by Ann Aguirre
The tears fall in a heaving rush; I sob until I can’t breathe.
It’s over, everything is over.
55
Eventually, I dial for help because I can’t stay on the floor forever. While this feels like the end of the world, it isn’t. I have to go on.
The police come half an hour later. People ask me questions and they take pictures.
Hours later, county officials take my father’s body away and ask if there’s anyone I can call. Normally they’d probably send a social worker, but the police have already notified my father’s next of kin—obnoxious cousins, who live an hour away and arrive sooner than I want. It’s one in the morning and family is still pouring in, people I haven’t seen since I was twelve.
The women hug and pat me too much and say things like, “Of course we don’t mind packing up to take care of you. Just say the word and we’ll stay as long as you need.”
But in their eyes I can see them appraising the value of the house, the land, the furniture. They have no interest in me; they just want to live here. I’m the mistress of this place, but I don’t want that either. Once the technical work is done and the authorities leave, I retreat to my room and lock the door. None of this seems real. But I pinch myself and it hurts, so I’m not dreaming. He’s really gone.
I think about his girlfriend and how she’ll feel when news reaches her. But she can’t know, she can’t possibly know that she’s a substitute—like Creepy Jack, my father was obsessed with a dead woman for more than ten years. Maybe now Lucy Ellis-Frost can finally rest in peace.
Someone taps at my door, but I ignore it. Finally one of the cousins says, “I’ll just leave this macaroni and cheese outside. Have it when you’re hungry.”
Dumbass. I can’t eat that. Plus, it’s two in the morning. These are the people who want to take care of me. Probably they’re hoping that I’ll die of grief, then they can start legal proceedings on the estate. I doubt any of these relations figure in the will; they’re just vultures hoping for a chance to chew some tender meat off this carcass.
Sitting on my bed, numb, it occurs to me that Morgan finally got the answers she wanted. If it wasn’t for her involvement with Creepy Jack, her father probably wouldn’t have cracked. It was like she found the perfect lever for his psyche without even realizing it. I wonder if she would’ve pushed forward, though, if she’d known how it would end.
Maybe for her, it feels like poetic justice.
Me? I’m just exhausted and confused.
Eventually I pass out in my clothes and wake up at eleven the next morning. School is a distant dream. Between the Lolita Peach thing and my father’s suicide, the administrators probably expect me to take some time off.
Showering takes all my energy the next day. Mrs. Rhodes lets herself in with a key, and God, I’m glad to see her. Even if she’s only here because I pay her, I’ll gladly double it if she can clear the idiots out of my house. She perches on my bed and puts a hand on my arm.
“I won’t ask if you’re okay.” Her common sense feels like pure oxygen after breathing carbon monoxide until I nearly died of it. “What can I do?”
“Get rid of everyone.”
“Already did. One of your awful cousins was already fingering the china.”
It’s good to know I’m not the only one repulsed by my distant relations. My mom had a brother but he died young and my dad was an only child, so I’ve only got great aunts and uncles, plus their offspring. I’m so relieved that Mrs. Rhodes shooed them out. At this point I should probably think of her as Wanda, but it seems more respectful this way.
“Thanks.”
“I made your favorite this morning … oatcakes and honey, Silk yogurt, fresh fruit.”
“That sounds really good. I’ll get dressed and come down.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“Not really. I just have to ride it out.”
This will add fuel to the flames, making the story even juicier. I can see the headlines now: “Tech Magnate Driven to Suicide by Sex Scandal.” But there’s no way any reporter could ever discover what I know. My father told me, only me, before shooting himself in the head. I hear the gunshot again and it makes me flinch. Soon, the numbness and shock will wear off, and then … I don’t know how I’ll feel.
I was a little surprised to wake up this morning, still alive, still remembering what it was like to be Liv, but remembering more of Morgan’s life, too. The scientist in me wanted concrete answers, but I don’t think there are any, at least nothing provable.
Mrs. Rhodes is watching me, worry creasing her brow. “Morgan?”
“I’ll be down soon.”
“All right, I’ll set the table.”
Breakfast is a quiet meal, but it would be worse if she filled the kitchen with nervous chatter. Finally I say, “You must be wondering about your job.”
“A little,” she admits.
“I don’t know what provisions my father made in his will. After ten years, I hope he left you something.”
She shrugs like that’s not her immediate concern. “I can always find work. Do you have any idea who he picked as your guardian?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t talk to me about it. I just hope it’s not any of the cousins.”
“You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. The lawyer called. He’ll be reading the will tomorrow. And I notified the same funeral home who handled your mother’s services, I hope that’s all right. They’re taking care of things, but they may have questions about your preferences.”
“Whatever we did for my mom is fine,” I say, because I just can’t deal with this.
I want to run away.
This can’t be my new reality; it can’t.
As I’m finishing breakfast, someone rings the bell from the front gate. I peer at the intercom screen and see a cluster of reporters banging at a familiar car. Liv’s mom is yelling at the camera crew blocking her way while several deputies fail to wrangle the crowd. I definitely want her, but I don’t understand why she’s here.
“She saw the news,” Mrs. Rhodes explains. “And she called earlier. I said she was welcome. She’s like a second mother to you, right? Or … am I wrong?”
Bless you, Wanda Rhodes.
My eyes tear up. “No, that’s exactly right. Thank you.”
“You’re saying that a lot lately.” But she smiles at me, more kindness than I’ve ever had in this house.
I watch the screen as my mother inches her car forward until we can shut the gate behind her. The reporters shout in frustration, but she’s already driving toward the house. Before I can stop myself, I run to meet her like she’s the one coming home after a long absence.
“Morgan,” she says, climbing out of the car.
Spoken with such tenderness, the name turns my heart over like a key in a lock, and the tears I’ve been collecting stream down my cheeks. She’s not even as tall as I am now, but her arms still feel perfectly right when she pulls me into them. For endless moments we stand before the fountain and she just rocks me without asking anything at all.
Eventually I stop crying and she shepherds me back inside. I’m not sure what I expect, but when I sit down, she takes both my hands. “This may come as a shock, but a few years back, your father had us sign some documents. He was worried about you if something happened to him and he thought you’d be happiest with Liv.” Her smile dims a little. “Nobody could’ve imagined it would happen like this.”
“Are you saying that you agreed to be my guardians?”
She nods. “It’s one of those events you plan for, just in case.”
For a moment, I’m so bright and hopeful. Does this mean I can live with Mom, Dad, and Jason? It won’t be exactly the same but we can be a family again. Sort of. But something in her expression tells me it won’t be that simple.
“But…” I prompt.
“We’re not equipped to look after you, given the current situation. There are no gates at our house t
o protect you from the media, and after everything you’ve been through in the last few months, I don’t think you can continue without help. It’s not reasonable.”
I still. “What do you mean by ‘help’?”
As she produces a brochure for a posh, private facility, she registers my resistance. “Morgan, honey, it’s not a judgment. There’s no shame in therapy. But you need to talk to someone about how you feel … and you should do it in a place where they can keep you safe.”
56
At last I come to the place I’ve been running from all along.
I’ve been at Riverglen for a week—since the day after the funeral—and this place is nothing like I feared. Here, they specialize in discreet treatment for the rich and famous. My roommate, Alison, is an heiress from New Hampshire who can’t stop pulling out her own hair. She also cries in her sleep.
They took away my phone so I can focus on healing and dealing with my trauma, so I don’t know what’s going on in the world. Today, they’re allowing me fifteen minutes on the Internet, filtered and supervised, of course. I take a seat at the computer in the lounge while the aide smiles at me. Nobody is harsh; in fact, it’s peaceful. My room is basically like a dorm.
I think about e-mailing Clay, but what would I even say? So instead I skim gossip sites. They’re still writing about the Lolita Peach, now sequestered at a “rehab facility,” so people probably think I have an addiction problem. Public opinion has turned against me, hard, as people seem to be blaming me for my father’s suicide.
Don’t tell, Morgan. You can never tell.
I’ve added it to the list of my many secrets, the things I can’t disclose to the therapists. While it’s pleasant here, this is also exhausting because I have to say just enough, express the precise amount of shock and grief. I need the right notes in my file when I go. I have to swallow all the wrong words, all the confidences that I’m half tempted to dump on kind-eyed strangers.
I have some e-mails from Oscar and the art kids, but I don’t have the time to reply properly, so I just send them all emojis and hope knowing I’m alive is enough. Just as I’m about to shut down the browser, a linked article catches my eye, of the “if you liked this, you may be interested in…” variety. I click and bring up a story about Jack Patterson. New Charges Filed as Other Victims Come Forward. Amber Nelson, 18, alleges that her affair with the assemblyman began when she was just fourteen, engaged to look after his two small children. The case is no longer just about him and me.
“Time’s up,” a cheerful voice tells me.
Head reeling, I step away from the computer and wander to a chair near the window. The grounds are lush and green. I can go out during free time, but at the moment, my legs might not hold me. Though I’ve heard “there’s never only one victim,” I always thought Creepy Jack was interested in me because of my mother, which made him a special kind of pervert, and I don’t know if it makes it better or worse that he just likes young girls.
Another week passes in group sessions, art therapy, one-on-one counseling. My lead therapist is a thirtysomething woman with sun-damaged skin and red hair that comes from a bottle. I’m supposed to call her Samantha but she’s Dr. Lasky in my head. Aloud I don’t call her anything, and she’s frustrated by my indifference in our sessions.
“You’re repressing,” she tells me. “It’s okay to cry.”
But I don’t want to do that in here—in her office with the reference books perfectly organized and the knickknacks on her desk that speak to her interest in native art. The chairs are comfortable and the air smells like vanilla. Normal people might be able to unburden themselves to her and go back to their rooms feeling light as air, but I’ve only ever been able to do that with one person.
I miss Clay.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I talk about my mother and how much I miss her. That wins me the most points. And then I end with how my father never seemed to get over her death and that even his latest girlfriend looked like my mom. “Why did he…? I’m not enough?”
That’s the trigger question that gets me all kinds of reassuring language. It’s not my fault, Dr. Lasky says. My father was clinically depressed or he never would’ve done that, especially in front of me. She talks about how he was probably overwhelmed with guilt over failing to protect me, and that sometimes people make choices that don’t accurately reflect their true feelings while they’re dealing with heavy issues.
I muster a smile and let myself be comforted. “Thank you.”
Dr. Lasky recommends some books I should read that are shelved in the library. Then she makes a note on her chart as our session ends. “See you tomorrow.”
It’s time for my fifteen minutes on the computer again. I have an in-box full of emojis this time, not just from the art kids, but some of the science club kids, too. Even Arden Fox, who dressed up as Goku because of me, sends one. I sense Oscar’s instigation here, but I don’t mind. Maybe the fact that they sent these means the whole school doesn’t hate me. That’s more than I expected out of this mess.
There are also two messages that surprise me, one I hoped for and another I didn’t. The e-mail from Clay has the subject line It’ll be okay and a single word for the body: Promise. I’m frankly astonished that Nathan sent anything after the way we left it, but his reads I’m an asshole as the subject and then, Clay made me understand some things. I’m really sorry, I had no idea what you were dealing with.
You still don’t.
Nobody does, except Clay. And I trust him not to tell. This is the last hurdle I have to leap on the way to a normal life. I reply with random smileys to the art and science groups; it takes longer for Clay and Nathan. But I don’t have a ton of time, so I simply say what’s true. I miss you. With Nathan, I just accept his apology and add, We’re cool.
With five minutes left on my computer time, I check the headlines. Since I’m in Riverglen, the police haven’t updated me. I’m floored to read, “Plea Bargain Results in Two-Year Sentence for Former Assemblyman.” It looks like Creepy Jack confessed, cut a deal, and got his sentence reduced. It’s not nearly long enough for what he’s done, and there will be no trial. Part of me is so relieved it hurts; I didn’t really want to take the stand and answer those relentless questions and have the defense rip my psyche to shreds. This also means the media will settle down sooner instead of later.
This time I don’t read the comments and just close the browser before the aide can pertly advise me to move along. I celebrate by heading out to the courtyard where a few other patients are basking in the sun. I stroll among the flowers that are supposed to soothe me. A lot of them have already died, though. Soon winter frost will leave the grounds bare.
Eventually I have to go back inside for group and I talk about my mixed feelings when it’s my turn to share. “I feel bad that I’m relieved, you know? Because he might have been punished harder at the trial and I know there were other girls…”
“Or he might’ve gotten off entirely,” Alison says. “At least this way he’s registered as a sex offender, he’s done in politics, and he has to face what he did.”
Dr. Lasky is nodding. “You can’t torture yourself with ‘what if,’ Morgan. You were brave and you did exactly enough. It’s time to let go.”
That’s the best advice I’ve gotten here. The next day in my private session, I tell her that I’m ready to go home. She nods and agrees to process the paperwork. Surely I’ve been here long enough for people to believe I’m okay. And it has helped. The isolation was good for me, allowing me time to decompress and stop obsessing over what strangers think of me.
In the end, none of that matters. It only matters how I feel.
57
Two days later, the whole Burnham family picks me up at Riverglen. This is so strange. As I climb into the backseat of my other dad’s Prius, I glance over at Jason, who has earbuds in, playing something on his Nintendo. I’m tempted to flick the back of his head like Liv would’ve but I’m wary of startling him.
“We cleaned Liv’s room out for you,” Mom says.
“Thanks. And sorry. You probably weren’t ready.”
“No, it gave me the push I needed.” She’s smiling, trying to be cheerful, but I can see that this is hard. They probably never imagined that the papers they signed out of goodwill would end with them responsible for someone else’s kid.
But I’ll be off to college in less than a year. Ten months. For me it feels like a reprieve, a chance to say an extended farewell to my family before I go.
“Welcome to the Burnham Group,” my dad says. “There are no housekeepers where you’re headed so you’d better get used to chores.”
“Grant,” Mom chides.
Their familiar banter makes me smile. “It’s fine. It’s not like I never visited you guys before. I know the drill.”
Jason still hasn’t said a word to me, but he didn’t talk that much to Liv either, unless she forcibly removed his electronics and put her face right next to his. He doesn’t know me well enough for that, yet. Maybe one day he’ll look on me as a foster sister.
Maybe. And maybe someday my parents will look on me affectionately, like I’m almost a replacement for the daughter they lost. That hope is enough to keep me going.
The drive takes three hours and they don’t pester me to chat. No reporters ambush us as we pull into the driveway. A rush of homesickness hits me in a drowning wave; I know every inch of this house, every smell, every stain. I can’t wait to go inside.
“I hope you’ll be happy here,” Dad says gruffly.
“I’m sure I will be.”
My clothes are already in the closet when I get to my old room, courtesy of Mrs. Rhodes. My mom explains, “We’re leaving the housekeeper at the estate for now … as a caretaker. As your guardian, I attended the reading of your father’s will, and he left almost everything to you. Stocks, bonds, controlling interest in Frost Tech—”
“Just tell me how much you need for room and board.” Offering to pay for my keep is the least I can do, but she reacts like I slapped her.