter? Who says something like that?” Vanessa spits. I can tell she’s ramping up to say something truly awful.

But I want to play the long game. No cheap shots for me.

“Six months? Is that all? Easy. Can’t wait to see all those rent checks pour in,” I say breezily, indicating for Vanessa to join me. Vanessa’s face crumples in disappointment at being denied her moment, but she complies.

We leave as quickly as we can. My resolve may be tattered but I’m bolstered by the look of pure anger on my mother’s face.

Time to prove her wrong.

Chapter 2

Rufo

            Water, scalding and steamy, washes the shift away. Or at least it tries to. The only thing that will really erase the last eleven hours is a good shower, a plate of steak and potatoes and eight-hours of shut-eye.

            I’ll be lucky if I get the shower, I groan inwardly to myself. The operation was long but successful. The patient has a long road ahead, but this surgery was key, and it went off without a hitch.

            “Give me updates as they come in, yes?” I call over to my charge nurse as I dry my hands on the sterilized towel hanging near the sinks. I can see the orderlies cleaning up the OR through the observation window. The patient has been wheeled out into recovery.

            “Of course, Dr. Gunninger,” Nurse Wendy replies. She’s no-nonsense and I’ve come to rely heavily on her. Good thing because, as a cardiac surgeon, I need to really focus when it comes to some of these tricky cases. It’s nice to leave the other details up to my competent nursing staff.

            After changing from my scrubs into my sweatpants and hoodie, I grab my keys and prepare to make my way to the parking garage under the hospital. Leaving the locker room, however, I’m stopped by one of the nurses. Patricia.

            “Sorry to stop you, Dr. G., but there’s a call for you on line 4.”

            Inwardly, I gnash my teeth. Outwardly, I offer a simple answer. “On it. Thanks.”

            Seconds after picking up the phone, I realize it’s not about a patient of mine. But rather, a personal emergency. My grandfather, Rufus – whom I’m somewhat named after – has had a fainting spell and has been admitted upstairs. Would I like to come by for a visit?

            Mumbling something non-committal, I put the phone down.

            The first thing I need to do is get over my shock that the man I know as my grandfather – an imposing, take-charge, huge personality of a guy – could even possess the ability to faint. It doesn’t add up.

            Then again, he is getting up there. Perhaps the info has become garbled along the way. I’m conflicted about what to do. As much as I don’t want to go visit the old man, it would be wrong to just walk out. But if I do visit him, won’t I make him upset and perhaps make him worse? Besides, I’d never get to sleep with that on my mind.

            My cell phone rings next with my mother’s name emblazoned on the screen. There’s no getting around this now. I click the green ‘accept’ button.

            Right away, my ears are assaulted by the customary tones of my mother. Never one to keep a level head in any crisis, I immediately revert back to my role as listener and caretaker. I’m glad to do it, but it’s difficult after such a long and grueling shift.

            “Oh, Rufi! Have you heard? Your grandfather is not doing well at all! You must come and see him!”

            Making reassuring noises, I tell her I’ll be there in less than five minutes. Still sniffling, she ends the call and I take the elevator the few floors to the unit where my grandfather is now lying. On the way, I take some steadying breaths. It’s never easy to be in a room with my family – especially my grandfather.

            Once a titan of the family business, all I’ve seemed to do my whole life is disappoint him. After the loss of my father, I was supposed to take it all on. The business, the brutality of being a cut-throat negotiator. All of it.

            And I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The lure of medicine and most especially that of being a cardiac surgeon was too much.

            I chose my path and never regret it – even when I have eleven-hour surgeries – but it disappointed the old man. Imagine being in a family where becoming a surgeon was a source of disappointment. Never thought that could be a reality but it’s clearly mine.

            Walking in, I am met with a sea of concerned faces. My mother is there, sniffling in a corner, comforted by my sister-in-law, Tara. Carl, my older brother, stands nearby, staring into his phone, ostensibly taking care of Something Important. He’s not much of a caregiver, that one, so he often retreats into the undeniable position of having to take care of something so vague no one can argue with it.

            Nieces and nephews have taken up the remaining furniture, in states of boredom, hyper-activity or a bit of both. My sister, Natalie, loafs nearby as well, looking for a way to leave. Typical.

            Lording over it all is my grandfather. He is pale and slightly wasted looking but his grandiose presence still looms.

            “Oh, Rufi! So glad you are here! Come here!” My mother beckons and I approach, nodding my hello’s to Tara. She is a sensible one and knows to give me and mother space.

            “What happened, Mom? Did he just faint or what? Why all the fuss?” There are entirely too many family members in this room for a simple fainting spell.

            Her hands shredding a tissue, my mother haltingly tells me the news. “It’s not just a fainting spell. They found a…tu-tumor. In his br-brain…” she weeps as she speaks.

            Quickly, I grab at his chart and see the diagnosis written there. Sure enough, it’s a bad one. I’m no neurologist but I know a bad scenario when I see one.

            “Rufo. Get over here.”

            My grandfather’s voice still has the ability to stop me in my tracks. It’s weaker now, to be sure, but I am powerless to fight it.

            In two steps, I am at his bedside. I can feel my family hush and watch. Being the black sheep of the family makes for some fine family drama, apparently.

            “Can you believe that deal? Seems like I’m getting shafted when I’ve dodged bad deals my whole life,” he says, trying to sound light.

            “Not a good diagnosis, I have to admit,” I reply.

           “They want to operate. Cut stuff out,” he begins. “Don’t let ‘em.”

            My mother chokes a little and starts wringing her hands again. I don’t want to admit that I agree with him. It would upset my mother too much.

            “I’m too old and I want to see my wife. She’s been gone so long, and I know she’s just waiting for me. Don’t let any of these sentimental jokers convince you otherwise. I’m looking to you to support me on this,” he says, his eyes clear and bright.

            A wave of protest goes up in the room – everyone trying to throw in their very best reasons for why my grandfather should undergo a very fraught procedure. I stay silent. He and I have never really gotten along. Our arguments when I was growing up --with my mother too weak to be an effective ally and my father already dead -- were legendary.

But he always had my back. When I think of the countless times he cleaned up my messes in college – the scrapes and stupid shenanigans I pulled – I can’t deny he cared for me.

My grandfather snaps.

            “Stop it! Every last one of ya. It’s my decision. Now, Rufo. Come closer.”

            I do, perching lightly at his bedside.

            “You know I’m not one to get all girly and emotional,” he begins, his tone softening, “but I have to tell you something before it’s too damn late.”

            “What’s that?”

            “I’m proud of you.”

            I’m not sure I hear him properly. “What’s that?”

            “I said, I’m proud of you. Sure, you were a stubborn horse’s ass and did what you wanted and it made me mad as hell at the time but now I see why you did it. You’re the best damn surgeon out there and don’t I know it. You may not have picked the path I wanted but you did it your way and I have to respect that. And being the best is what our family does.”

            I am stunned. Never has he even intimated he thought these things. What’s going on?

            Before I can say anything, he continues.

            “But I need you to not be stubborn about one thing. If you can possibly wrap that smart-ass brain around it.”

            “What’s that?” I feel like a broken record.

            “Get yourself married and give me a great-grandchild.”

            What?

            “It’s clear you have good genes and it would be a shame not to pass them along. Get yourself a good, strong, beautiful girl and make me a damn great-grandchild, would you?”

            “But you have great-grandchildren already—”

            “I know that! I want one from you, dammit!”

            My instinct just then is to simply laugh. What kind of dying wish is this? He has everything he could possibly need or want, why this?

            “No way, gramps. Never gonna happen.”

            The laughter is not well received. Suddenly, his face goes pale, and his eyes disappear into the back of his head. I recognize the signs immediately and jam my hand on the emergency call button.

            A cacophony of questions and alarmed noises come from my assembled family, but I ignore them, instead beginning to administer CPR on the old man. My body goes on autopilot. It doesn’t matter that I’m related to him, he’s now a person in distress and my job is to help him.

            Seconds later, the crash cart arrives, along with Dr. Weller, the neurologist on rounds.

            “Everyone clear the room,” Dr. Weller announces and everyone shuffles slowly to the rooms beyond. I stay behind, watching as they stabilize my grandfather.

            And just like that, it’s all over. He is unconscious but stable and I am able to focus on other things.

            “You know the signs, Rufo,” Dr. Weller begins. “It's pretty bad. He can’t get upset. That’s only going to make symptoms worse.”

            I nod, berating myself for bringing this on.

            Just then, I feel a tug at my arm. My mother has returned, her eyes red-rimmed and weepy.

            “Rufo, he needs this operation. You must convince him.”

            Dr. Weller and I share a look. We both know that it’s a tough road ahead – surgery or no surgery.

            Thanking Dr. Weller, I usher my mother from the room. As I leave, Carl grabs at me, asking me to take a walk.

            “What’s up?” I ask. My brother and I are cool to each other, as we have been our whole lives. There’s no reason for it; we’re just very different people with very different goals in life.

            “Get married. Make him happy,” Carl says. Blunt and succinct as always.

            “What?” We both know my brother has worshiped grandpa since the beginning but not to the point where I have to give up my whole life. Right?

            “Just do it. It’s the only way he’ll be convinced to go through with the operation.”

            I don’t have the energy to explain how low his chances of survival are. Carl wouldn’t hear them anyway.

            “You’re the one he’s always wanted. For once, make him happy. Get married and give him a great-grandchild. Is that so fucking hard?”

            I have nothing left to give. My stores are depleted.

            “No way!” I say, storming away. My life will not be dictated by anyone but me.

And that’s final.