by Nicola Marsh
Everyone assumes I’m rich in my own right; that the Garner fortune would tide me over if anything happened to my marriage. They’re wrong. My narcissistic parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided that when I married into the Parkers I’d be set for life so left everything to my sister. We don’t talk for this very reason. And with my parents gone, she’s my only family and there’s no way in hell she’d give me a cent if I needed it.
Which means I shouldn’t be riling my husband, no matter how much I want him to admit he has a thing for Ria so I can blame him for the farce that is our marriage rather than the other way round.
When we usually argue, he eyes me with obvious pity or warns me to calm down. But today he’s not even glancing my way and the change in our usual push-pull is disarming.
So I continue to prod, hoping to get a reaction out of him, because his bizarre frostiness is freaking me out. “Even Chrissie noticed. It’s beneath you to flaunt your pathetic crush in front of your own family—”
“Shut up.”
He doesn’t yell and the chill in his low voice, barely above a growl, scares me more.
I’m a fool for picking this fight, well aware that any jibe directed at saintly Ria will be met with hostility.
Those six champers definitely haven’t helped either.
When he continues to ignore me, I study my manicured nails at arm’s length, like I don’t give a damn one way or the other. “You’ll soon tire of her, like Grayson did. Don’t sacrifice everything we’ve built for a quick tryst with some eye candy you think you can have. She’ll use you just like she did him. And you have a lot to lose.”
A vein pulses at his temple but he doesn’t explode and I’m almost disappointed. I’m about to goad him again when he finally responds.
“You know something? I don’t give a shit what you say about me but don’t you dare malign Ria. She doesn’t deserve your vitriol.”
He sounds way too calm and when he finally turns to face me, his jaw juts with tension. Only then do I see I’ve gone too far. His eyes glitter with malice, like he could wrap his hands around my neck and squeeze the life out of me without breaking a sweat. “Just like you don’t deserve any of this.”
A chill ripples over me but I resist the urge to rub my bare arms. “What do you mean?”
“This.” He gestures at the house, his upper lip curled in a sneer. “This life. The kids. The lifestyle. You don’t deserve any of it.”
He leans toward me and I instinctively recoil. Justin isn’t a violent man; he rarely loses his temper, even during all the fights I’ve picked over his unswerving loyalty to his stupid family. But there’s something about the way he’s staring at me now that makes me wish I hadn’t pushed so far.
“And all of this can be taken away, just like that.” He snaps his fingers in my face and I flinch. I hate showing weakness but now I’m seriously panicky that I could lose everything. I can’t live on alimony. And with the Parker fortune backing him, Justin will make sure to screw me over, ensuring I get nothing. I have no doubt May will help him in that department.
That’s when it hits me. Do they know about my indiscretions? Is that what May’s announcement had been about? Cutting off my access to the family fortune, doling out a meager wage and when we divorce, removing that too?
I’m terrified I’ve gone too far this time but before I can apologize for my melodramatics, he starts the car again.
“Get out,” he says, in a soft lethal tone that brooks no argument.
I want to applaud him for finally having the balls to stand up to me. I don’t, because I see the way his hands grip the steering wheel, his knuckles standing out white and stark, like they’re about to break through skin. He’s on edge in a way I’ve never seen before. Who knew my placid husband has a fiery side?
I should apologize for being a bitch, I really should. But then the memory of Ria taunting me with her suspicions of my affair comes back and I’m mad all over again. Mad at her. Mad at Justin for acting like a lapdog around her. Mad at myself most of all for getting myself into a situation where someone like Ria can lord my faults over me.
I made a bad decision having an affair with a business rival. I know that. And blaming my husband for his lack of attention only serves to make me feel worse. I take it out on him, as always.
“You’re an asshole,” I say, opening the car door and getting out.
He barely waits for me to slam it before revving the engine and peeling out of the garage in a loud skid.
Arguments usually invigorate me because I take them as a sign that deep down he still cares. Ultimately that’s why I pick fights with Justin. By goading him into some kind of reaction, even a negative one, means he might still love me. It’s warped logic, I know, but I’m so desperate for affection I’ll do anything to get him to notice me. However, this time I don’t value his snapped responses. Instead, I feel a deep-seated insidious fear as I recall his threat.
“All of this can be taken away, just like that.”
No one messes with my life.
Not Ria. Not Shamira. Not May. Not my husband.
I protect what’s mine and if they don’t know that by now, they soon will.
11
May
I breathe a sigh of relief when everyone has left. I never experienced empty nest syndrome. When my children deigned to move on, usually as soon as they finished school, I hadn’t wept. I’d rejoiced in the freedom of having the house to myself; as alone as one can be with an absentee husband who preferred to entertain his latest mistress at his plush apartment in the city and a plethora of staff. But Percy is gone, a fact I’m eternally grateful for every day, and no staff live in anymore, so once the housekeeper leaves at five I revel in the peace.
I don’t need to be surrounded by people to feel good. In fact, the opposite is true. As I get older, people annoy me more: their frailties, their whining, their self-centeredness that only increases with age. I don’t have the patience I once had and having to spend an afternoon in the company of my tension-fraught family only adds to my uneasiness.
Because I’ve done something foolish, something so out of character that even now I can’t quite fathom what possessed me.
I asked Christine to stay after everyone left so we can talk.
When it comes to my daughter, I’ve kept up the art of pretense for years. We live far enough away that I can plead indifference to our cool relationship. But today, witnessing Christine’s antics after she’d imbibed too much alcohol, had pierced my apathy. It jolted my conscience into asking her to stay after the party so we can chat. I don’t know what’s going on with her and I’m worried.
I’d attributed her erratic behavior to one too many glasses of French champagne, but watching her screech and chase Shelley, Jess and Ellen around the back garden, stumbling and falling several times, had me wondering if there was something else going on.
My granddaughters had been highly amused. I hadn’t been. I dare not mention anything unsavory, but I need Christine to understand how her behavior can be misconstrued and taint the family if it becomes public, especially at this critical time for the business.
I hadn’t been lying about cutting off their access to the family fortune. I announced it today to scare the family, to give them the reality check most of them need. I haven’t told them the rest, about a highly lucrative sale worth hundreds of millions that will ensure my grandchildren are taken care of despite the excesses of their parents.
Money equals security; I learned that from a young age and I’ll make sure my granddaughters are protected.
But I have a daughter too and seeing Christine’s bizarre behavior, unsure whether it’s normal or not these days, makes me feel guilty. If my daughter is struggling, I should know, I should be there for her, and I’m going to be. Better late than never.
Christine’s lilting off-tune voice drifts toward me from the conservatory and I follow it, not recognizing the weird folksong but hating how melancholic it makes
me feel. I usually love walking the wide hallways of this magnificent mid-nineteenth century mansion, my loafers barely making a sound on the polished parquetry. Today, my feet drag as I brace for a confrontation Christine won’t want but I’ll demand nonetheless.
I never prioritized fostering a closer relationship with her. My maternal instincts have taken a back seat to the company for many years but I hadn’t thought the children had suffered. Maybe I’ve been naïve in my assumption. Even when the kids were growing up, I’d favored the boys because they were simple creatures, less complicated than my girl who would stare at me with those all-seeing eyes, like she could penetrate beneath my carefully polished exterior. She’d always made me uncomfortable and I’d ended up avoiding her, focusing my attention on the boys: sitting courtside at basketball games, waiting patiently on the bleachers at baseball innings, driving them wherever they needed to go. Christine had been self-sufficient before she’d hit her teens, preferring to hide away in her room and read rather than socialize, shunning after-school activities in favor of taking long rides on her beloved pony. I had neglected her…
When I reach the conservatory I pause in the doorway, stunned to see Christine dancing in complete unrestraint. Arms flung high, legs kicking, in some odd imitation of the can-can. Her long blonde hair tumbles in a tangled mass down her back, like she’d twisted it up and let it fall once too often. Her designer black T-shirt has a stain down the front, probably frosting from the cake she’d toyed with but didn’t eat, and her bare feet poke out from the flowing floral skirt that skims her ankles.
The sheer abandon with which Christine dances catapults me back to simpler times when my tween daughter would do this very thing, presuming she’d be unobserved because I was never around for her.
Regret clogs my throat and I make a subtle noise to clear it. Christine’s head snaps up, her gaze defiant as it meets mine, as if expecting judgment.
I sigh and drag my weary bones into the room. Darkness has descended quickly and the automatic garden lights bathe the lawn in a becoming glow. I love sitting in this glass-enclosed conservatory of an evening, sipping on a honeyed chamomile tea, surveying the rewards of my labor.
Tonight, I know the calmness that floods me whenever I enter this room will elude me.
“Don’t let me stop you.” I wave at Christine to continue her odd ritualistic dancing before taking a seat on a wide royal blue pinstriped sofa big enough for three. “I used to love watching you dance, even if you didn’t know it.”
Christine stumbles and would’ve fallen if she didn’t grab onto the nearest thing, which happens to be a tall corner table, housing a favorite vase. The vase wobbles, teetering on the edge for a moment before plummeting to the floor. It smashes into eight neat pieces and Christine leaps back, her hand covering her mouth.
I want to scream at my clumsy, drunk daughter but I don’t. Because when Christine’s tear-filled, guilty gaze meets mine, I know that how I handle this and what I say in the next few moments will affect my daughter profoundly. I want Christine onside, not grabbing at the flimsiest excuse to flee, which is what she looks like doing.
“Leave that and come sit here.” I pat the empty spot beside me. “Be careful any stray shards don’t cut your feet.”
Christine stares at me in confusion for a second, as if she can’t quite believe she’s escaped a tongue-lashing, before skirting the broken pieces and perching on the sofa like she expects to make a run for it any moment.
I smell alcohol, a potent cocktail of sour champagne and acid bourbon, so strong I wonder if it’s oozing from her pores.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Christine stares at her hands, a slight tremor making her fingers tremble as she plucks at non-existent lint on her skirt.
I know Christine’s referring to the vase but vainly wish it’s for everything else. Though our lack of closeness isn’t her fault. As she withdrew from me as a teen, I let her. When she left straight after school, I let her. The boys were always easier to understand but I’d never felt close to my daughter, whose deliberate aloofness often reminds me of me.
I’m older now. I should know better than to squander a relationship because I’m too damn stubborn, and more than a tad embarrassed, to admit I barely know my own daughter.
“The vase is replaceable.” But you aren’t, I want to say, settling for, “I’m glad you’re home.”
Christine stiffens and stills her fiddling fingers by interlocking them. “It’s your birthday, I couldn’t not come.”
“I’d understand if you had other commitments.” I keep my tone low and soothing, knowing it won’t take much for Christine to bolt.
She finally looks at me, her glare accusatory. “Would you?”
“Of course—”
“Because it always feels like a summons when you invite the family over.”
That’s because my self-absorbed children would rarely visit if they weren’t formally invited, but I swallow that particular retort.
“My invitations can be a little heavy-handed, I’ll give you that.”
Christine deflates, some of her animosity draining way. “Living in New York doesn’t build close family bonds. It always feels odd when I’m back.”
“Is that why you felt the need to drink too much at the party?”
I struggle to keep my tone nonjudgmental, hoping this won’t end like the last time we’d had a ‘big’ conversation, when Christine had turned eighteen and left home for three days on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle. Back then, when I confronted her on her return, Christine had moved interstate and hadn’t spoken to me for four months.
I blamed Percy for that too. If my pig-headed husband hadn’t insisted on gifting our kids two million dollars at eighteen rather than setting up trust funds to dole out controlled wages as suggested by our attorney, I could’ve maintained some semblance of control over Christine. I could’ve cut her off financially and demanded she come home. Because ultimately, having my family close is what I want. They think money protects them but it’s more than that. It’s me. I hold this family together. I look out for them in ways they don’t realize. I want to keep them safe because I know the dangers out there.
That’s why I set up a joint family account they could all access, as a means of keeping control over the money and the kids. That’s why I’m particularly worried about Christine because she’s making regular withdrawals of the same amount that are increasing in frequency, and I’m wondering if those withdrawals signal a greater problem than alcohol.
“Christine, why did you feel the need to get drunk at a small family gathering?”
I hold my breath, waiting for her to speak, hoping this won’t end in an explosive argument like in her teens.
To my horror, Christine’s eyes fill with tears as she slumps back into the sofa like she’s boneless.
“I like drinking,” Christine finally says after an eternity. “It’s a way to blow off steam, have a little fun.”
“It can turn into an addiction.” I don’t want to lecture but it comes out sounding like one.
“Maybe it already has.” Christine’s listless shrug reveals bony shoulders I hadn’t noticed until now. I thought Christine had lost weight in her face, now I wonder exactly how thin my daughter is beneath the loose T-shirt and ankle-length skirt.
Relieved she’s admitted she has a problem, I ask, “How bad is it?”
I yearn to reach out and lay a comforting hand on her but know that won’t go down well. We’ve never been touchy-feely and I blame myself. A life spent recoiling from my husband’s touch does that to a woman. I blame Percy for so much and my inability to express emotion through a simple hug is something I hate him for. Yet another thing to add to a long list.
“Bad enough.” Christine closes her eyes and rests her head on the back of the sofa. “I’m tired, Mom. I have been for a long while.”
Aren’t we all? hovers on my lips but I bite back the response.
“Then stay here for a while. A few
days, a week, whatever you like.”
The offer comes out of nowhere, leaving us both a little stunned. I don’t want to deal with my alcoholic daughter infringing on my well-maintained peace. I have no tolerance for drama these days and have a feeling any time spent in Christine’s company will bring plenty. But I can’t abandon my daughter, not when she obviously needs guidance or help or something. Besides, I can’t take back the offer now.
“You don’t want me around.” Christine sounds so much like the recalcitrant teen she’d once been that my heart twangs.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
I sound so cold, so distant. Is that what my daughter and family hear every time I speak? I hope not. I may not be demonstrative but I value each and every one of them.
Christine drags in a few deep breaths, as if steadying herself for a confrontation, before opening her eyes and staring at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“Okay, I’ll stay for a week.”
I exhale, unaware I’ve been holding my breath. “I’m glad—”
“But I’m not making any promises and I won’t tolerate any lectures, okay?”
I hold up my hands. “You’ll get no lectures from me, but do us both a favor and go see Doc Limstone while you’re here.”
Christine wrinkles her nose. “I’m not an alcoholic—”
“You sure?”
She glares at me, defiant. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Mom, so please don’t sit there and pretend like you do.”
I want to say many things, like how she stopped needing me years ago, like how she never visits unless invited, like how she never seems to care even when she is around, but I don’t. I settle for honesty because I know, out of all the things I can say, the truth has the best chance of getting through to her.