Love To Hate You

by Isabelle Richards

  There’s a scene of the three of us walking on the beach in the Bahamas. I’m running around in a diaper, and Mom and Daddy look at each other. The look in their eyes makes my heart stop. When people say they see the fairy tale, that’s what they’re talking about. How are those the same people who had an “arrangement?”

  Next Daddy’s on the screen, walking with Walters and talking about the profound love he shared with my mother. Seeing him and hearing his voice makes my heart actually ache. Turning up the volume, I allow myself to get lost in his words. The way he speaks about her, I can feel the passion in his voice. Even though I know how dysfunctional they were, I want to believe the fairy tale. I can’t stop watching.

  There’s a whole marathon of documentaries, and like a moron, I watch one after another. The trashy one that focuses on their celebrity, the one that focuses on the red flags Jaime’s family ignored, the paranormal one with mediums who swear my mother haunts the Super Dome, and the conspiracy theory one that claims Jaime was really a pawn of the military-industrial complex. Killing Mom was a way to remind Americans there’s danger everywhere, that no one is safe. Conspiracy junkies can find a connection in anything.

  What I never see in any of the ten documentaries is any indication that Jaime and my father knew each other. Surely if there was something to find, someone would have found it by now, wouldn’t they? Or maybe my father was just very adept at burying the truth. He had a long history of it.

  I jump onto Amazon and order every book ever written on my mother’s murder. When I finish those, I get every book I can find on stalkers and mental illness. Thanks to same-day shipping, I don’t have to wait long for them to arrive. It’s a bit obsessive, but for all these years, I’ve never asked questions. I’ve never wanted to know the details. But after everything that has been stirred up, after all those damn letters begging for clemency, I need to understand what happened.

  Erotomaniac disorder sounds like a skin condition or a digestive disease. Nothing about that diagnosis screams savage killer. From what I read, the difference between this diagnosis and another—between getting life in a padded room or life in a six-by-eight cell in a women’s penitentiary—is whether or not my father had ever done anything to give her the impression they had a relationship. If not, then she manufactured their relationship in her mind, it was all an elaborate delusion, she can’t tell the difference between fact and fiction, and she belongs right where she is.

  If my father did do something—like sleep with her, for instance—then she doesn’t qualify for a delusion disorder but would probably be labeled with a borderline personality disorder. Murderous stalkers with BPD usually end up in prison because while they may not be mentally stable, they can still tell the difference between right and wrong. They just aren’t crazy enough to get a lifetime membership to the nuthouse.

  The more I read, the more I realize it all comes down to one question: did my father have an affair with this woman? Was he really a victim, or did his philandering ways get my mother killed? I try to leave it alone, but I can’t. The question just keeps gnawing at me. I promised Chase I would do everything I could to move forward, and part of that is letting go of the anger and disappointment I feel toward my parents, but I’m not sure how to do that until I know the answer. There’s only one way to find out.

  I call Wallace, and we have a long conversation. I don’t have his support, but he’s going to do what he can to help me.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Arianna

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t make it over last night,” Chase says. “I was so sore when I left the field I never would have made it to your house. I would have called, but it was so late I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  Poor Chase. No one but the head coach, team doctor, and me knows how much pain he’s been playing through this season.

  “You made the right call. Rest is more important than sneaking in a few hours with me. We have all next month together. I went to bed early anyway,” I lie.

  I stayed up reading about people who faked insanity defenses and got away with it. I look at the piles of psychology books about stalkers and delusion disorders surrounding me, thinking I should have bought the e-book versions. It would have been easier to hide my new obsession. One look at the pile of books about my mother, and Chase would think I’m losing it. I’m not sure how I could explain it in a way that didn’t make me seem crazy. I don’t even understand it myself. I desperately want to lay this whole issue about my mother’s murder and my father’s infidelity to rest, but every time I try to close the book on it, it pops back open. It’s unresolved, a wound left open to fester. How can I just let it go?

  “I hate leaving you alone. There won’t be anyone in town if anything happens.” He’s moments away from boarding the team plane to New Orleans for Super Bowl week. He has a long week of practices peppered with fan-interactive activities and endless radio and TV interviews in front of him.

  I dog-ear the page I had been reading then set the book next to me on the sofa. “The entire city isn’t leaving for the Super Bowl. I have plenty of people I can reach out to if I need anything. Stop worrying about me when you have a game to win. I’ve managed to take care of myself all week. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

  “What if something happens and you need to get to the doctor? What if you slip in the shower?”

  “Stop,” I order. “I’ve got it all under control. Remember, I’ve done this twice before. I know exactly how much my body can handle and what I have to do to heal. You have to relax.”

  His voice softens. “I’m not going to stop worrying about you. It’s not possible, so stop asking.”

  “You’d better,” I warn. “You won’t get another ring unless you keep your head in the game.”

  “Yo, Brennan, we’re boarding,” I hear in the background.

  “You’d better go,” I say.

  He sighs. “I’ll call when I can, but this week will be insanely busy.”

  “You need to eat, sleep, and breathe football this week. Calling to whisper sweet nothings to me can wait until after you bring home that trophy.”

  He scoffs. “No pressure or anything.”

  “You love it.”

  He laughs quietly. “Yeah, maybe I do. Take care of yourself. I love you.”

  After hanging up and setting the phone on the end table, I look at my stacks of research and feel guilty. If I feel as though I need to hide this from Chase, I probably shouldn’t be doing it at all, yet a voice in the back of my head keeps pushing me to look for answers. I know it shouldn’t matter. She killed my mother. She’s locked away for life. What difference does it make why she did it? But it does matter. I need to know. Taking the top off my highlighter with my teeth, I crack open another book

  Monday morning comes, and I leave my condo for the first time in a week. The PT and I are not a good fit. He wants to take things slow and easy, and that’s far too passive for me. I want to be able to ditch the crutches and walk without a limp by the end of the week, and he wants to massage my leg and grope my ass. We butt heads for the whole session.

  When he says, “What are you in such a rush for? It’s not like you’re still playing or anything,” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and storm out. Well, as much as one can storm out on crutches. After calling Dr. Irons’s office to report that creep, I call Pat and ask for the name of a PT who works for the team and can keep up with me. Hopefully someone who doesn’t have to report to Scottsdale in three weeks with the pitchers and catchers.

  Mateo, the PT Pat connects me with, understands and appreciates my vigor. We meet on Tuesday morning, and he kicks my ass. Not only does he push my left leg, but we do a full upper body workout and more ab work than I’ve done in at least two years. By the end of the session, my arms are so sore it’s hard for me to crutch to the cab. I’m sure Pat is laughing his ass off right now.

  Mateo keeps me busy, and I’ve just gotten back from PT on Thursday afternoon when George, my doorm
an, calls to tell me Janet, the director of Huckleberry House, is in the lobby. I tell him to send her up, then as quickly as I can on crutches, I put away my stalker research and clean up my empty juice glasses. When she knocks on the door, I give the living room one last glance, making sure all of my stalker books are out of sight, shoved underneath the sofa. Satisfied it looks presentable, I open the door.

  She presents a large bouquet of flowers. “Look at you, limpy. How’s recovery going?”

  Using my crutch, I push the door open farther so she can come in. “Good. It took me a while to find a physical therapist I can actually work with. But now that I have, I’m on a good path.”

  Walking into my condo, she snorts. “I bet you’re a real peach to work with.”

  Offended, I glare at her. “I’m a fantastic patient.”

  “Everyone tells themselves that, yet very few people are.” She looks around. “Point me in the direction of a vase then take a load off.”

  “Top cabinet next to the fridge,” I reply. “Thank you so much for the flowers. You really didn’t have to do that.”

  She finds a vase and fills it with water. “I didn’t. Several of the kids pooled their money. They wanted to bring them over themselves, but it’s best if they don’t know where you live. I love our kids, but we have boundaries for a reason. If you’re not careful, they’ll show up at your door at two in the morning.” She places the bouquet of pink roses and lavender tulips on the coffee table.

  I lean forward and smell them. “These are beautiful. They shouldn’t have spent this much money on me.” Those kids are lucky to get two pennies to rub together. They don’t have the disposable funds to spend on something like this.

  After taking off her coat, she lays it on the back of the cream sofa across from me then sits. “They had enough to buy you carnations. I may have helped bump up the order a bit.”

  “Thank you, it’s very sweet.” I’m suddenly very happy I had George clean out the condo-ful of dead flowers I received last week. Knowing these came from the kids makes them so special, and I would hate for her to think they would get lost in the barrage of get-well-soon arrangements.

  Janet picks up a coffee table book on the history of tennis and casually flips through the pages. “Have you given thought to suing the bastard?”

  One of the reporters caught my fall on video, and it’s blatantly clear another reporter shoved me. The police have charged him with assault, but that’s just a misdemeanor. His paper, which made a fortune off of the pictures he took, was happy to pay the fine on his behalf.

  “You should sue every photographer in that mob and all the papers they work for,” she adds.

  “My gut tells me no, but over the last few days, I’ve received a million emails from other celebrities who have had something similar happen, and they’re encouraging me to take a stand. Not for me or for the money, but for the precedent. If enough celebrities fight back, it cuts into the paps’ profit margin.” I shrug. “I’d rather not stick myself back in the spotlight over this, but they have a point.”

  After putting down the book, she picks up a picture of Chase and me on the field after one of his games. “So he’s really your boyfriend, huh? I mean, I know you said he was, but my driver’s license says I weigh a hundred and twenty pounds. People lie.”

  I smirk. “He’s really my boyfriend.” I point at the bookshelf. “If you look over there, you’ll see pictures of us all the way back to when we were kids.”

  She strides to the bookshelf and examines each frame. She holds up the picture of Chase and me after we got into a fight the last time we played mixed doubles together when we were seven. “You two are all scraped up. I had no idea tennis was a full-contact sport.”

  I laugh. “It is when we play, and not in the fun way. We’re both too competitive for our own good.”

  She picks up a picture of Chase and me when we were crowned Snowflake Prince and Princess in the eighth grade. We were forced to dance together, which at the time had felt like torture. We spent the whole dance insulting each other. He purposely stepped on my foot a dozen times, scuffing my shoes, so I dug my heel into his foot as hard as I could. We barely made it out alive. The second it was over, I rushed to the bathroom to disinfect.

  “Explain to me again why you’re not on your way to the Super Bowl?” she asks. “You’ll be in a walking brace soon enough. You should be able to make the trip.”

  My jaw drops, and I stare at her incredulously. I’m shocked she has to ask. It seems so obvious. “My mother was killed at the Super Dome.”

  She puts down the frame. “My husband was stabbed outside Huckleberry House, yet I still go to work every day. People can’t just hide when something bad happens.”

  She talks about her husband’s murder so cavalierly. He had been bringing her dinner one night, and the drugged-up parent of one of the teens tried to come in and take his kid. Abe blocked the man from entering and was stabbed five times. The only day of work she missed was for his funeral. I don’t know how she does it.

  I point at my brace. “If you hadn’t noticed, just talking about going stirred up quite a commotion. If I go, I’ll probably end up busting the other knee.”

  She crosses the room then sits on the oversized black chair across from me. “You’re in a relationship with a football player. At some point, you’re going to have to go to a Super Bowl. If you don’t, you’re a shitty girlfriend. The longer you put it off, the more of a story it becomes. Once you go and get it over with, the story goes away. His parents are going, right? Weren’t they there when your mom was killed?”

  Taken aback that she knows that, I stare at her with a raised eyebrow.

  “What?” she says. “I’m a History Channel junkie. I’ve seen the documentaries. I’m not ashamed.”

  I suppose I can’t really fault her there. “Yes. They’re having a hard time with it too.”

  “How did they reconcile it?”

  Dammit, I’ve been Janeted. She’s notorious for getting even the most difficult kids to see things her way. If she had been a lawyer, anyone on the stand would have been putty in her hands. She could get a judge to admit he did it if she really tried.

  I scowl at her. “I told them Mom would be furious with them if they didn’t go, and that since Jaime already took so much from us, they can’t let her take anything else.”

  She taps her finger on her nose. “You give really great advice. You might want to start listening to yourself.”

  “It’s not nearly the same thing. They don’t have the press issue I do,” I protest. “It’s easier for them to blend into the crowd. The night this happened, they walked to the limo, and no one even recognized them. For me, it was like the running of the bulls.”

  “It’s your life, Arianna. Stop letting other people dictate what you do with it. If you want to go to the game, go to the game. You won’t disrespect your mother’s memory by going. But based on what you just said, I think you’re disrespecting her by not going.” She looks at her watch. “I’d better get back. I’ll tell the kids you’re on the mend. Come back to us when the doctor clears you for work. We all miss you.”

  She lets herself out. I stare at her empty seat for a while, dumbfounded by what she said. How could I have never considered that before? If Mom were here, she’d probably throw a nuclear fit that I’ve let anything hold me back from something I want to do. In fact, she probably would have forced me to go simply because of the incident with the press.

  When Daddy coached at Stanford, he gave a lecture on the first day of practice every year about how millions of kids played Pop Warner but only one million make a high school team. Of that million, only one in sixteen gets the chance to play at the college level. Less than two percent of those players get chance to play in the NFL. Less than one hundred people in history can say they’ve played quarterback in the Super Bowl. More men have gone into space than have done what Chase is doing. And I’m skipping it out of principle.

  I think
back to how I felt when I missed the Super Bowl last year when I was in Africa. I would have done anything to get there, so what’s stopping me now? My knee? My knee never stopped me when I was hoping to get back on the court, so why should it stop me now? What does my absence say to Chase? That my past is yet again preventing me from being the woman he deserves. I want to be better than that. I want him to have better than that. After everything he’s done for me over the past year, it’s about damn time I put him first for a change. I should be in those stands, screaming louder than anyone. And I can be. All I have to do is get on plane.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Arianna

  Before I can leave, I have to get clearance from Dr. Irons to travel. Based on my range of motion and waning limp, he gives me permission to fly as long as I get up and move every twenty minutes. I’m even allowed to ditch the crutches. Now I have another state-of-the-art brace to add to my collection. A girl can really never have too many.

  Since I’ve turned down every offer of a ticket or hotel room over the last few weeks, I have to make a few phone calls to procure entrance to the game. At times like this, it’s good to have the owner of the team on speed dial. When the Niners drafted my father, Jeb Kane saw a young kid who had recently lost both his parents and all but adopted my father. He was the only grandfather figure I’ve ever had, and I simply adore him. I just have to mention I’m thinking of coming to the game, and he cheers so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. A few hours later, a couriered package arrives with me team credentials that will get me anywhere in the stadium.

  Charlie sends me pictures of all the Super Bowl week events they’re going to. Celebrity chef dinners, golf tournaments, cocktail parties, and private haunted New Orleans tours. I’ve never wanted to take part in that stuff until now. There’s a celebrity flag football game that I could kick serious ass in. If I weren’t fresh out of knee surgery, I’d own that game. The competitive part of me twitches, already dreaming of next year.