I nod. “I understand.”
He smiles at Chase. “Mr. Brennan, I’m sorry to say you won’t be permitted in the meeting.”
“I was told I could bring someone with me,” I protest.
Mr. Martinson winces. “I’m sorry if it was unclear. You are authorized for a guest to accompany you on the premises, but according to the rules outlined in the program, only the victim and mental health staff are permitted in the meeting. Mr. Brennan will have to wait here.”
“Do you still want to meet with her?” Chase asks. “If you don’t want to be alone with her, you don’t have to be.”
I shake my head. “I just want to get this over with. I’ll be fine. She’ll be on the other side of a thick piece of glass. She can’t do anything to me.”
Chase studies my face, as though he’s trying to determine if I’m truly comfortable with this. “Okay. Just remember you can change your mind at any time.”
After giving Chase a reassuring nod, I turn to Mr. Martinson. “Is there anything else?”
He sits up a little straighter. “Ms. Wilcox has a list of prohibited subject matter. Typically your father is on that list, but obviously, we’re making an exception. I need to inform you that Mr. Brennan is also on that list.”
Protectively, I grab Chase’s hand. “What?”
“We try our hardest to keep our patients away from material that may exacerbate their delusions or obsessive tendencies. Ms. Wilcox was prohibited from looking up any information relating to your father, but she was allowed to lookup anything sports-related. About eight years ago, she started looking into Mr. Brennan. Her fascination quickly became unhealthy, and Mr. Brennan has been placed on the prohibited subject matter list. We believe her interest started as an attempt to glean information about Mr. Aldrich and then grew from there.”
Jesus Christ. First my father and now Chase? “Don’t worry,” I reply. “I will not bring Chase into the conversation.”
He nods. “We recommend you stay to the approve question list.” He picks up a folder. “Now, if there are no questions, Mr. Brennan, you can wait here. Ms. Aldrich, I’ll escort you to the meeting room.”
Chase helps me up from my chair then cups my face. “Are you sure?”
I kiss him. “I’ll be fine.”
Mr. Martinson leads me down a maze of hallways. Along the way, we have to get buzzed through three doors. I’m amazed this place has managed to keep its southern charm despite the heavy prison doors every hundred feet. The hardwood floors are so shiny they could be in a floor cleaner commercial. He points out important pieces of pre-Civil War art as we walk through the halls. We pass several hutches filled with vintage china and silver platters and pitchers. He talks about the pieces with such pride—because what mental hospital is complete without a case of antique spoons hanging on the wall? I’d think they’d be concerned the inmates would use them as weapons, but what do I know?
Once we’re through the last set of doors, he directs me into a small room. A small table is pushed up against a thick glass wall, and I see an identical table and chair on the other side. There she is. After watching her in the documentaries, I’d thought I would be prepared to see her, but in person, she makes my blood turn cold. I’m not sure what I expected her to look like. Maybe dressed in scrubs or a hospital gown. I thought she’d look crazy, but she looks perfectly normal, like someone I’d see walking down the street. She’s dressed in designer clothes and appears to be in good shape. I remember reading that patients here have personal trainers and private chefs. Clearly they have a salon as well because I can tell from here that that dye job did not come out of a box and her eyebrows are waxed into perfect arches. Her skin is flawless. Not a pore or wrinkle to be seen. Botox and daily exfoliation must be part of the therapy regimen. She looks average. Harmless. She doesn’t look like a murderer.
“Your door will remain unlocked,” Mr. Martinson says. “You’re free to leave at any time if the meeting becomes difficult for you.” He gives me a slight nod then leaves the room.
I sit and stare at the woman sitting across from me. She’s the reason I grew up without a mother. I think back on all the times I felt completely lost without my mother. When I got my first period while at a tennis tournament in Brussels. During that first Abercrombie and Fitch shoot when I felt pressured by the photographer. When I was forced to consider retirement. I would have done anything to talk to her one more time, but this woman took my mother from me. She irrevocably changed my life. How can I talk to her? The hardest part is, if I want answers, I have to resist shouting all the horrible things I feel about her. I have to treat her with respect. How the hell am I going to pull this off?
She taps her perfectly manicured nails on the table. “You look just like her. It’s really uncanny. The way you walk, the way your hair moves, everything. It’s like you’re her clone. I’ve tried so hard to master her posture. Perfectly straight, yet she always looked so effortless. It’s quite difficult to replicate.” She stares at my neck. Not a quick glance. She glares at it with a twisted smirk, as though she’s envisioning cutting me from ear to ear.
Refusing to show that she’s getting to me, I take a deep breath and remain poised. “I’d like to ask you about my father.”
Lowering her chin, she cocks her head to the side as though she’s sizing me up, searching for the catch. “I’m not supposed to talk about him.”
Putting my hands on the table, I push myself up. “Well then, I guess we’re done here.”
Her lips curl into an evil sneer that sends chills up my spine. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t. I just said I’m not supposed to.”
Slowly, I lower myself back into the chair.
She eyes me suspiciously. “I heard he died. One of the other patients said he died, but I don’t know for sure. I’m prohibited from looking up anything about him. It would simply break my heart if something were to happen to him.” She brings her hand to her heart. “He was… will always be very special to me.”
From the concern on her face, it’s very clear she really doesn’t know. She stares at me with big puppy-dog eyes, silently pleading for information. Perhaps I can use this to my advantage.
I lean forward. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
Bouncing up and down in her chair, she claps. “Oh goodie. I love deals.”
“I’ll tell you something about my father if you answer a few questions.”
Her eyes narrow. “What kind of questions? And how much information do I get?”
“I know over the years you’ve said a number of things, maybe things you’ve had to say for legal reasons. I just want the truth, whatever that may be. Whatever you say will never leave this room. It will never be used against you in any way. If you can be honest with me, I’ll tell you something about my father.”
Propping her elbows on the table, she rests her chin in her hands. “I want something personal. Something very personal.”
It’s a deal with the devil, but what choice do I have? I have to know the truth. “Deal.”
Her pupils go wide as though she’s just snorted a line of blow. There’s no question my father is her drug of choice. She’s high just from the thought of him. I glance at the video camera, expecting someone to come in and put a stop to this. If she does actually have a delusional disorder, the smallest bit of information about my father could spark a regression. Asking these questions could do serious damage to her psyche. Before my whisper of concern develops into a pang of guilt, I shut it down. She killed my mother. The least she can do is give me answers. If I have to send her into a tailspin to do it, that’s what she has doctors for.
She claps again. “Oh, this is so exciting. Ask away.”
“I want to understand your connection to my father. Can you explain to me how you know him?”
Blushing, she looks down. “Are you sure?” With an embarrassed smile, as though she has a secret, she bites her lip. “Most daughters wouldn’t want to know this about their fathers.”
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Bile creeps up my throat as her grin makes my stomach churn. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to settle my nerves. “Yes. I need to know.”
Brushing her hair off of her shoulders, she shifts in her seat as though she’s getting comfortable for a long story. “We met when I was a senior in high school. My father took me to the Rose Bowl because his company was sponsoring the post-game celebration festivities. My family and I attended the after party, and I met your father. He’d just won the game and was positively glowing. It was love at first sight.”
A bashful smile creeps across her face. She giggles as her eyelashes flutter and her eyes roll back just a little, like a love-sick teenager. She reminds me of the way Charlie has talked about Spencer since we were kids. As though he’s the only boy in the world for her.
“We left the party and went for a long walk in Pasadena. He picked flowers for me along the way. Daisies and tulips and roses, of course. I had a full bouquet by the time we got back. This was long before email and Skype, so we stayed in touch through letters and calls. We’d find time to sneak away. Long weekends during the off-season. Mid-week getaways when he came to town for a meeting. Whenever he gave an interview, he’d wink, and I’d know that was just for me. He used to call me his little snickerdoodle. They’re his favorite cookies, you know.”
I gasp. No. That’s not possible. He’d never do that. The look on her face, her confident resolve tells me maybe he did. My heart shatters, but I keep my composure stoic.
“When he married your mother, I was furious,” she continues. “He assured me it was just for show. For the publicity. He swore he would leave her, promised he loved me, not her. I know in my heart it was the truth. To show he was committed, he bought us a cabin. Our own little love nest.”
She snarls at me. “But then you came along and ruined everything. Once you were born, it was harder and harder for him to sneak away. He couldn’t just leave your mother—it would destroy his image. So I waited. Nine years of promises and patience, existing only on his letters and the secret messages he shared during his interviews. He went on Regis and Kathy Lee so often because he knew I watched it every morning.”
Well that, I know, is bullshit. Daddy and Frank Gifford were good friends, and my parents socialized with him and Kathy Lee. He went on the show so often because he’d lost a bet with Kathy Lee and it became a long-running joke between them. He either had to go on her show at least twice a year or get up on stage and sing with her. My father couldn’t carry a tune, so of course he chose the show.
“Finally he said enough was enough,” she continues. “Nine years was long enough. We were going to run away together after the Super Bowl. He promised to tell everyone about us. But there she was. Hanging on his arm, clinging to a dead relationship like the pathetic tramp she was.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from lashing out. The warm, metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I fight the urge to scream at her.
“One day they’ll let me out of here, and we’ll be together again. I know it.” Her eyes narrow. “You don’t look convinced.”
“It’s easy to tell an unsubstantiated story.”
She bangs her fist on the table. “Your father and I have had a relationship for over thirty years. I wish I still had my letters. Then you’d see it plain as day. You’d see how much he loves me. How good we are together. But since those bastards took them, ask me anything. I’ll prove it to you. I know everything there is to know about your father.”
I open my mouth to challenge her, but I freeze. What if she’s telling the truth? I’d thought I wanted to know. I’d thought knowing the truth would make accepting all of this so much easier. But now that I’m here, with a version of the truth laid out before me, I wish I’d never come.
“He has a crescent-shaped birthmark on the top of his right thigh. He has a scar on the small of his back from when he fell out of a tree as a little boy. He loves to eat apple pie for breakfast, but only with a slice of cheddar to go with it. He could have played baseball, but he never wanted to compete against Pat. He’s allergic to spinach. It makes him break out in hives. Shall I go on?”
How could she possibly know all of that? She must be telling the truth. She knew my father. Intimately. The room spins as the temperature climbs. Bile creeps up my throat, and I struggle to keep the nausea at bay. My brace suddenly feels too tight, cutting off my circulation. The collar of my sweater strangles me. What the hell was I thinking wearing a turtleneck? I need to get out of this room.
“I said, shall I go on?”
I look at her, searching for some sign she’s lying—a tic, shifty eyes, something. But I can’t find a thing. The smooth, unwavering confidence in her voice, her blinding smile, her relaxed posture—everything about her seems genuine. Her words aren’t rehearsed. She’s not trying to oversell it. She seems as though she’s telling the truth.
“No.” I can’t bear to hear another word.
She waggles her eyebrows. “My turn now.”
I ignore her as her words replay over and over in my head. I search for a fact she must have gotten wrong. There has to have been a slip-up somewhere.
She slams her hand on the table, snapping me back into the moment. “Arianna!”
“Huh?”
“Quid pro quo. I gave to you. Now you must give to me.”
The oily sound of her Hannibal Lector impersonation makes my skin crawl. Her smirk and the sadistic glint in her eye tell me she’s enjoying this. She’s playing with me.
I refuse to give her the satisfaction. Using the table to push myself to my feet, I stand. “I’m sorry, Jaime, but the terms of my visitation today prohibit me from talking about my father with you. It goes against your treatment plan and the terms of your sentence.”
She jumps out of her seat, kicking the chair in the process and making it bounce along the linoleum. “You lied. You tricked me!”
“You killed my mother. I guess we both have sins to atone for.”
Cursing me, she throws herself against the window. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the nurses attempt to restrain her. One of them stabs a syringe into her neck.
I hobble as quickly as I can to the bathroom, but I can’t open the door. I pull on it, but it won’t budge. A woman in a long white lab coat rushes over and flashes her badge, unlocking the door. I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up. After stepping out of the stall, I limp to the sink and wash out my mouth.
The woman in the lab coat hands me a paper towel. “That must have been very difficult for you.”
I wash my face with cold water, trying to calm my nerves. “You were watching?”
She holds out her hand. “Diana Ingram. I’m Jaime’s doctor.”
I limply shake her hand.
“Why don’t we talk for a bit?” She opens the bathroom door and gestures for me to go with her. After walking a ways, she pulls out her badge and waves it in front of a door with Dr. Ingram, Chief Psychiatrist etched onto the glass. Once the lock beeps and the light turns green, she opens the door and gestures for me to enter. “Please come in. I’ll need just a minute.”
Her office is neat and tidy, clearly well organized. There are only twenty-five patients at this facility, and most of them have been here for years and years. The small caseload must make her paperwork minimal.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a full keyring then flips through the keys, searching for the right one. She unlocks a wall panel and slides back the panels, revealing several filing cabinets. She punches in a code on one of the cabinets. After a loud click of the lock turning over, she searches through a drawer. She pulls out an enormous folder and carries it to her desk. After flipping through several dividers, she pulls out a large manila envelope and sets it on the folder.
Folding her hands on top of the envelope, she asks, “What did you hope to learn here today?”
“There has been some speculation over if my father and she did know each other. Since my father has
passed away, I can’t ask him. I thought I’d ask the only other person who would know.”
She nods slightly. I’ve been in enough therapy to know she’s encouraging me to say more, trying to figure me out. I might as well be forthcoming. It’ll save us both some time.
“I’ve recently discovered that there was infidelity in my parents’ marriage,” I say. “In light of this, I’ve wondered about Jaime’s claims and if my father invited her into our lives.”
She leans back slightly, probably choosing her words carefully. “When the DOC contacted me about this visit, I was against it. Even in the best cases, after months of therapeutic preparation, family members of the victim meeting their loved one’s murderer rarely has a productive benefit. People are always in search of closure, but in the case of murder, that’s almost impossible to achieve. I was confident this would end poorly, but I wasn’t given a choice.”
“I’m sure you could have stopped it if you really wanted to,” I retort. Yes, Wallace pulled some strings, but no one held a gun to her head. I resent the implication she was forced into agreeing to our meeting.
She taps her fingers on the file a few times. “Possibly. When I was told the meeting was happening regardless of my support, I was furious. But after giving it careful consideration, I thought this might be a very good test for Jaime. Unlike most patients with a delusion disorder, she’s quite manipulative. She’s become very good at telling us what she thinks we want to know, and for years now, she’s been adamant that she is fully aware she never had a relationship with your father. But less than a minute in the room with you, and it’s clear she’s never let go of her delusions. She’s just become very good at hiding them.”
“Or she did have a relationship with my father. Has anyone seen these letters she mentioned?”
Love To Hate You Page 48