The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  I couldn’t believe the elusive family therapy session stayed on the books after the last cockup, but here we were. We’d sat in my cramped Haven House office for twenty minutes. Harrison stared at Todd in a dreamlike state. Drugged? Hair-of-the-dog? Looked like she rolled out of bed in her thousand-dollar smashup of an outfit. After that creepy, hour-long, still-unexplained stretch with her driver in the parking lot last time, I expected chaos not hypnotics.

  I glanced at the clock on the visitors’ room wall, waited. Preston seemed to take her cues from Harrison, not amped like normal. I needed to jumpstart a dialogue.

  “As you’re all together we can talk about goals,” I said.

  “Is this a hockey game?” Preston said.

  Harrison gurgled out what sounded like a chuckle.

  “Mommy’s grown a sense of humor.” Preston looked oddly pleased to have amused her mother. For once, Harrison didn’t seem infuriated at her daughter.

  Todd said, “We need to move this process forward.”

  “I’m not a process, Dad.”

  “No, Preston I meant—”

  “Preston, let’s try to keep all comments constructive, okay?” I said. “I’d like to know what each of you would like to accomplish in therapy.”

  “We want Preston home,” Todd said.

  “My goal is to stop pretending this is a family,” Harrison said in a low, quiet warble. Her absent rage more nerve-racking than its presence.

  “Harrison, that’s ridiculous. We—”

  “Todd,” I said. “Let Harrison say what she wants. No censure.”

  “Like she wasn’t gonna say what she wants.” Preston leaned forward ready for a skirmish now.

  Harrison’s heavy lids dropped. After several seconds I thought I saw watery eyes. Crying? That’d be the day.

  I said, “Harrison, is there—?”

  She reached for Todd’s hand, turned it over, caressed its skin.

  Just when I thought this whole exchange couldn’t get more awkward. The whole room felt like it was holding its breath. Harrison stopped her trancelike massage to stare at the long scar snaking down the back of Todd’s hand. He yanked his hand back. I thought for a second we’d have a repeat performance of last time’s meltdown.

  “Harrison, please,” he said.

  “Do you remember what you said the night you proposed?” Harrison broke the spell.

  “What does that have to do with the crisis at hand?”

  Harrison looked at her husband like only the two of them existed. “You said you didn’t think you’d live to marry me, because every time I walked into the room your heart stopped.” She got to her feet, weary. “Yet here you are, still alive, and I’m the one almost dead.”

  She shut the door behind her with a quiet click.

  ****

  I escorted Preston back toward her room. She didn’t give an inch. Stayed silent while we walked through the day room. “Preston, I know the session didn’t go well but—”

  “If you thought it would you’re thick as a plank.”

  “I’d hoped—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, Preston lunged. It took a couple of seconds for me to realize she’d jumped another patient, the one who’d seen my car get towed.

  “Give it back you thieving bitch. Where is—”

  “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t,” Rosalie yelled over and over while Preston pummeled her.

  Before I could stop them Nurse Judy barreled over.

  “Rosalie, Preston. Stop this instant.”

  She divided them with her bulk while I stood inert on the sidelines.

  Rosalie used both hands to cover her face. Blood dripped down her lips and chin. Seeing she was really hurt got me moving. I dug a tissue out of my bag, pressed it against Rosalie’s nose. She leaned into me, shaking. In those few moments I felt her weakness and frailty. I knew without concrete evidence she’d been abandoned here, no one loved her. Before I could make a fool of myself by bursting into tears Judy took her injured patient by the hand.

  “I’ll deal with you when I get back from the infirmary,” Judy said to Preston. “Take her to her room, and make sure she stays there,” she said to me.

  I grabbed Preston’s elbow. She yanked it back. I grabbed it again harder, rushed us both to her room. I threw my bag on the floor, slammed her door behind us.

  “What on God’s earth was that about?”

  “Why was she following us? Mongoloid nosy freak. You know she eavesdrops. Anyway, didn’t mean to do anything. I ran into her. Ever heard the word accident?”

  “That was no accident. You jumped her like a thug.”

  “Bitch stole my journal.” Preston plopped on her bed.

  “What?”

  “Rosalie stole my stuff.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Seriously? Get your degree in dumbass? Who else?”

  “Rosalie has the mind of a five-year-old. Why would she want your journal?”

  I could tell Preston hadn’t considered the inconvenient facts.

  “She likes to fuck with me,” she said. “That’s all.”

  The something inside that cracked the other day cracked bigger.

  “Of course she does,” I said. “You’re easy to fuck with. Ever thought of that? Dependable as the goddamn post office. Want to get under some bitch’s skin? Preston Blair’s your bitch.”

  “You’re a fucking shrink. Aren’t you supposed to not get mad?”

  “Who told you that bullshit? You—”

  Todd plowed through the door startling us both. I tried to quickly put on my calmer face—more caring therapist, less raving bitch.

  “Todd, you know Preston doesn’t have to see you outside family therapy. I really must insist you—”

  “Let it go, Shrinky,” Preston said. “What’s up, Dad?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Preston

  Shrinky packed up her crap and scurried out pronto. Leaving my father and me alone for the first time since, well, before that night. While Dad acted as my most staunch ally where my mother was concerned, he was more reactive than proactive, intervening if called on. Not like we indulged in any Daddy/daughter lovefests or cozy, fireside chats. He golfed, went to the spa, asserted his influence to fight crime for paybacks, and avoided my mother. I got married and stoned. Whatcha gonna do? We were busy.

  I could think of nothing, at this late date, that I wanted to say to him. So I didn’t. No one was more surprised than me that I’d let him in my room. He stayed standing until I motioned toward the chair usually reserved for Isabel. He sat.

  “Thought you made a clean getaway, Daddy-O.”

  For some reason, that did him in. He cried, head bowed, noiseless—silent tears for a daughter who had committed a loud crime. His shoulders sagged and shook. Custom-made suit jacket bunched up as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. I’d seen Dad get teary the couple of times he’d come with Mother but nothing like this. This was full blown. I scooted farther down my mattress to get closer.

  To do what?

  I wanted to comfort him but knew the outlandishness of that idea. I couldn’t be the cause and the cure, so I watched him (in increasing discomfort) sob. He straightened up, gulped a few breaths. I thought he’d managed to shore it up. Then he wrapped both arms around his own body, to hold himself together, as if he had to keep his insides from falling out and cried in earnest. He held on so hard the blood left his hands leaving them ghost white.

  Except for that red scar.

  The one he got trying to keep my blade from slicing my mother’s throat.

  Seeing that again jacked me up. A sharp pain hit my chest like my heart had been slammed in a car door. I almost pitched forward.

  For the first time, I felt the gravity of what I’d done. My arrest didn’t do it, rehab didn’t do it, confinement in a psych ward didn’t do it, witnessing my mother’s wound didn’t do it. My father surrendering completely to what must’ve been unendurable pain and grief—t
hat did it. What can a man do whose family has spiraled so out of control that his only surviving child would try to kill her own mother? Who does he see about that? I realized my father felt responsible. Who is to blame for such a disastrous violent failure if not him?

  Me.

  “Dad, come on, it’s gonna be . . .” I couldn’t say it would be okay with a straight face. Nothing would be okay again. I knew it now for sure.

  Before I could think of something else inane, he stopped. I heard his deep sigh, saw his back square. He lifted his head up, wiped at his face with impatient fingers, like trying to get a horsefly to leave him alone.

  “Preston, please, please tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. Just once.”

  “Dad, I—”

  “You weren’t right in your mind when you—when your mother—” He searched and stumbled for a way to say the unsayable but couldn’t. “I’m convinced you didn’t know what you were doing then. But today, with that poor woman in the day room, well you, she—” His face turned red, his anguish turned to anger. “You attacked that sick woman for no reason. Why? For god’s sake why?”

  “She took my journal!” I sat up justified.

  His right hand shot up like a crossing guard. “No. Not good enough. Now tell me what you’re thinking. What goes through your head all day, every day, here? Are there things that make you mad?”

  “What things?”

  “I don’t know. Thoughts.” He got up, sat next to me, put his arm around my shoulders. I felt like crying but held it in.

  “What thoughts?” I said. “You mean like hallucinations or something? Voices?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Nothing to tell. Rosalie pissed me off. End of story.”

  “That can’t be all. Don’t you think about that night? What made you so angry? What makes you so angry still?”

  “You were there weren’t you? What do you think?”

  His chin dropped to his collarbone. “By the time I got there whatever words you’d exchanged with your mother had already been said. I could only try to get between you two. Too late.” He grabbed my shoulders. “What happened?”

  Something. Something big. Something I couldn’t grasp.

  “I don’t know.”

  Dad’s arm fell off me in defeat. He stared ahead, quiet for several seconds. I didn’t want to sneak a peek at him, but from the sniffling I thought he’d started crying again.

  “Mercifully, your mother remembers nothing of that. When that, well, what happened. I hope to Christ it stays that way. If she could recall it I think it’d be the end of all of us.”

  “From what I saw, Mother looks like she’s been dipping into my old stash.”

  “What do you expect, Preston?” he said, as if he thought I should answer.

  “I dunno.” I examined my hands.

  “If you’re worried about her, which despite every horrible thing you’ve done, I suspect you are, she’s getting the best care at home. She’ll rally.”

  “Right. Whatever.”

  “Preston, your mother and I have carried your expenses all this time.” He spoke fast, all the words meshed together. “It’s time you finally grew up and paid your own freight.”

  “What?”

  That was a big leap from my mother’s care to my leeching.

  “Your house. The upkeep is tremendous. This hospital. Outrageous.”

  I jumped up, pissed, to think I felt sorry for him. “So you’re gonna sell it like you did Aunt James’s place?”

  “What do you know about that?”

  Almost blurted out everything I knew but kept my big trap shut for once. The last thing I wanted was for my father to know Brendan was out there snooping. My father’s affection for the Finneys stopped at my father-in-law, Marv, whose position as chief of police often served our family well.

  “I heard,” I said.

  He got up, brushed off his pants, but didn’t press me for my source. He blinked fast. Now that I wasn’t feeling quite as generous toward him I couldn’t help but wonder if he flexed his eyelids periodically to see if he still could, what with all the shit he’d had injected in his face.

  “We sold it to help you. As usual,” he said.

  “How did selling Aunt James’s house help me?”

  I decided not to stray from the topic at hand to comment on his vanity.

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. From now on we’re going to pay your expenses out of your trust. We spoiled you. Now we’re all paying the price. No more.”

  I almost laughed. Only in the rarefied world I’d grown up in would paying your own freight mean paying my bills with the shit ton of money earned by my ancestors and given to me when I’d turned twenty-one.

  He pulled a folded piece of paper out of the inside of his jacket.

  “You need to sign this.”

  I grabbed the paper. “What is it?”

  “A power of attorney. I’ll need it to access your funds.”

  So my psych ward stay didn’t strip me of everything. I handed the paper back.

  “No can do.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Preston’s Blog

  Musings from the Dented Throne

  Don’t Hate Him because He’s Hip and Other Exhortations

  After months and months of denying the Jester private access, I finally relented. That led me to some self-examination, which as you know, I welcome like Stooge fingers to the eyes. I realized it wasn’t really that I didn’t want to see my father, per se. After all he’s the only one who could ever stand me. What I couldn’t abide was seeing him seeing me, just the two of us. Because I knew I’d get that look. The one I knew he’d give me if the Queen’s absence encouraged him to drop his armor.

  Boy was I right. He didn’t disappoint. Only it was worse than I feared.

  The death of whatever hopes he’d had for my life played out across his face accompanied by the horror of who I’d actually become. In the pools of his eyes I saw the urge to recoil wrestling with his need to rescue. The way he clenched and unclenched his hands gave away his struggle to either hold me close or hit me. But as it happened, just as I started to feel for him, he pissed me off. So that was that. Whatever good could’ve come of our visit didn’t.

  When, in the name of George Herbert Bush, did the Jester turn hipster? I believe I’ve mentioned his ever-darkening hair? Now it’s stylishly mussed. With gel. He wore a windowpane checked suit and a paisley tie. Jester thinks Rag & Bone’s a pet store. Rich, white, republican dads don’t dress like MR PORTER millennials unless? Unless what?

  You tell me if you can think of a reason.

  If his wardrobe malfunction wasn’t enough fool got snippy with the Queen during therapy. Drum roll—she allowed it. First time I’ve laid eyes on her since she made that impromptu appearance on TV.

  The Royal She’s not well.

  I choked up a little at the sight. I felt nostalgia for the Queen of old—the take-no-prisoners, badass bitch with a wicked razor tongue. Now she’s rumpled. Glided out of family therapy in an almost invisible huff, but she’s boiling under the surface. While never in my memory would I say they were happily wed, it’s nothing like now, hostilities out in the open. While the pairing of their incompatible personalities seems nonsensical, nevertheless, they fit—the rich socialite and the penniless blueblood. I’m positive their engagement photo looked smashing on the society page. What I don’t get now is why the Queen’s downtrodden yet the Jester looks invigorated.

  If anything, I’d expect the opposite.

  Queen controls the clan’s cash, so rocking her Majesty’s barge could strike a blow to Jester’s luxurious lifestyle, which should scare the shit out of him. Yet he prances about like a Tom Ford-clad village idiot, and she’s as oblivious as I’ve ever witnessed.

  Does that defy reason to you, devotees?

  Wish my head would stop its spinning, so off I go before I send love and hugs like the rest of the blogosphere buffoons. You’d never
recover from such a Dented Throne faux pas.

  The Invisible Heiress

  Speak free. It’s your right.

  Comments

  Maria N.

  Perhaps the Jester is trying to woo the Queen. Pulling out all the stops to make her feel better—other than the snippiness or whatever—maybe the Queen is ill. Dementia? When my grandma got dementia she drank enchilada sauce, took her underwear off during confession, and offered to blow Father Juarez.

  Reply: Our sort doesn’t woo. We pay lawyers for that. But yo’ granny’s my kinda gal.

  Dr. Frank

  I’ve nothing to offer on the subject of your unfortunate parents, but from what I’ve read in your posts your therapist sounds a bit off. Also, the police might be interested in your very disturbing blog.

  Reply: Please, by all means alert the authorities, especially the ones on my parents’ payroll. Then try reading this blog with your fucking glasses on, bozo.

  Well Hung Jung

  You pissed off at the Jester? For what, pray tell?

  Reply: Jester wants to take over the Heiress’s moola to cover expenses.

  Well Hung Jung

  If they’re your expenses, he’s right. Get in line, girl. Everybody’s got to pay their own way. Signing over your dough is a slippery slope, if you ask me, but if you’re in need of financial aid I’ve got some surefire moneymaking ideas. First, you get a pole . . .

  Reply: You’re a saint, Jung. Jester’s fooling. He’ll pay.

  Norma B.

  Jung is right. Certainly, you can write checks, can’t you? Doesn’t sound like anyone’s keeping you from that. As far as your mother and father are concerned perhaps the Jester’s got a chick on the side.

  Reply: I just threw up in my mouth.

  Norma B.

  Women aren’t the only ones who change up their shizzle when they’ve got a new flame on the horizon.

  Reply: What da fuck?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Isabel

  “Jonathan, let’s make the best of it and not fight. I’m in a better place. Not perfect but promising,” I said.