by Nicola Marsh
May
“You’re a miracle worker.” Christine stares at me in wide-eyed wonder as we stroll along Chapel Street, something we haven’t done since Christine was a child.
Back then I enjoyed parading my beautiful children along Chicago’s hippest retail strip. I reveled in the compliments from strangers and silently wished my mother had been as proud of me when I’d been little. Instead, she’d been a chilly woman, a hands-off mother who barely hugged me, let alone held my hand if we were out in public. She chastised me constantly for not being good enough: an average horse rider, a terrible ballet dancer, and never thin enough. I may not have been the best mom with my kids but I wasn’t half as bad as the tyrant who raised me. I hadn’t mourned her death when I’d been twenty-four. Leaving me her fortune was about the only motherly thing she ever did of any value.
Today is like taking a step back in time as Christine links elbows with me, as if she’s proud to be seen with her mother, a rare occasion indeed. Ever since she divulged the truth about her drug taking, we’ve bonded somehow. I’ve done my best not to mention it and she seems more relaxed around me because of it. Not that I’m under any illusions; she faces a tough road ahead and she’ll want to go it alone without any intervention from me. But for now, I’m enjoying spending time with my daughter for the first time in many years and hopeful that our relationship moving forward has changed because of it.
“Miracle worker?” I play dumb but know what Christine is referring to. I’ve been beaming all morning because of it.
“I know going to rehab and aiming for a fresh start is what I need.” Christine rests her head on my shoulder for a moment, a rare display of affection that brings a lump to my throat, before straightening. “I’ve been in denial and you gave me the support I needed to admit what was happening, so that’s definitely some kind of miracle.”
“You have no idea how happy I am.” I’m eternally grateful my daughter has finally seen sense and wants to take control of her life again. “So Doc Limstone did a real number on you, huh?”
“He did, major scare tactics, but I needed the wake-up call so I gave him the go-ahead to book me into rehab.” Christine falls silent for a moment, before continuing. “Does this mean you’ll be checking up on me constantly after I’m out?”
I shake my head, wishing I could steer my daughter toward a less dangerous pastime but knowing the decision has to be Christine’s ultimately. “You know how I feel. I had to intervene, but now I’m trusting you to make smarter choices.”
Christine winces. “Nice guilt trip, Mom.”
I smile and stroke my daughter’s cheek. “That’s what mothers are for.”
The fact I can have this discussion with Christine makes me euphoric. Having her home this time stabbed at my conscience and I’m glad I finally spoke up. I should’ve done it a long time ago.
We reach the end of the block, where Chapel Street intersects with Lake Road, a bustling hub of cosmopolitan Chicago that I love. “Is it okay if I do some more shopping and meet you back home?”
I nod. “Go ahead. Shall I leave the car?”
“Don’t be silly, I’ll get a taxi.” Christine bends down to kiss my cheek, another rare sentimental gesture that lightens my heart. “See you later.”
I watch my statuesque daughter walk up Chapel Street, her long strides eating up the pavement, the epitome of a confident woman in her designer jeans, flowing blouse and leather jacket. I don’t want to question if my daughter is really doing better, because I know firsthand how confidence can be a sham.
Most people see me as an assertive control freak. When I walk into a charity luncheon, people accede to me. When I stride into Parker Partnership headquarters, employees are deferent and respectful; while some appear terrified. I’m used to commanding a room and everybody in it. With wealth comes power and I’ve been lucky enough to have both for a long time, well aware that so much of being a Parker is about how you present yourself, with poise, with your head held high.
Had my only daughter been compelled to turn to drugs to achieve the same empowerment? It makes me wonder: did my domineering ways have something to do with that? Had my cold and indifferent manner affected my daughter? It isn’t the first time the thought has crossed my mind. If a simple shopping trip after spending a few days with me alleviated Christine’s tension, it jolts me into thinking that maybe I could be one of the reasons behind my daughter’s drug habit.
And it doesn’t sit well with me.
How much attention had I lavished on all my children over the years? How many times had I delved into their lives to really get to know them? Percy hadn’t liked emotions and would go to any lengths to avoid them; as parents, we’d been too distant from our children.
Our regular get-togethers I organize now are nothing more than smoke and mirrors, showing a united front, presenting a unified public image and a way for me to assert control. Providing them access to the family fortune has been my way of showing them I care. But out of all my children, only Trent seems happy and well adjusted, and I hate to admit that I could be partially responsible for the dysfunctional rest.
I’d put up with Percy’s overt disdain for so many years and know I may have treated my kids the same way. I can’t change the past. I can’t change their childhoods, but I can try to be a better mother now and that’s the real reason I reached out to Christine this time and asked her to stay.
Being a matriarch comes with responsibilities and I take mine seriously. I’ve failed with my children and I’ll be damned if I’ll fail again.
It’s why taking care of my granddaughters has become all-important to me.
It’s my only chance at redemption.
Thoughts of my family and Christine’s addiction drain me and I’m eager to get home and enjoy a last hour of peace before the girls get home. With Jessie and Ellen at school and Christine out for a few more hours, I can savor the usual silence of my home.
I take a left off busy Lake Road and into the quiet side street where I parked, already envisaging a steaming cup of Earl Grey and a handmade shortbread from Saks, when a heavy weight hits me between the shoulder blades and propels me forward.
I stagger and put my hands out to prevent falling. Off-balance, I tumble forward, catch my foot on the sidewalk and sprawl on the grassy strip, landing heavily on my wrist.
Pain shoots up my arm and I cry out, my vision blurring as I glance up in time to see a person on a bicycle pass without stopping. I can’t tell if the person who bumped me is a man or woman as they’re wearing one of those stupid unisex hoodies. And they’re moving fast, like they can’t wait to escape.
I try to struggle into a sitting position but the pain in my wrist snatches my breath, so I lie still for a moment.
“Are you all right?” A young mother pushing a stroller stops to help me up, concern creasing her brow. “I saw that guy run you down.”
“I’m sure it must’ve been an accident.” I try to move my wrist and bite back a cry of pain. I don’t have time for a broken wrist and I’ll be royally pissed if some idiot cyclist has done this.
“Didn’t look that way to me.” The mother points to my wrist, which has already swelled. “Do you need me to take you to the ER to get that checked out?”
“No, I’m fine, and thanks for your help.”
The mother nods but eyes me with worry, while I mull what she said. It doesn’t make sense that anyone would try to deliberately target me. I don’t have enemies. Jealous rivals in the business arena, yes, but I’ve had those for years. Why would some idiot on a bike run me down now? This woman is mistaken. Some are prone to dramatics and I have no time for it, never have.
I grit my teeth against a stab of pain in my wrist and allow her to help me into a sitting position. I’ll be fine. I need to be, because nothing will derail my plans for the company and my family.
25
Shamira
My feet drag as I enter the apartment. A potent mix of fatigue, guilt and anxiet
y runs deep, making me weary to my bones. I can’t do this anymore; live a lie. Besides, Ashlin has taken any choice I have out of my hands.
I have to tell Trent the truth.
Now.
I called him on the way home from the hospital, asking him to meet me here. I worried Ashlin may have called him first but he’d sounded his usual upbeat, chipper self. Besides, delivering devastating news over the phone isn’t her style. She’d want to do it in person so she can see the havoc she wreaks firsthand.
His early-morning guitar lesson had finished and I caught him on the way to his favorite secondhand store, which he visits weekly in the hope of finding old vinyls, instruments or anything to remotely do with guitarists.
I admire his passion for music. It translates to all areas of his life, including me: undeserving, unreliable, unremarkable me. I hide it from him, my insecurities, but soon he’ll know and my life as I know it may be over.
The launch of my new digestive elixir is tonight and I’m not sure whether to cancel or brave this out. May insists PR is good for business but I’m feeling wretched. Some of the family have RSVP’d: May, Justin and Ria. Christine is minding the kids. The shop will be packed with interested, eager customers and usually I’d be in my element, waxing lyrical about my concoctions and their health benefits.
After I tell Trent the truth about my past, tonight might not even happen. Our marriage could be over. He’s a placid guy and he loves me, but can he forgive me for withholding the truth all these years?
I shiver and rub my hands over my arms. It does little to eradicate the chill invading my body and making my teeth chatter. I cross to the kitchen, grab a bottle of brandy I use for cooking, and take a swig straight from the bottle. The liquor burns my throat and I cough and splutter before taking another, hoping it will warm me. It doesn’t and as I recap it and shove the bottle back in its cupboard I hear the front door open.
“Everything okay?” he calls from the entryway as I brace, knowing that nothing will be okay again.
“Thanks for coming home.” I glimpse his startled expression as I run toward him and fling myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and burying my face in his chest. I inhale, allowing the familiar fragrances of his musky aftershave and faint body odor to calm me. Today, they don’t work and my heart pounds as I slowly pull away.
“You’re scaring me.” He drapes an arm across my shoulders and leads me to our worn suede sofa, one of our favorite spots for making love.
Sitting here should comfort me, should provide me with some sense of belonging. Yet as my pulse races all I feel is confidence-shaking trepidation.
“I have to tell you something.” I swivel to face him so our knees are touching and I reach out to clasp his hands. “It’s irrelevant to our marriage now and doesn’t change a thing but I think it’s time you know the truth.”
His mouth flattens, his eyes a scary, flat blue. “Have you cheated on me?”
“God no, nothing like that.” My grip on his hands tightens and thankfully he doesn’t pull away. “It’s about my past.”
His eyebrows raise a fraction. “Is this about that guy from the market?”
“Partly.” I take a deep breath, feel my belly expanding in the perfect yoga breath, and huff it out slowly. It does little to calm my rampaging nerves. “That creep wasn’t an ex. He was a client.”
“Client?” he parrots, confusion creasing his brow.
I wait, unable to articulate that I used to be a whore, and I see the exact moment he computes what I’m saying as wariness, tinged with repulsion, sparks in his eyes.
“You know I didn’t grow up like you. My mom got sick, a virus the local public health clinic couldn’t deal with, and I hated watching her go downhill. If we didn’t enter the private system we would’ve had to wait six months for an appointment with a specialist so… I had to get the money.”
Heat flushes my cheeks while the rest of me remains chilled to the bone. “There were always grubby guys living in the flats who’d pay for favors. But the money was never enough for Mom’s care so I ended up doing more…” I trail off, hating how my husband’s handsome face appears to collapse in on itself: his sunken cheeks, his hollowed eyes, his downturned mouth. He appears to age before my eyes and disgust churns in my gut: I did this to him.
“You were a hooker?” He yanks his hands out of mine and I let him, the pain in my chest so deep, so agonizing, I can’t breathe for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it would’ve changed everything,” I whisper, wishing I could turn back time to a few weeks ago before I’d seen Ashlin cheating on Justin, before I’d confronted her, before this. “I fell in love with you so quickly and deeply, I couldn’t believe you felt the same. Then there was the whole drama of being accepted into your family because of my poor background, I couldn’t imagine them knowing what I’d done and the repercussions for you.”
He shakes his head, the longish hair I love so much brushing his collar in a soft swoosh. “But you could’ve told me. You could’ve trusted me.” He thumps his chest so hard I jump. “I adored you from the first minute we met and I’ve trusted you ever since. Why couldn’t you trust me?”
“I do, baby.” I reach for him but he leaps to his feet and starts backing away, staring at me like I’m a monster.
“Why now?” He crosses his arms and glares at me with ill-concealed dislike. “Why tell me now?”
“Because we don’t lie to each other and I hated having to do it at the market.”
It’s the partial truth, because if he finds out Ashlin knew about this before him, he’ll go ballistic.
“We don’t lie to each other?” He barks out a laugh devoid of amusement. “Yet that’s what you’ve been doing to me for years…” He’s furious, bristling with it as he stares at me with disgust. “The thing is, if you’d told me, I would’ve still hated it but I would’ve understood. What you did for your mom… having to go through all that… it’s awful.” I see a momentary flash of compassion before he shakes his head, anger replacing the understanding in his eyes. “Yet all I can think now is how long did you fuck other guys for money?”
I cringe at his outburst. Trent rarely swears, his gentleness one of the many qualities I love.
“Eighteen months,” I say, my voice quivering with shame. “But Mom got the help she needed and she recovered, so while I hate what I had to do I didn’t regret it at the time.”
His defensive stance didn’t soften. “You told me she died before we met.”
“She did. Of a heart attack a month after she got the all-clear from the specialist.”
I’d been catatonic for weeks after, rallying against a god I didn’t believe in for making me endure an endless string of sleazy men only to take Mom from me regardless.
Trent will never know he’s the reason I picked myself up and wanted a better life, that I’d targeted him at that pub. That I’d become the woman he wanted so I could put the past behind me. That even now I’ll do whatever it takes not to upset the status quo; that I’ll do anything not to disturb our tranquil marriage.
I’ve told him enough truths for one day.
“I love you and this doesn’t change anything.” I stand and take a step toward him, like a handler approaching a skittish colt. “Now that you know I hope we can move forward—”
“I need some time to process.” He spins away and almost staggers toward the den where he’ll retreat into his music.
I yearn to reach out to him, to touch him, to comfort him.
Instead, I let him go.
He slams the door and a few moments later I hear the weird synthesized sounds of his online music. He’s been tinkering online a lot lately. In fact, he’s playing a lot less and focusing on the strange world online. I don’t understand the attraction. I love listening to him strum as he hums, writing songs at random or playing old classics. It’s soothing. But the weird sounds online are jarring.
He turns up the volume and the lou
d twangs of a fake electric guitar make my ears ache. I can’t stay here, waiting for him. He’s not a talker. After our rare arguments, he always shuts me out then later pretends nothing has happened. I doubt that will happen this time but on the upside he hasn’t kicked me out. In fact, apart from his initial shock, he took the news better than I anticipated.
The volume increases to a screech and I cover my ears. I’ll head downstairs to the shop and lose myself in ensuring everything’s ready for tonight. Immersing myself in the familiar will be soothing.
I also need a distraction from the other more harmful secret I’m harboring, the one I can never tell him because it would finish us.
26
Ria
Shelley is excited about the prospect of spending some time with her cousins this evening and I’m relieved. As much as I love my daughter she’s overly exuberant in Shamira’s shop at the best of times and I don’t want anything to ruin my sister-in-law’s launch tonight.
Shamira is fragile. I’ve never seen her so defeated, as she’d been the other day at her shop. I also assume she hasn’t told Trent the truth about her past yet because if she has I doubt the launch would go ahead.
While she hadn’t told me exactly what she’d done to survive in the past I can guess. Growing up a foster kid, being shunted from home to home, I’d seen my fair share of what some people do to make ends meet. I’d been one of the lucky ones, landing with an older couple in my teens, where I stayed until I met Grayson.
But other foster kids hadn’t been so lucky, trapped in a system that didn’t favor anyone. Some had ended up on the streets, doing whatever it took to survive.
It’s interesting, that her past hadn’t been in that email, yet her more recent indiscretion had? Then again, medical records are irrefutable whereas there’d be no solid proof of her previous life: cash transactions and men who didn’t want to be identified. What I want to know is how Ashlin found out? Hiring a PI to discover dirt on her family members would be the kind of underhanded thing she’d do.