Pretty Revenge

by Emily Liebert

  “Tatiana and William are going to be dragged into this no matter what.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t have to intentionally screw them. That’s just adding insult to injury. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Olivia.” She held my gaze. “Stop worrying about everyone else. When we pull this off, it’ll be our moment. Your moment. Finally getting what you deserve. I can’t believe I’m the one saying this to you, but are you in or are you out? There’s no room for wishy-washy.”

  “Of course I’m in. But my focus is on Jordana and Arthur. Not William.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?”

  “You have a crush on him.” She pointed at me. “I can see it in your face.”

  “I do not!” I objected. Even though I’d give my left arm to marry someone like William (or William himself), I’m also not naive enough to think he would ever consider being with someone like me.

  “I think you do.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.” I looked away. I knew I sounded unconvincing. “We never become invested in the relationships of our brides and grooms. We’re not marriage counselors. Our job is to execute the wedding itself.” I repeated Jordana’s cardinal rule verbatim, which sounded idiotic.

  “Honey, that may be a nice motto, but it’s not real life.”

  “This is silly. Just because I don’t want to ruin William’s wedding doesn’t mean I’m interested in him romantically.”

  “Whatever you say.” She held her hands up. “All I care about is whether you’re in or you’re out. And in means doing whatever we have to do, even if it fucks with William.”

  I waited a beat before saying anything. I thought about my nana. I thought about Jordana’s lavish apartment. And I thought about the woman I want to be. “I’m in.”

  29  JORDANA

  “Jordana.” My mother came knocking at nine o’clock this morning. I haven’t slept that late since I was a teenager. “Are you up?” I heard the knob turn and the door open just a crack. It was refreshing to be awakened by a soothing voice in my old home—not my father’s ominous roar. You lazy little bitch. Get the hell out of bed and make yourself useful around here. You think this a free ride? he’d shout, and then rip the covers off me. Fond memories.

  “Yup,” I croaked, sitting up and stretching my arms overhead as she lifted the blinds on what appeared to be a beautiful sunny day in Connecticut.

  “I made you French toast for breakfast.” She was already showered and dressed in pleated beige slacks and a red sweater. Her auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail, highlighting her cheekbones and radiant complexion.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “But it’s your favorite,” she pressed.

  “Mom, please. I said I’m not hungry.” Despite ten hours of sound sleep—more than I’ve had since I married John—I was still tired. Thankfully, she noticed that I was somewhat irritable so didn’t push the issue any further.

  It’s pretty amazing that my mother can still measure my moods. That eighteen years later, she still knows me that well. Honestly, I’m flattered.

  There’s no more accurate description for yesterday than to say it was surreal. Kind of like when you’re roused from a dream and can’t escape the notion that it wasn’t just a delusion. You can smell the dream. You can taste it. That’s what it’s like to come back home after nearly two decades. To walk through the front door. To sit at the kitchen table. To sleep in my own old room, which is the only space that my parents left untouched.

  My creaky wooden bed is still intact and uncomfortably restrained by my old blue flannel sheets and red-and-gray striped comforter. My white wicker glass-top bureau is also in one piece, which is pretty remarkable given that it continues to lean to the left.

  And then there’s the life-size stuffed tiger slumped in the corner of the room. I won him at the state fair for tossing a baseball into a jug in one try. I witnessed my father glow with pride that night. He’d never done that before, at least not about me. “That’s my girl,” he’d crowed. Of course, he later chalked it up to beginner’s luck and told me not to be a braggart.

  It’s strange without him here. The house is more relaxed. So are we.

  I told my mother that I needed the remainder of the morning to catch up on work. She said she understood, but I could sense her disappointment. However, when it came to lunch, she wouldn’t take no for an answer, which is what landed us at Frankie’s Diner. It’s been open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week since the 1930s. But that’s not why my mother picked it. I’m wise to her plan. You see, Frankie’s Diner is less than half a mile from Bridgeport Hospital, where my dad is dying. How’s that for convenient?

  Despite this knowledge, now—sitting across from my mother—I’m still less anxious than I was earlier, because I had the chance to speak to Olivia, who continues to be the best decision I ever made. She has the uncanny ability to anticipate what needs to be done, without being a know-it-all. Thank God. I don’t work well with know-it-alls.

  With Olivia by my side, I’m going to be able to grow the company by leaps and bounds. Maybe even take on twice as many weddings. I’m seeing green. And you know what green means? Freedom. Whoever said independence was red, white, and blue had it all wrong. Believe me. This lady of liberty likes cold hard cash.

  My mom has been quiet since we sat down. She’s thinking about something. Hiding something, if my instincts are correct.

  “How’s the coleslaw?” She motioned to the small bowl next to my plate, a heap of carrots and cabbage drowning in mayonnaise and vinegar.

  “I’m not eating it. Would you like some?” I edged it toward her. She knows I hate coleslaw. Or doesn’t she remember?

  “No thank you. Though if you’re not going to eat your pickle . . .” I handed it to her even though I wanted it, because I know that she loves anything briny. When I was a child she used to dip pretzel rods in sea salt.

  “Are you sure?” She took it before I could answer.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I offered a charitable smile. One minute I want to tell her that I forgive her. That everything is going to be okay. Better even, once my father is officially ridden from this universe. Unfortunately, the next minute I want to berate her for never being the mother she should have been.

  “I can’t believe you’re really here.” It’s the umpteenth time she’s said it.

  “Me neither.” I dunked the corner of my tuna melt in ketchup and took a bite. The grilled bread, the cheese, the savory fishiness, and the tang of the ketchup melted in my mouth. “So do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?” She concentrated on her Greek salad. Even the grape leaves couldn’t save her from my interrogation.

  “Mom. You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s just that . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s a lot.” She set her fork down and strummed her fingertips agitatedly on the table. “And I’m not sure how you’re going to react.”

  “Well we won’t find out until you tell me, will we?”

  “I don’t know.” She fretted some more, as she twisted her napkin into a baton. I looked to my right at the lady in the booth next to us. She was rocking back and forth and chanting something under her breath. “Don’t mind her. That’s Cindy. She sits there all day.”

  “That’s weird.” I watched her some more. How do people get to the point that they’re alone in a diner for twelve-plus hours just swaying and muttering? No one to talk to, even though all of the regulars know who they are. That could have been me if I’d stayed. If I’d let my father drive me crazy.

  “There’s something a little off with her.” My mother snapped the slice of pickle with her front teeth. “She never bothers anyone, though, and—”

  “Okay, Mom,” I interrupted. “Let’s not get off topic here. Just come out and say whatever it is you’ve been holding in. On the count of three. Are you ready? One, two . . .”


  “Your father can’t walk,” she blurted, and then looked up at me to appraise my reaction.

  “That’s it?” I shrugged. “What’s the big deal? The man is dying. I’d hardly expect him to be dancing on the ceiling.”

  “No, you don’t understand. He’s . . .” She inhaled a long deep breath, as if air was a precious commodity. “He’s a paraplegic. He has been since . . .”

  “Since what?” My stomach stirred in warning.

  “Since you left. Well, actually, we didn’t have his diagnosis until the next day.”

  “What are you saying?” I lowered my voice like it was some sort of secret. Like Cindy might overhear us. “I’m sorry. I’m going to need a little more of a clarification.”

  “When you came at him with the chair . . .” She treaded carefully. “He fell pretty hard. He was unconscious.” She paused.

  “Okay. And?”

  “And I called an ambulance, but it was taking so long. It felt like at least an hour had passed.”

  “An hour?”

  “I don’t know how long it actually was. But anyway, I was afraid to wait. So I dragged him to the car and lay him across the back seat.”

  “You dragged Dad that far? He weighs twice as much as you do!” Not to mention that you’re supposed to keep people as stable as possible after a blow like that. Although the image of my mother towing my six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-sixty-pound father from the kitchen to the driveway and then hauling him into the car is sickly amusing.

  “You’d be amazed at the strength you can summon in an emergency.”

  “Apparently.” I nodded, as the thought of me tugging John’s limp body anywhere flashed through my mind. “Then what happened?”

  “Then I drove him to the hospital, and the next thing I knew, the paramedics were lifting him onto a gurney and whisking him away. A day later the doctor told me that he was paralyzed from the waist down due to a spinal injury. Something about the roots of his nerves.” My mother tipped her head downward again.

  “So it was my fault.”

  “No. It was an accident.” She didn’t sound so sure.

  “It wasn’t an accident. I meant to push him. You know that.”

  “You didn’t mean to paralyze him, honey. You were just defending yourself. I called the police. I tried to get them to find you, but they said it was too soon to consider a seventeen-year-old a runaway. I wasn’t sure I could do it on my own. I thought you were already gone.” Only I wasn’t. Not yet. I was with Kerrie right down the street. And while she doesn’t know specifically where I was, she does know that I came back to our house and left a diamond ring and some cash in our mailbox.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have left so abruptly. I should have helped you more.” I wasn’t sure I believed that, but it seemed like the right thing to say in the moment.

  “Jordana. You did what you had to do. I know that now.”

  “It must have been a huge burden for you. Everything with Dad.”

  “A burden?” She sniffed. I thought she was about to cry again. But when her face rose back up to greet mine, all I saw was a sly smile. “Are you kidding?” She laughed giddily. “It was the best thing anyone ever did for me.”

  “What?”

  “For one, it afforded us more money in disability payments than he’d ever have made on his own.” That explained the home renovations. “But more important, it gave me the upper hand. After all those years of . . .”

  “Abuse?” I supplied, and she nodded almost imperceptibly. Clearly, she can’t bring herself to say the word.

  “He couldn’t touch me anymore. Not in the same way.”

  “That must have made him even angrier, though. And resentful.”

  “At first, yes. The initial days, weeks, and months were a challenging adjustment, to say the least. But then something must have clicked inside him. It was like he all of a sudden accepted his handicap. He needed me more than I needed him. And he recognized that. He was still mean at times, don’t get me wrong. Although he never laid a hand on me again. He couldn’t. He knew I’d leave.”

  “You should have left.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I loved him, Jordana.” She refused to look me in the eyes. “I still love him.”

  “Why?” I wanted to shake her. “I don’t get it.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Which are?” I needed to know how someone like my mother could possibly love someone like my father. “Forgive me, but it’s hard to see why anyone would even like a man so vile.”

  “I was young when I fell in love with him. He didn’t start out mean.” She sighed. “I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten until I was suddenly in charge. I knew I had a choice to make, but I decided it was too late to leave. I picked your father. And he picked me. We committed to each other. For better or for worse. That vow was important to me. More important than the allure of freedom. I didn’t want to have to start over. I was scared. That may not make sense to you, but it’s how I felt.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense to me.” It never will.

  “Please just come with me to see him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “But you’re here. And this is the end.”

  “You do understand that he abused me. That I loathe him, right?”

  “Yes.” Did she really, though?

  “Then why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why is it so important to you that I see him?”

  “Because it’s important to him. And because I honestly think you’ll regret it if you don’t. He’s the only father you’ll ever have, Jordana.” The waiter appeared at our side with a check, and my mother tried to hand him her credit card.

  “I’ve got it.” I gave him mine instead. “Mom, I said good-bye to him nearly two decades ago when, apparently, I paralyzed him. I don’t regret that, and I won’t regret not visiting him today.”

  “How do you know?” She wasn’t going to let it go. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that sometimes, once you realize you’ve made a mistake, it’s too late.” She was talking about both of us. “I think he wants to apologize to you.”

  “I just . . . I don’t know.” Could I go see him? Let him grovel and then give him a piece of my mind? Slap him around a little, so he can see how it feels.

  “If not for him or for yourself, then do it for me. I know I already asked you to stay the night when you didn’t want to. And I know you don’t owe me a single thing, much less two things. But I’m asking for this, too. Please.”

  “I don’t know.” She was right that I didn’t owe her a thing, but—still—how could I deny her?

  “Please, Jordana.”

  “Fine, let’s go.” I stood up abruptly. “Before I change my mind.” I slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table. “I want this over with.”

  30  JORDANA

  As soon as we arrived at the hospital, I regretted my decision. The corridors smacked of urine and beef stew, and I had to divert my eyes at every turn for fear of exposing myself to something unsettling.

  When we got to his room, I didn’t walk right in. I wasn’t sure I could. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to say good-bye.

  “Go ahead,” my mother urged, standing behind me.

  “You’re not coming with me?” I should have known she’d expect me to do it alone.

  “Not right now. You should see him privately first.”

  “Great.” My teeth were chattering, even though my palms were lubricated with sweat.

  “You can do this,” she encouraged.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I know.” She nodded.

  “I don’t have to.”

  “I know.” She sat down on an errant plastic chair that someone had left in the hallway. Probably for situations just like this.

  “Fine.” I pushed the door in, unprepared for what confronted me. A man who I d
idn’t recognize at all. So small. So insignificant. So fragile.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” He whistled through the oxygen tube.

  “Hello.” I refused to call him Dad. I didn’t want to provide him the satisfaction of hearing me say it. “How are you?” A silly question, I knew, but what else to say?

  “How the fuck do you think I am?” he barked. His skin was pallid beneath patches of white hair covering his chin and cheeks. His arms and legs were limp, very nearly comatose beneath the thin white sheet. I felt nothing. No sympathy. No empathy. No remorse. Certainly no love or even affection. He looked like a dead man already.

  “Fair enough.” I stood over him, but not within reach. I didn’t want him to touch me.

  “You look well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your mother said you’re doing real nicely for yourself down there in New York City.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good.” He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t. I didn’t offer to help. “Can’t say the same for myself.”

  “I can see that.”

  “So, uh, tell me how you’ve been.” I assumed he was kidding. We’re about eighteen years past idle chitchat. Well, let’s see. I got my hair styled last Monday. And on Tuesday, I had swordfish for dinner. Two great cuts in one week!

  “I’ve been fine.”

  “That’s all? Just fine.” I could see by his expression that he didn’t like that answer, but he was trying his best not to be a complete asshole. Valiant.

  “That’s it.”

  “You’ve got nothing else to say?” he grumbled.

  “You look like hell.” How about that?

  “Is that any way for you to talk to your old man?” It took all of my willpower not to suffocate him with his pillow. To watch him wriggle and writhe until his body went flaccid.

  “Is that what you call yourself?”

  “I’m your father, whether you like it or not.” He started coughing and couldn’t stop. He motioned to the water on his nightstand, but I remained still.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you were a sperm donor.”