The Bad Daughter

by Joy Fielding

  “Almost home,” Melanie announced unnecessarily, turning onto Walnut Street.

  So intense was her revulsion that Robin had to fight the impulse to open the car door and hurl herself out, despite the Ativan. Maybe I should have stayed in a hotel, she was thinking. Except she’d already decided that this trip, however unplanned and unpleasant it might be, presented a good opportunity to mend fences with her sister, however high those fences might be. And Melanie had been adamant that it would give the locals more to gossip about if Robin stayed anywhere but the family home and that the press would likely hound her. She wouldn’t be here long in any event, and this way they’d be able to maintain at least some control over the situation.

  Robin watched the space between houses grow as they continued north. Less than a minute later, they turned onto Larie Lane. An enormous wood-and-glass house appeared, surrounded by the yellow tape that identified it as a crime scene and warned the curious to keep their distance. Two police cruisers and a white van were parked in the long driveway leading up to the three-car garage.

  “And there it is,” Melanie said, slowing her car to a crawl. “What is it they say? ‘A man’s home is his castle’?”

  “It certainly stands out.”

  “I think that was the intention.”

  “It’s huge.”

  “Over eight thousand square feet.”

  Which makes it probably the largest home in Red Bluff, Robin thought. The majority of houses in the area were a quarter that size and worth a fraction of what she estimated it had cost to build this place. It sat in the middle of an acre of land, almost daring the general population to come and get it.

  “Serves them right for building the biggest fucking house in town,” Robin remembered her brother saying. She wondered idly when he’d seen it, the thought slipping out of her mind as quickly and quietly as it had slipped in.

  “They used some hotshot decorator from San Francisco, and it’s all very grand inside,” Melanie said. “Grand and bland, if you ask me.” She picked up speed. “Of course, no one did.” A short distance farther along, Melanie turned in to the long driveway of the much smaller house next door. “Home sweet home.” She shut off the car’s engine and was about to open her door when she stopped and swiveled toward Robin. “Are you ready, or do you need time to acclimate?”

  Robin stared at the two-story house she’d grown up in, trying to recall at least one happy memory contained inside those walls. She was surprised to realize that there were several, almost all of them involving her mother. However, even those memories were tainted by the fact that her mother’s brain had been so riddled with cancer in those final weeks after Robin came home from Berkeley to be with her that she had no idea who Robin was.

  All her other happy memories included Tara: bringing her new friend home after school one afternoon and introducing her to her parents, who were as impressed by Tara’s bubbly nature as Robin was; she and Tara sharing adolescent hopes and dreams in her upstairs bedroom, and later, trying to mask the smell of the joint they’d just smoked with copious sprays of her mother’s Angel perfume; her pride whenever one of Tara’s clever put-downs left Melanie speechless; her thrill at holding Tara’s newborn baby in her arms when Tara came to visit; her relief when Tara confided that she was leaving Dylan; her joy when, seated around the dining room table five years later, Tara and Alec announced their engagement, and her naïve conviction that she would have a real sister now. “Think that might be a little too much woman for you,” she remembered her father telling his son. “She’s a real little firecracker.”

  Neither Robin nor Alec had suspected that one day that little firecracker would explode in their faces.

  So much for happy memories, she thought. She opened the car door and stepped onto the gravel of the driveway, watching a cloud of dust rise in the thick air like smoke. She stood staring at the old house, its white clapboard exterior in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, its dull veneer an obvious consequence of the prolonged construction next door.

  Still, the house managed to send shivers up and down her spine. Four bedrooms—five, if you counted the tiny mudroom off the kitchen. Her brother had claimed that space as his own after Melanie’s son grew too big to sleep in the same room with her, and the boy had moved into Alec’s bedroom. Robin could still hear the rhythmic banging of Landon’s chair as he rocked it back and forth compulsively against the hardwood floor for hours every night.

  Now she looked toward that bedroom window and was startled to see a hulking figure staring back at her. “My God. Who’s that?”

  Melanie was getting Robin’s suitcase from the trunk and replied without bothering to look up. “Who do you think?”

  “Is that Landon?”

  “No, it’s George Clooney. Of course it’s Landon.”

  Robin waved. The hulking figure promptly disappeared.

  Robin followed Melanie up the front walk. “Does he understand what’s going on?” She tried to take her suitcase from Melanie’s hand, but Melanie shooed her away, holding firm in her grip.

  “He understands. Being autistic doesn’t make him an idiot.”

  “Has he said anything to you about it?”

  “What’s he supposed to say?” Melanie dropped Robin’s suitcase to the patch of concrete by the front door and fumbled in her purse for her house key.

  Robin looked toward the police cruisers next door. “Does the sheriff really consider him a suspect?”

  “Who would be more convenient than the crazy boy next door?” Melanie found the key and jammed it angrily into the lock. “Think of the accolades if they can wrap this up quickly. Think of the great publicity: small-town sheriff solves big-time crime. I can picture the cover of People now, with Dateline and 48 Hours fighting over an exclusive. Wouldn’t that asshole Prescott love to be at the center of that.”

  Sheriff Prescott hadn’t struck Robin as an asshole, but she decided to keep that opinion to herself as she followed Melanie into the front hall of the old house.

  It was as if she’d never left.

  Thank God for the Ativan, she thought. It was the only thing that was keeping her upright.

  Melanie dropped her keys onto the side table to the left of the front door and walked toward the staircase in the middle of the center hall. “Landon,” she called out. “Come say hello to your long-lost auntie. Landon,” she called again when he failed to materialize after several seconds. She turned back to Robin. “So, what do you think?”

  “Looks the same,” Robin said without looking.

  “Well, I made a few changes after Dad moved out. Couldn’t afford to do much, of course. Not that I have any right to complain. He did leave behind all the old furniture.”

  Not to mention letting you continue to live rent-free in the home he’s provided for you and your son these past eighteen years.

  “Dad and Tara bought all new stuff when they moved. Well, they had to, really. Nothing here was suitable, and Tara wanted to ‘put her own stamp on things,’ as she put it. Guess she’d lived with Mom’s ‘stamp’ long enough. Can’t say I blame her. I’m getting a little tired of it myself. You want something to drink?”

  “Maybe a glass of water.”

  “I don’t have any of that fancy bottled water you probably like.”

  “Tap water’s fine.”

  “Well, you know where the kitchen is. Help yourself.” Melanie turned back toward the stairs. “Landon, get down here right now!”

  Robin moved slowly past the stained-oak staircase and the downstairs powder room to the eat-in kitchen at the back of the house. She glanced only briefly into the living room to her left and the dining room to her right, refusing to allow enough time for familiar objects to register. She proceeded directly to the sink, ignoring the view of the backyard from the window above it and turning on the cold-water tap while reaching into the cupboard on her right for a glass. She filled one with water and drank it down, then rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher.


  “You know that it’s not good to rinse things first,” Melanie said from somewhere behind her. “Leaves a film.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I thought therapists were supposed to know everything.”

  “Guess I’m not a very good therapist.”

  Melanie shrugged, as if accepting Robin’s appraisal.

  “Where’s Landon?” Robin asked. “I thought he was coming down.”

  “Apparently not. You hungry?”

  “Not really.”

  “We usually have dinner around six. That too early for you?”

  “Six o’clock sounds good.”

  “It won’t be anything fancy. Chili, most likely. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  “No. Chili sounds great.”

  “Well, it’s not great. But Landon likes chili, so it’ll have to do. You want to go upstairs, unpack, get settled?”

  Get settled? Are you kidding me? I’ve never felt less settled in my life. “Sure.”

  “It’s your old room. Actually, it was Cassidy’s before they moved into the new house. Now it’s yours again. Seems we’ve come full circle.” She looked at Robin, apparently surprised to find her still there. “You don’t need me to show you the way, do you?”

  “I think I can manage.”

  “Feel free to have a nap before dinner,” Melanie said as Robin was leaving the kitchen.

  “Thanks. I just might do that.”

  “Good,” said Melanie. “You need it. You look like crap.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Robin was asleep the minute her head hit the pillow.

  The dreams started almost immediately.

  In the first dream, she was walking down Main Street searching for Tillie’s. She was supposed to be meeting her mother and she was already late. But Tillie’s wasn’t in its usual location. Robin ran up and down the street, crossing to the other side and back again, then running into the drugstore and asking the pharmacist behind the counter where the popular shop had moved.

  “Take these,” he said. “You’ll find it.”

  Suddenly Robin was standing in front of a large window full of silver picture frames and quasi antiques, the name Tillie’s painted across the glass in letters of swirling gold. She entered the store. “If you’re looking for Mommy,” Melanie called from behind an old-fashioned cash register, “you’re out of luck. She just left.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She’s in a coma,” Melanie said. “Now go away. Can’t you see I’m busy with a customer?”

  The customer turned around.

  It was Tara.

  She didn’t have a face.

  Robin groaned in her sleep and flipped over onto her side as that dream faded and another one took its place.

  She was in her office, and the phone was ringing. It was Adeline Sullivan, calling to say she wouldn’t be able to make their next session. She’d shot her husband. “He was cheating on me,” she told Robin.

  “All men cheat,” Robin said.

  “What do I tell the police? They’re expecting a confession.”

  “Tell them you’re autistic,” Robin advised. “Just because you’re autistic doesn’t mean you’re a killer.”

  That dream melted seamlessly into dream number three.

  She was trying on bridesmaid dresses in the middle of a huge warehouse. “I like this one,” Tara said, pulling a bright yellow gown off a nearby rack and handing it to Robin.

  “What do you think?” Robin asked a couple of minutes later, emerging from behind the curtain of a makeshift dressing room.

  Tara doubled over with laughter. When she stood up, she’d morphed into Melanie. “You look like a giant banana.”

  “I have another dress to show you,” said a salesgirl with bright red hair and huge green eyes.

  “Dr. Simpson?” Robin asked.

  “Call me Arla.”

  “I didn’t know you worked here.”

  “I thought therapists knew everything.”

  “I’m not a very good therapist.”

  “So I hear. Anyway, I have to go. Your father is waiting.”

  “What’s he waiting for?”

  “He’s waiting to die,” Arla said before fading into nothingness.

  The warehouse disappeared and a hospital corridor rose to take its place. Robin raced down the sterile hall, peeking into room after room, finding each one empty. And then, in the last room, she saw Cassidy.

  The child sat up as Robin entered the room, the front of her pajamas dripping fresh blood. “They broke in and shot me,” she said, pointing to a second bed only a few feet away.

  Robin approached the bed and pulled down the sheet, revealing Blake and his pretty new assistant naked and tangled up in each other’s arms. “What are you doing here?” Robin demanded of her fiancé.

  “Same thing I’ve been doing for years,” Blake said. “No surprises here.”

  Robin heard a strangled cry escape her lips.

  “Robin,” Melanie said from somewhere above her head.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Robin,” Melanie said again, shaking her, her voice piercing Robin’s dream. “Wake up.”

  “What?”

  “You’re having a nightmare,” Melanie told her.

  Robin opened her eyes, saw Melanie looming above her, a gun in her hand. “What are you doing?”

  “Sorry about this,” Melanie said, pressing the gun against Robin’s forehead. “It has to be done.”

  She pulled the trigger.

  Robin screamed and bolted up in bed. “Holy crap,” she whispered, wiping a swath of perspiration from her forehead and coming fully awake. “What the hell was that?”

  It was then that she saw him. She caught no more than a fleeting glimpse—a tall young man, wide-shouldered and slim-hipped, long hair falling across his forehead into his eyes. “Landon?” How long had he been standing there?

  In the next second, he was gone.

  “Landon?” Robin called again, getting to her feet and crossing to the bedroom door. She peered down the hall but saw no one. The door to Landon’s bedroom was closed. Had he been there at all? Had she dreamt him, too?

  Robin returned to her room and sank down on the bed. She checked her watch and saw that it was almost five o’clock, which meant she’d been asleep for more than an hour. Had he been watching her the whole time? Had he been watching her at all?

  She reached for her purse on the floor beside the double bed, her fingers searching blindly for the small notepad and pencil she kept inside it. She wanted to jot down her dreams before she forgot them, something she often advised her clients to do. Not that she was any good at deciphering their meaning, despite the various books she’d read on the subject and the extra courses she’d taken. Sure, she could recognize the difference between a dream of wish fulfillment and one of anxiety, but the individual symbols contained in these dreams always eluded her. “No surprises here,” she muttered, borrowing Blake’s phrase and scribbling it down, although the rest of her dreams were already evaporating, bursting like bubbles in the air. By the time she’d finished recording that simple sentence, the only image that remained from any of the dreams was that of Blake and his pretty assistant lying naked in each other’s arms.

  “Tara is dead,” she said out loud. “Your father’s in a coma. Cassidy is still in critical condition. And you’re worried that your fiancé is cheating on you. Way to put things in perspective!” She fell back against the pillow, dropping the notepad and pencil to the floor and staring at the ceiling fan whirling gently above her head.

  Gradually she gave in to curiosity and looked around the room, noting the changes that had been made. Her bed, once covered with plain white sheets and a blue blanket, now sported flowered sheets and a frilly pink bedspread; rose-colored broadloom lay atop the hardwood floor she’d grown up with; the formerly beige walls were now a soft shade of ivory. Large posters of the Eagles and the Grateful Dead had been r
eplaced by even larger posters of Beyoncé and Taylor Swift. The only thing that was the same was her old desk. It stood in front of the window, a small TV occupying its center, the space around it littered with a motley collection of snow globes that Cassidy had clearly outgrown and abandoned in the move to the larger, grander house next door.

  “Some house,” Robin said, walking to the window and leaning against the desk, staring across the expanse of mottled grass at the imposing structure. “More like a hotel.” She picked up one of the snow globes and turned it upside down, watching as hundreds of tiny white flakes swirled around the assortment of miniature animals trapped inside its underwater zoo. “I should have stayed in a hotel,” she whispered to the tiny giraffe standing next to a blue plastic whale. She wondered idly if the Hotel Tremont was still considered Red Bluff’s finest.

  Instantly she found herself standing in the middle of its elegant lobby. She and Tara, both sixteen, had ducked into the hotel to use the washroom on their way home from a school dance. They were giggling about Lenny Fisher making out with Marie Reynolds in full view of the school principal, and wondering where Sheila Bernard had bought her dress, since it was obvious it hadn’t come from any of the shops in Red Bluff, when they saw him. The laughter immediately stopped, sticking in their throats like stale popcorn.

  What they saw was a tall, handsome man, his arm around a curvaceous brunette roughly half his age, as he strutted across the lobby toward the reception desk.

  “Oh, my God,” Tara said, grabbing Robin’s arm and pulling her behind the nearest pillar.

  Not that it mattered.

  Her father clearly didn’t care who saw him.

  “Who’s that with him?” Tara asked.

  “Her name’s Kleo. She works in his office,” Robin replied, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  “Maybe it’s not what it looks like,” Tara said. “Maybe they’re here for a meeting or something.”

  They watched the man’s hand slide down the woman’s back to cup her right buttock. “He’s supposed to be out of town on business. He told my mother he wouldn’t be back till tomorrow.”

  Tara wrapped her arm around Robin’s waist, hugging her tight. “I’m so sorry.”