by CD Reiss
I didn’t understand her. Why did she seem to care so much? Why couldn’t she just listen to my problems, decide whether or not I was sane enough to be questioned, keep my meds low so I didn’t feel like throwing things, and let me go? Surely the hospital didn’t need my family’s money that badly.
“It’s not about money,” Karen said one day at lunch. She was on a feeding tube and rolled her IV around with her. Mostly she was too weak to even get up, but when she did, she managed to find me. “You’re like this rare creature. Rich. Famous. Living in a fish bowl. How many of you are there in the world? And you’re in their chair. They can latch on to you and use you.”
“For what? It’s all confidential, isn’t it?”
“Sure. But you know, over drinks? Who knows what they say at parties to get another client. Or to their own therapists. There aren’t any secrets. My last guy wrote a paper about anorexia and wealth, and there was a patient in the paper who sounded just like me. My lawyer couldn’t do anything.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. I don’t tell these fuckers anything anymore. I don’t tell anyone anything. Not even my friends.”
What had I told Elliot? Anything? Everything? Dr. Brazilian Blowout hadn’t gotten much more than evasion, but Elliot had gotten more from me before he split. I trusted him, but should I? I missed my fish-bowl friends who understood what to say when. I trusted them because they lived a shade of my life.
“It’s not all like Ojai,” I said. “You’ve been hanging out with the wrong people. Chill with me when you’re out. We’ll lay back. It’s all on the DL.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I pushed my food around. What if Elliot told everyone about me? That I was a sex-addict celebutante who didn’t know how or why she’d stabbed the only man who loved her?
I didn’t care what people thought, but imagining Elliot at a party, casually talking about my problems without mentioning my name, people’s eyes going wide as they judged me—the scene I created bothered me. Elliot casually discussing my problems hurt in a way I couldn’t even pin down. It was him, how he felt.
Did he feel nothing?
Was I just a curiosity to him?
Did he leave because he couldn’t stand me?
I couldn’t tolerate the thought, and I couldn’t banish it from my mind. It played on a loop, and with each successive telling, he was more and more dismissive and contemptuous. I gripped my fork so tightly, the edge indented the flesh of my fingers. I pulled it away and looked at the brown-and-purple ridge it created. I ran my thumb over the skin. It was both numb and oversensitive.
“Did you sleep last night?” Karen whispered.
“No. I can’t.”
“Are they giving you something for it?”
“It’s not working. I need Halcion. That’s the only one that works.”
When someone put their hand on my shoulder, I jumped.
“Sorry,” Frances said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
I hadn’t heard her come up behind me. “It’s okay.” I said it, but I didn’t mean it. She dealt with people like me all day. She knew how to approach. But I was so tired I was docile.
“You have visitors.”
I didn’t know why I thought it might be Deacon. I still held some childish hope that he’d come get me. The thrill of the thought must have been all over my face.
“It’s your sisters.”
CHAPTER 4.
FIONA
My sisters.
I had six of them, and a brother. So though Frances had said it as if she was talking about a complete set, there was no way all of them had shown up at Westonwood all at once.
Margie got up as I walked out onto the patio, and she hugged me.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m sorry I left you.” She pushed me away, holding my biceps. “You look good.”
“Are you my lawyer again?”
“No. I just came to see you.”
“I didn’t like that other guy.”
“He’s very experienced,” Theresa said from behind Margie. “He already got you a new judge.”
“Jesus, Theresa. Don’t sneak up on me like that.” I hugged her, and when we separated, she got her hair back into place.
Some girls become stuck-up bitches early in life, and at eighteen, Theresa was just as stuck up as any of them. Always good, always correct. She sat up straight and chewed with her mouth closed, said please and thank you and dressed right for the occasion. It was an accident of her birth, that perfection. None of the rest of us were as pin straight as she was. She wore her little soup of redheaded genes like a tiara. I had no idea why she even showed up to see me. She hated me.
“So?” I said, throwing myself onto the garden bench and spreading my legs in an unladylike fashion. I wanted to throw my whore body in her face, just to make her uncomfortable. “How are you guys?”
“I’m fine,” Theresa replied, pressing her knees together. “How are you?”
“Crazy. What do you want?”
“I came checking after you. It’s a courtesy.”
“Great, I’m having tea with Spence and Chip at three, then a little badminton. Shall you join for a swipe at the shuttlecock?” I tipped my head back toward the field where the croquet and badminton had been set up.
“Oh, Fiona.” Margie swung a chair around.
“Small talk is a lubricant, not an insult,” Theresa huffed.
“I’ve never needed lubricant unless I’m getting it in the ass.”
I’d aimed to shock her, and I’d done it. Her face, a mask of perfection under her red ponytail, seemed to fall for a second. I thought I’d hit home until she laughed. Then Margie laughed. I felt a swell of pride in pleasing them, even though Theresa was younger and hateful, and I was mad at Margie. It was as if, in that laugh, they accepted me. They didn’t, I knew that, but it was my moment.
“Okay, guys. I’m busy finding wholeness,” I said. “Seriously. Why didn’t you come with Mom and Dad?”
“They’re busy,” Margie cut in.
“Yeah, more like, Mom hates discomfort, and since she came around here last time asking if Dad ever touched me, I’m thinking I’m not a happy sight for her right now.”
“What did you tell her?” Margie’s voice was clipped.
I pressed my lips together then puckered them. “He never touched me.”
“Is that what you told her, or is that just a fact?” Margie asked.
“Both.”
She scanned my face, looking for any other tidbit, like an open pledge I’d betrayed or the slip of an unsavory truth.
“What do you want from me, Margaret?”
“The judge changed. Dad wants you out. Why, is a matter of speculation,” she said.
“He wants to divert attention,” Theresa said softly, into her hands. “Away from what’s happening with Jonathan. I know him. I know how he thinks.” She held up her hand, but she looked reluctant to open pledge. As second youngest, she rarely did. There was a tacit, unspoken courtesy to the elders that they opened it.
“I swear to god,” I said, holding up my hand, “sixty percent of my brain capacity is taken up by what’s said under pledge and who was under pledge when it was said. I’m not that bright, guys. Don’t fill up the bucket, or it’s gonna spill.”
“Pledge open,” Theresa said.
“Okay, go.”
“Jonathan.” All Margie said was our brother’s name, and the beginning of that potentially long sentence ended in silence. The chatter of birds and insects in the garden seemed too loud to bear.
“I know there was something with his girlfriend…” Something about it nagged me, as if I’d met her or done something I should be ashamed of.
“Rachel. She’s dead,” Theresa said, closing her eyes as if gathering strength. Margie put her hand over Theresa’s and let her finish. “Sheila had a party Christmas night. Rachel and I went two days before to help her set up. She knew the neighborhood. So, n
ight of the party, Rachel shows after most of the family leaves. Jonathan gets drunk and starts acting like an ass. She takes off in his car and….” She cleared her throat before continuing. “They found the car, but not the body.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Rachel was my friend. She had a tough home life, so she came back to the house with me a lot. Dad, he… Well, she started getting all gifts and wouldn’t say from where, and this was a few years ago. So.” She cleared her throat again, and her eyes darted over the garden.
“She and Dad, when she was fifteen,” Margie cut in with her businesslike tone.
Theresa picked up the thread. “Jon didn’t know until a few weeks ago.”
“None of us did,” Margie said.
“It’s the creepiest thing ever,” I said. “Seriously, I thought his thing with Mom was like true love that transcended age. I’m a rose-colored dumbfuck.”
“You shouldn’t use words like that.”
“Fuck fuck fuck.”
“Can you stop? This doesn’t need to be harder.” Theresa’s face was tense, her fingers clenched into hooks.
Margie glanced at me, her look telling me to shut the fuck up. Delivering bad news was usually Margie’s job, but Theresa seemed hell bent on saying hard things, and it appeared Margie was backing her up.
“Okay, go on,” I said.
“They haven’t told you because they didn’t want to upset you.”
“They don’t want to upset themselves.”
“Jon tried to commit suicide,” Theresa said.
“What? When?”
“Little less than a week ago.” Her voice dropped. “I found him. He took a handful of pills and gave himself a heart attack. It was awful. I mean, really awful. It’s going to break Mom.”
I looked at Margie. “He’s okay?” My brother, the only boy and the youngest of eight, was the scion, the gem, and an arrogant ass I’d never want harmed.
“He’s fine. They admitted him here last night. Supposedly Mom is coming this afternoon to tell you, but you know how that goes.”
“Here? They admitted him here?”
Margie grabbed Theresa’s hand, relieving her of the responsibility of speaking. “They don’t send you home after a suicide attempt. They have to figure out if you’re a risk to yourself. It’s like babysitting, only really fucking expensive.”
“You don’t have to say that word,” Theresa whispered. Theresa turned toward the patio.
In the direct light, I saw she had dark circles under her eyes, and renegade hairs had escaped her ponytail. She’d lost her friend, and her brother had almost died. She had a sister in an institution and a father who liked girls slightly younger than her. I realized she was as much of an addict as I was, and refinement was her drug of choice.
“Are you okay, Theresa? You look like hell,” I said.
“She was my friend, but she was also a little in love with money, which is probably why she went from Dad to Jon… God, it’s even hard to say that.”
“Not easy to hear either.”
“I think she was trying to blackmail Dad,” Theresa said. “It’s such a mess. I’ve never seen Dad like this. He’s afraid. That’s scarier than anything.”
“He’s not scared,” Margie cut in. “He’s playing at it. And yes, she was trying to blackmail Dad. I got that through my own channels.”
“Why didn’t he just pay it?”
“Maybe he did,” Margie said. “But she kept coming after him.”
“Then me,” Theresa said. “She kept saying hateful things to me about Jonathan and Dad, like she was trying to get me to hate them. I was weird about her dating my brother, then I wasn’t. Now I am again. But when you see Jonathan, can you tell him I’m sorry? We had this big fight just before. I called him names, which was… I don’t know what came over me.” Her hands sat palm up in her lap, and she stared at them. “We can’t fight amongst ourselves. Reporters are asking questions. It’s nuts out there. They’re asking about Rachel, about you. They want to use us. Everyone has a camera, and I don’t want us to be used any more.”
“We’re the world’s circus,” I said. “Third ring to the right. I don’t know how to shake it.”
“I’m going to.” Theresa set her jaw, and a steel curtain dropped over her face. “I’m going to be normal. I’m going to work and have a job like anyone else. I’m going to have friends who like me for me. Not for money or fame or any of this.”
“Good luck with that,” I said, already shaking my head over her failure to achieve the dream of being no better than ordinary.
On the way out, with Theresa half a hall away, Margie took my hand. “Keep your shit together, and you can get out. Your mandated time is only a few more days, and your boyfriend’s not pressing charges, so you can probably avoid a lot of questioning and ugliness if you stay low. But a little sisterly advice.”
“As opposed to what you usually give?”
“Jonathan’s going to need you. He’s not himself. Be there for him. It really is a circus. They’ve been poking around Dad, which means there are going to be questions.”
“I told Mom to talk to Carrie. I’m sorry, I just—”
“It’s okay. Forget it.”
“Carrie always knew Dad had a thing for… I can’t even say it. I always thought she… I can’t say that either.” I couldn’t say that Carrie had always maintained that Dad liked young girls, and that made me think she’d gotten some form of sexual attention none of the rest of us had. I had no proof, just a twist in the gut. Carrie had never said one way or the other.
“Carrie can take care of herself,” Margie said. “If I were you, I’d stay in here as long as possible. As a matter of fact, I’d like to admit myself right now.”
“If you were in here, I’d work like hell to get you out.”
“You’re implying… what?”
“You ditched me.”
She put her hands on her hips. “For your own good.”
“Isn’t it about time other people stopped deciding what was for my own good? Maybe treat me like an adult who can make her own decisions? I have my own reason for wanting you to be my lawyer, and it has nothing to do with your experience. I don’t want to explain myself to some strange, experienced person. I need someone to work with who I am. Do you get it?”
She didn’t answer. She pecked me on the cheek and stalked off for the door. From Margie, that might as well have been a signature on the dotted line.
CHAPTER 5.
FIONA
I’d left my sisters with promises and comfort I was ill-equipped to give. Only someone as naïve as Theresa would tell a psycho like me a thing, and only a Drazen psycho would keep that fucking promise to death.
“They wanted to visit. What’s the big deal, Deena?”
Brazilian Blowout’s name was Deena. It made me want to kick a puppy.
“You look upset,” she said.
“I’m not upset.”
“You still have no recollection of what happened the night before you arrived here. Honestly, I find it hard to send you home before you remember.”
“It’s not a condition of my release. Not according to my lawyer.”
“We have some latitude.”
“You mean you have latitude. You know the violent outbursts were valid. This other bullshit is just bullshit.”
“What exactly do you think is going on, Fiona?” She had her forearms on the edge of the desk, and her fucking blowout at a right angle to the earth, and a practiced, blank expression that created a vacuum that sucked the truth out of me.
“I think you’re looking to make a career jump.” Even as the voice in my head told me to stop, I kept on. “I think you’re going to change the names to protect the guilty and write a paper about the famous, debased heiress with a father who married his wife real young. I think you put me back on Paxil, which Elliot took me off of, so I’d have less control over myself and I’d get snappy in the afternoons.”
“
There’s no proof Paxil has that side effect.” She sat back, crossing her wrists in her lap. “It’s interesting you think Dr. Chapman had your best interests at heart though.”
“I think you’re vile.” I was white hot, and nothing could stop me from burning that shit down. “I think you’re a heartless cunt. I’m a thing to you. A new trinket on your shelf. You think I’m your fucking gravy train, and I think this hokey Indian crap is all for show unless sleeping with that blanket’s going to give me smallpox.”
“Let’s talk about—”
“Fuck you.”
“Your feelings are—”
“Fuck you.”
“Fiona, this is—”
“Fuck you.”
“Deacon contacted the hospital.”
“Fuck you.”
“He wanted to see you.”
She’d done it. She’d stopped my torrent of hate with a sliver of hope. “This is a trick. I—”
“I told him that until you participated fully in your therapy, he would not be allowed in.”
“What?”
“Tell me, Fiona, would you allow him here if you were on this side of the desk? Your last violent episode outside these walls involved him. You’ve blocked out the memory of it. Seeing him could open floodgates you’re not prepared to—”
At the word floodgates, I was finished. Floodgates had opened all right. I remembered it very clearly. The pressure on my right foot as I stood, the pressure of the hard wooden desk on my left knee, the feeling of falling as I straightened my leg on her desk, my thrust forward as I made sure to get my arms out in time to latch my hands around her motherfucking lying throat.
I think I was screaming, which must have been what saved that bitch’s life.
CHAPTER 6.
ELLIOT
Like any self-respecting monied hippie from San Francisco, Jana was in therapy. And like any functioning neurotic, she didn’t reveal the depths of her neuroses until we were deeply involved.
