The Invisible Heiress
A Novel
Kathleen O’Donnell
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Thank You!
Connect with Me!
About the Author
Acknowledgments
For my mom,
who probably couldn’t have seen the love letter embedded in this story,
and for my kids,
who will.
For Ed,
always.
Part I
Haven House
Chapter One
Preston
I don’t know which scene satisfied me most—my posh parents waiting in the concrete-walled visitors’ room or me deposited in front of them by a uniformed guard.
They sat across from me at the Formica-topped table. My father’s face was tight, eyes damp. Seeing him distressed kicked a dent in my smug demeanor, so I stopped looking at him, my eyes ping ponged toward my mother. Despite the sordid circumstances, she shone, her beauty ferocious, perhaps highlighted even more by the dour surroundings. Thick hair still a perfect shade of bombshell blonde, skin pale but flawless despite time’s march, the blue of her eyes a perpetual shock.
So entranced I forgot to insult her.
Almost.
“My incarceration poses a real problem for you. Doesn’t it, Mother? Harrison Blair doesn’t sully herself with the downtrodden.”
She shifted backward then forward quick.
“You’re the problem, Preston. Downtrodden? That’s how you think of yourself? You—”
“Harrison, Preston,” Dad said. “Please. Let’s start right. Preston, your mother and I haven’t seen you in so long. Though God knows I’ve tried. Let’s all make a real effort.”
He paused, probably to steel himself for objections in stereo. None came.
Dad continued. “You’re not incarcerated. You’re hospitalized. Your new therapist what’s her name.” He squeezed his eyes shut like her name had been tattooed inside his lids. “Um, she, Isabel, says you’ve made some headway, participating in therapy now.”
“Might as well,” I said.
“That’s the spirit. Won’t be long until you’re back home. You’re doing so well considering how difficult, well you’re done with that part of the, uh, the rehabilitation.”
“You mean the sweating, shaking, puking, padded room part?” I said.
“You’re sober. That’s all I meant.”
My mother’s eyes popped like a kidnapper just yanked the hood off her head.
“Sober?” she said. “Doesn’t that term apply to alcoholics? Surely they have another term for homicidal, drunken pill add—”
“She’s clean, Harrison. That’s all that matters.”
Dad kept yanking on his tie. I thought he might hang himself with it right before our eyes.
“All that matters? Is that your idea of a joke, Todd?”
“Nice dye job, Dad. Only you’d believe those stupid commercials. So natural no one will—”
“Darling, stop,” he said to Mother. “Of course sobriety’s not all but it’s a start. I think, we think enough time has passed. We should jumpstart our family therapy.”
“We who?” I said.
The guard took a step forward, disapproving of my elevated tone. My father waved him back.
“Not Mother, I’m sure.”
“Well, Isabel thought—”
“Just because I’m in the cuckoo’s nest doesn’t mean I don’t have rights,” I said. “Isabel shouldn’t talk to you at all about me. I’m an adult. She’s my shrink. Confidentiality too big a word?”
“Shrinks. Therapy,” Mother said. “In my day you poured yourself a scotch and got on with it.”
“You don’t pour yourself anything. You hire that out,” I said.
“Family therapy’s part of the deal,” Dad said. “The judge insisted—”
“You own the judge. We don’t have to do anything. Remind him, Mother.”
“You should kiss Judge Seward’s robed ass,” she said, hissing like a stabbed tire. “You’d be someone’s bitch if not for his mercy.”
“You mean, if not for your money. Don’t pretend you did shit for me. You did everything for yourself, Mother, to stop the gossip. That’s what you do.”
With both fists, Dad twisted the tie he’d finally managed to take off.
“Preston, we hoped something good could come out of—”
“Todd, the only good that could possibly come out of this mess is if Preston stays hospitalized for the rest of her natural life.”
“Harrison, please. We agreed—”
“You agreed. With no one but yourself.”
“Hate to break up the party but I’m ready to go back to my room,�
� I said more to the guard than my parents.
“Wait, Preston,” Dad said, peering around the room, looking for his spine. “It doesn’t feel like it now, but here’s a chance for you and Mom to, I don’t know what, start again, improve your relationship, even a little. That’s what we all want, isn’t it?”
“Steady on, Dad. The devil comes dressed as everything you want.”
I let the guard take my arm, turned in time to see Mom lean her head back enough to dab at the scar under the collar of her ivory silk blouse, a scarlet line cut across her throat, not quite ear to ear, a vicious permanent necklace.
Chapter Two
Isabel
“Isabel, taking on a prisoner from the social register wasn’t the best idea.” Jonathan held pen and notepad ensconced behind his prized cocobolo desk.
“She’s a patient in a private psychiatric hospital,” I said.
“We both know you’re in over your head. You need to ease back into our practice after your, well, your R&R. I’d hoped you’d spend more time here since you’re back. I can’t keep filling in with your clients while you’re hoop-jumping at the asylum for the rich and famous.”
I sat in one of his two new club chairs so low to the ground I had to look up to see him. If I’d been any shorter I wouldn’t have been able to see over the desk.
“Wife complaining?” I said. “She’s painted the place? Vagina pink belongs nowhere, much less on a therapist’s office walls.”
“Whole thing’s horrible but after the fire we needed to remodel. Yes, wife complains. You’d know how it works if you’d manage to get married.”
“How long could she take to redo?” I said. “Fire didn’t damage that much.”
“Had to practically gut the place. That’s enough about my wife and the office décor. What about your star client?”
“Preston Blair’s a hopeless case. I’d refer her on except I promised.”
“Promised who?”
“Judge Seward,” I said.
“Since when are you chummy with a judge?”
“I’m chummy with a lot of people you know nothing about.”
“Oh, well. Excuse me. Didn’t realize you were so well connected.”
We simmered a bit in an awkward pause. I crossed and uncrossed my legs several times before Jonathan piped up.
“Why on earth would you want to refer a well-paying client out?” he said like he’d thought hard about the possible answers but discarded all of them. “You know your situation here might not last as long as you think. It behooves us both for you to pull your weight.”
That rankled.
“Really?” I seriously could not believe the nerve. How stupid was this guy? Time would tell. “I’ll keep that in mind. At any rate I try to take on clients who actually want to get better. Preston’s too attached to her insanity. She barely speaks except to bark insults. Thinks the whole endeavor’s a joke.”
“That might explain the involuntary commitment,” Jonathan said.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
“No charge.”
“She’s refused to see her father every time he’s come to visit,” I said. “Because family therapy is court ordered now she doesn’t have a choice. It’ll be spitting in the wind. The sooner they all cry uncle the better.”
“Thought you said the father’s sappy where Preston’s concerned.”
“He is. She’s nonresponsive. And that mother, Harrison, no coming back from this for her.”
Jonathan pointed at my face. “What’s with the fake eyelashes?”
My hand leapt to one eye with a will of its own. “Clearly, you’re not on the fashion down-low. False eyelashes have been back in style for a dog’s age.”
His gaze wandered. I squirmed.
“Stop fidgeting for chrissake,” Jonathan said.
“We done barking up the Preston Blair tree?”
“One thought.”
“By all means.”
“The girl needs help. Don’t bail on her. Act like a therapist for a change.”
“Got it.”
I stood to go, before the lecture started full force, or before I decided to introduce unpleasant topics. I could feel them darken and gather speed all around us like a biblical plague.
“Isabel?”
Shit. Almost made my escape.
“What now?”
“Stop biting your nails. That one’s bleeding.”
Chapter Three
Preston’s Blog
Musings from the Dented Throne
Ain’t No Mountain High Enough
Well, my faithful, my royal parents popped ’round to observe me in this unnatural habitat. Thrilled me no end to discover the Queen and her Jester confer with my new shrink, whose gourd’s on backwards along with her shirt. I’ll get a bead on that situation in due time, don’t you worry.
Shrinky’s behind-my-back treachery tweaks. Family therapy? Bitch, please. A whip and a chair would be more useful. Luckily, the Queen’s not falling for that trickery. Jester can’t wait. Probably wants to air his marital grievances (of which there are many) behind protective cover. Thinks the Royal She won’t throw down in front of a professional. Almost worth talking about my feelings to witness such a spectacle.
Even though the thought of the Queen in close quarters nearly shivered me timbers (vice versa, I’m sure) I felt nothing but happiness to not have to endure Dad’s puppy dog devotion unbridled. His drop-ins are a near constant. For all the good it does because I’m not in the mood to humor him with my presence. Ever. Mother can keep him muzzled. Don’t give up your day job, Jester.
Never mind that yawning topic. What you really want to know is: what about the Queen?
Royal She’s hot under the collar.
Been over a year since I laid eyes on my mother, who wasn’t expected to live, I heard. I couldn’t help but note her trembling fingers and their white-knuckled grip on one another or how her cool remove jumped ship to be replaced by a jittery rage. Had to give her props for the fuck-you-open-neck shirt she wore that highlighted the startling evidence of my wrath. As I stared at the thin red line dividing the Queen’s elegant neck from her collarbone, a weight pushed into my ribcage, a routing pain.
You’ll find this hard to swallow, but I forced down an almost uncontrollable urge to climb on the Queen’s lap to stop the hurting. My marbles are indeed lost. Once I’d have said I knew the Royal She better than anyone. Then truth hit me like the butt of a gun. I didn’t know her at all. Who was this creature whose beauty could still burn down the house? Why did she come to see the one person she should never want to lay eyes on again? Thundered in like a warrior but thundered in just the same.
If you’ve got an opinion on this debacle, voice one, my faithful.
The simmering hatred I hoard below the surface boiled over when I remembered the source—I’ll admit—details are fuzzy. I’m sober but not plugged in. Drugs, drink, and denial (Shrinky’s brilliant deduction) sucked up years of my life, like Dorothy’s house by the tornado, but I do know one important fact.
The Queen’s hands, while bejeweled, are not clean.
My confusion and anger at everything to do with my parents fixes me in its clutches. So three hots and a cot suit me fine for now.
The Invisible Heiress
Go ahead. You know you want to.
Comments
Maggie May
Heiress, your mom coming to visit, pissed or not, means there’s hope. She can forgive. Much as she might not want to, she loves you.
Reply: This is your brain on drugs.
Hubba-Hubba
Three hots and a cot? Are you fucking with us? You’re on a five-star vacation. Sounds like first-class problems to me.
Reply: My yacht sank though.
Jill
I can’t ever tell if this is a giant snow job. Nevertheless, you’ve gotta meet my brother. He’ll die when he reads your stuff. Big bro’s a documentary filmmaker.
Reply: Hopes up.
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Chapter Four
Preston
“That’s not a real baby, you loony toon.”
“Preston, don’t start again. She’s not hurting anyone, loves taking care of her baby,” said Nurse Judy. “She knows he’s a doll. Don’t you, Rosie?”
Rosalie faced the wall like a naughty toddler in time out, bald rubber doll mashed against her chest, murmuring to her invisible friends. I couldn’t figure out where the crackpot kept getting new dolls.
“Anyone can take care of a fake baby,” I said. “No heroics in that.”
I hated the day room—all the nuts in one bowl—talking to themselves, fighting over the remote, shitting their pants. The abrasive shuffle of hospital-issued slippers circling the tiled floor, mumbling in a sedative-laced language understood only by space aliens or the over medicated.
A glimpse of my mother through the barred window diverted my murderous intentions toward Rosalie’s doll. She walked with purpose near the parking lot, alone, head held high like those African women with rings around their necks.
Wasn’t it only yesterday when Mother and Dad graced me with an audience? Tried to recall the date. No luck.
I checked the wall calendar with its preschool big numbers and sloppy red Xs slashed through the days. Some of the sycophant crazies took turns crossing dates off, but they weren’t the most reliable. Looked like it’d been at least two weeks since my parents’ last visit. Give or take.
“Judy,” I hollered over the squealing from the Family Feud contestants on the flat screen. “Did I miss the free-for-all with Isabel and my parents?”
Judy smacked at the computer keyboard with two meaty fingers. “Hmmm. Well, looks like you were scheduled for today,” she hollered back. “No one called down for you.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’ll go see.”
She instructed the orderly to do who-knows-what then lurched out the door.
I scanned the grounds from the barred window. There the old dame stood on the inky pavement in front of Haven House, home to the depressed degenerates, consulting her Cartier.
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