Volume 2
Chapter 3: Mirrors
The sound of Dad's fork and knife clanging against his dish were the only sounds in the room. His new wife—who could have only been a few years older than me—sipped her white wine and stared blindly at the table's centerpiece.
Dad hadn't spoken much to me since he picked me up from Mother's. I sobbed silently for most of the two hour drive; he ignored it and fiddled with different radio stations. He offered no words of comfort. He'd hardly said hello.
Then we were in his grand home and he had a fucking butler announcing dinner. "Is Ella home?"
The butler, named Thomas, nodded. Dad let out a great breath. I couldn't tell if he was relieved or irritated. I never could tell with him.
"Will you help my daughter with her bags?" my father asked Thomas. Then Dad half-turned to me. "Dinner will be ready in ten. Thomas will show you to the dining room."
Then he opened a door to a room, a study perhaps, and vanished.
I felt as though I were in some dreadful gothic novel.
Dinner didn't affect his mood. Was I such a fucking albatross that he couldn't deal with me living here for a while? I spent time here during the summers growing up. He had a delightful lake at the back of the property. I almost smiled thinking of all the fun I'd had then, but then I caught a glimpse of my father's expression.
He was watching me carefully. Studying me, really. I shifted uncomfortably and looked over at Ella, hoping she'd come up with something brilliant to say. That was a stupid hope, for Ella was never known for uttering anything brilliant. She was a sweet enough girl, but her brains were not her best attribute.
I cut my steak up and delicately placed a piece of it on my tongue. I could feel Dad's eyes burning through my flesh and bone and I couldn't take it anymore.
"What is it?"
Dad didn't pretend to not understand. "I just can't believe how much you've turned into your mother."
"Well, you left me alone with her." I sipped the wine that had been poured for me, in spite of the fact I was only 19.
Dad didn't fire back with anything. I glanced over at him and thought I saw a tinge of regret cross his face. "I only meant that you look like her. You're smarter than her."
"No. No, I'm not. Look at the situation I'm in, Dad."
"What situation?" Ella cut in, finally deciding to pay attention.
Dad ignored her. "It was bound to happen, you striking out against her. She was always a viper."
"You don't blame me?"
"Of course I blame you." Dad rolled his eyes. "I don't understand why or how you could have done what you did, but from what I understand Alexander is no novice when it comes to seducing girls." He shook his head. "I've heard he's done quite the number on your mother."
"Mom hasn't been manipulated, she's just been—"
"Of course she hasn't been manipulated," Dad cut in. "I just mean she's a fool. She's in love with a man who'll never love anybody but himself." Dad's eyes looked me over. "I think you might be more like her than you might like to think."
I ignored his implications, his talk of Alex, even Alex's name, because all of it was ripping through my heart.
"So you'll let me stay here for a while?"
For the first time since he picked me up, he smiled a little. "Yes. Of course. We'll work something out. You're my daughter."
Ella took my hand. "I'm so happy you're here. It's been forever since we saw each other last, and it's so boring here during the winter."
I laughed, and surreptitiously wiped away the tears. This was undoubtedly a dysfunctional home, too, but no one would hurt me here. I was safe.
It was the perfect place to heal.
But I'd never forget Alex. How I loathed him. How the images of the last night I saw him, half-illuminated in the floodlight, touching my mother, played over and over in my head. Every tender word he said, or caring look he gave, was a lie. And most of it was my own fault, because I convinced myself Alex loved me, too.
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Two months passed. I heard nothing from my mother, which was unsurprising, and nothing from Alex. I read in the celebrities column he was opening a new set of restaurants on a few cruise lines.
Spring was blooming. The lake was still too freezing to swim in, but Ella and I would go out there and lay and talk about nothing. Jackie called me a few times; I let it go to voicemail. As much as I missed her as a friend, conversation of my total decline wasn't something I wanted to go into.
I spent most of my days walking, and nights reading. I didn't let myself think, or dwell. It would do me no good. I was convinced of that. Nevermind my horrible dreams, or the night terrors that ripped me from sleep, sweating and weeping.
Then one day I accidentally opened the newspaper and there was a picture of my mother and Alex, coming out of some restaurant together. He was smiling gaily for the papers. That fucking smile I loved so much. I wanted to get a red marker and block out his face with it.
Mom's smile was muted a bit. It could have been a host of different things. Perhaps she hadn't been ready for the photograph, or her mind was elsewhere. But something finally clicked for me. I still felt guilt. Immense guilt. I was haunted by it. It was everywhere I went, present in every nightmare I had.
She was a bad mother, and an even more terrible person, but she'd given birth to me. She'd raised me. She put a roof over my head and bought me things. And I betrayed her. I didn't just tell her to fuck off, or max out one of the credit cards she sent me, or go off to France with some heathen just to spite her. I stole her man, or at least borrowed him, right under her nose.
I thought of calling her but she'd only hang up. A letter would be no use, either.
I went into my father's office one Saturday afternoon.
"Dad, can I borrow your car?"
He sighed and looked up from his papers. How different we looked; he had black hair and a sharp nose, while I looked far more like my mother. We had soft, cutely up-turned noses with big eyes and delicate chins. But I had inherited his dark blue eyes—Mom had hazel.
"I was worried one day you'd ask me this... I'm not sure it's a good idea just yet, sweetie."
"I want to visit Mom."
Dad's eyes popped open and he shook his head. "Sit down."
I sat on his comfy leather couch.
Then he gave me an almost pitying smile and walked over to his bar. He poured two glasses of scotch and handed me one.
"Drink it."
I downed it, coughing and sputtering, and watched him sit across from me in his big winged chair.
"Your mother doesn't want you to visit her."
"I just want to apologize and—"
Dad held his hand up. "Ellen doesn't care if you're sorry. Ellen doesn't care if you're alive or dead."
"No way, that's not entirely true," I scoffed. "Besides, you left me to grow up with her! I came here a few summers, and then nothing! A phone call here and there. She took care of me, not you."
