by Julia Kent
Our hands are touching and I can feel the moment he goes cold, biology more powerful than intent. “No,” he says softly. “Even Dad wouldn’t stoop that low.”
“He knew, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He knew about Leo.” I know James knows about Leo, because he’s talked about it with me and Mom before.
“There you go. This is unforgivable.”
“It is.”
I start to shake with rage. “I don’t think you understand.”
“I do.”
“I can’t have someone in my life who would do this to me and Mom.”
He grabs my hands, hard, and gives me a fierce piercing look. “I understand. And let me be crystal clear: if I have to choose between you and Dad, it will always, always be you. I will back you up one thousand percent. Do or say whatever you need to.”
“I don’t need your permission.”
“No, you don’t. But I am giving you my support. I’m ready to kill him, too.”
José presses a Bluetooth earpiece against his ear, then makes a U-turn. “Sir? Gerald just let me know that we need to change our destination.”
“What?” I yell. “No! We need to see my mom! We need to make sure she’s okay and that the press isn’t at her house. The press your father sicced on her.”
Andrew closes his eyes, nostrils flaring, hands in fists.
“Ms. Warrick, this comes directly from Gerald. We’re re-routing.”
“Why in the hell are we re-routing?” Andrew bellows. “I don’t care what it takes. We need to get to Pam immediately.”
“Sir, that’s what I’m doing. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but they’ve just taken Pam Warrick to Newton-Wellesley Hospital by ambulance. Gerald made the 911 call. She’s collapsed.”
The next fifteen minutes are a blur. Frozen images and scents, sensory impressions and words are like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit, the edges fraying and bent in an effort to make it all add up to a coherent whole.
Me, unable to breathe.
Andrew, barking orders.
José, taking chances with the SUV in a rush.
Red lights that might as well last for an eternity.
“None of this is real. This isn’t happening,” I say, the words coming out like blocks of wood from my throat, stacked on top of each other without purpose. If I say it’s not real, maybe I can roll back time an hour or so and freeze it, living in that place where a crappy cup of office coffee and a long stretch was how I occupied time.
Not sitting in a speeding SUV, wondering if my mother is dead.
Andrew takes charge. He doesn’t ask. He knows what I need.
Information. Being comforted is nice, but it has a short shelf life when your brain and heart operate the way mine do. He knows this.
“Gerald,” he barks into his phone. “What happened?”
A few beats later, he covers his mouthpiece and relays the story. “He got there. The place was crawling with photographers. Pam let him in. She had no idea about the newspaper covering Leo and his connection to me. When Gerald showed her the online headlines, she fainted.”
He goes back to the phone and frowns. “God, no, Gerald. Stop apologizing. You did nothing wrong. If it hadn’t been you, it might have been one of the leeches on her lawn. You did the right thing.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, burying my face in Andrew’s neck. “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for my father.”
Firm hands pull me back, Andrew’s sharp eyes meeting mine. “Don’t you ever apologize for your father. You did nothing wrong. If anyone’s father is responsible for this mess, it’s mine,” he adds, voice deepening to an angry growl that makes my tailbone tighten at the same time that something deep in my chest relaxes.
We’re on Route 16. Newton-Wellesley Hospital is on the right. José turns and I break Andrew’s gaze, unbuckling my seatbelt.
“Wait!” Andrew admonishes. He returns his attention to the phone. “Emergency entrance, or somewhere else?” he asks Gerald.
“We’ve got it covered, sir,” José tells him.
The phone signal disappears as the SUV drives into a parking garage, then weaves back out, finding a small door that opens, Gerald waving us in.
Mom, I scream inside me, imagining the scene.
“Is Spritzy okay?” I ask Gerald, the non sequitur bizarre but I don’t control my emotions at this point. Some primitive part of me has taken over.
“I put him in his cage before we left. Gave him food and water.”
I sag against Andrew in relief, his arm a life preserver as we follow Gerald.
“It’s quiet. They’ve moved her into a private room already to do a quick assessment and to keep her away from the media.”
We turn a corner to find a camera crew standing at the edge of Mom’s room, James talking to one of them.
My pulse slows to a deadly beat as I approach my future father-in-law in full combat mode.
“You brought a camera crew to the hospital? Into my mother’s room? After what you’ve done? What the hell, James? Give her a little privacy!”
Fully prepared for a frothing conflict, his calm response unhinges me.
“Which is why I brought a waiver for everyone to sign,” James informs us. His assistant, Becky, pulls out crisp pieces of paper. Contracts.
You have got to be kidding me.
Before I can bite his head off, before Andrew can intervene, someone else speaks to James.
“That’s not how hospitals work, sir,” says Mom’s nurse, a short Jamaican woman who has no problem wearing her contempt for James on her face. Her name tag says Louise. I breathe a sigh of relief, because it’s clear Louise has plenty of experience dealing with assholes.
And not just on bodies.
“We’re in negotiations for a reality television show,” James begins to explain as Becky makes the rounds, her feet shuffling in spiky high heels, face tight with the determined look of someone who can handle one task at a time and who requires complete concentration to do it.
“A reality television show about what?” Andrew asks, voice dropping low as he speaks, a menacing tone that feels protective. I move around him and enter Mom’s room, finding her in bed, eyes closed, machines telling me she’s fine. Resting.
“About me. Us. My boys. At first, we thought it would be about my venture capital work, but it turns out that’s been done to death. My people pitched a different story, one focused on a self-made billionaire who is handing the reins over to his sons. The working title is Titan of Industry.”
“I don’t care what you’re doing, sir, you can’t do it in here. All these cameras are a huge invasion of privacy.” Louise points toward the door.
“It’s not invasion if you sign the waivers.”
I wish I could patent Louise’s look.
“Just because you say so doesn’t make it true,” she responds, using the same voice I’ve heard Carol use with a tantrumming Tyler. “You need to get these cameras out of here. Now. Hospital security’s already been called. We’ve kicked nine photographers out already, but they keep coming back like cockroaches.”
“We need an exception to your policy.” James makes it clear he assumes he will be obeyed.
“I get the impression you assume exceptions should be made for you all the time, sir.”
“Now you’re beginning to understand.” James’ face breaks into a grin. “Becky, have the woman sign the paper.”
What is going on? He’s acting like nothing happened. Like he didn’t take my father’s past and turn it into the scandal of the day, feeding the story to the bloodthirsty media for ratings. Why else would he be here with a camera crew?
I’ve heard of ambulance chasers, but this takes the cake.
“I don’t sign anything the hospital lawyers don’t vet,” Louise adds, frowning at Mom’s heart monitor. “And all of this is bad for my patient. Hi, Pam. How you doing?” One eyebrow goes up, her slow, creeping look at me, James, and And
rew clear.
Get out if you drag the patient down.
“I’m fine,” Mom says weakly. “Just tired. So tired. What happened?”
“Gerald caught you before you hit the ground, Mom. Called 911. They brought you here by ambulance.” I reach for her hand. It’s so cold. She looks pained and tired, pale and old, her eyes sunken into their sockets, lips devoid of color. The bizarre conversation with James is distracting. I came here to confront him. I came here to comfort Mom.
Confront. Comfort. So similar, yet so different.
“Ambulance! What?” Mom’s heartbeat speeds up. “I was out for that long?”
“We’re running tests. Figuring it out,” Louise assures her.
James seems genuinely worried about Mom, but the camera crew cheapens the appearance of his concern. “All I heard was that you’re here, Pam. Ignore the cameramen – we’re filming a documentary about Anterdec and its founding. They’re following me everywhere I go for the next forty-eight hours.”
“Did they sign a waiver for Hell?” I ask.
“What?” He’s bewildered, attention bouncing between me and Mom, who accepts his hand on her shoulder with a small smile.
“Because that’s where you need to go, James. To hell.”
Hard men turn angry quickly.
“How dare you speak to me like that?” he roars at me. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Is it my fault a documentary crew is part of my legacy of success?”
The breathtaking narcissism and his failure to even mention the story about my father being all over the gossip sites makes me explode.
“Get the cameras out of here,” Andrew snaps.
“I will. We just need a little footage for the documentary.”
“No.”
James ignores me.
“Did you hear me? I said no.” My blood pressure must be as intense as an Instant Pot, and my temper – which I don’t allow to make an appearance, ever – is working its way through me like an old piece of buckshot that finally breaks free.
Some part of me turns a dial up a notch, enough to make an impulse flow through my nerves, traveling down my legs and arms, making it impossible to stay quiet.
Never your wedding to begin with.
“You fed the media all this information about me! You’re turning Mom and me into nothing but chum for the sharks!” I shout, Andrew moving between us just as James takes a deep breath, eyes beady with reactive anger.
Andrew’s hand flattens against James’ chest. His father looks down, shocked by the intimacy of his son’s fury. “You’ve gone too far, even for you.”
“You can’t tell me what to do, son.”
“I can, I will, and I am.” The gentle push Andrew gives on that last word is a threat, one punctuated by a body primed to do violence on my behalf. “I can’t believe you fed the media the information about Amanda’s father.”
A blank look passes over James’ face. “Amanda’s father?”
“Don’t play dumb, James. It doesn’t suit you,” I snap.
“I’m not playing dumb. I am incapable of playing dumb. I know nothing about your father, other than the fact that he’s incarcerated for a drunk-driving accident in some flyover state.”
Becky has been patiently waiting on the sidelines with her phone. A well-choreographed dip in front of James, her smartphone pointed at him, leads him to squint, then recoil back in horror.
“You think I did that?” His voice is hoarse with emotion. “I would never!” His eyes move rapidly, reading from the screen. Becky quietly hands him reading glasses, which he unfolds and slides on.
“You didn’t go to the press about Leo and his vehicular homicide convictions?” Andrew asks, accusation permeating his words.
“Good Lord, no. I’d imagine some enterprising gossip chaser did, though.” His mouth sets with anger. “I would never do such a thing.” His look is accusatory as he chides me with his eyes. How dare you? his expression screams.
A different kind of shame fills me.
“Why would I ever want bad publicity for Anterdec? Good grief! ‘Anterdec’ and ‘murderer’ in the same sentence?” he blusters.
And the shame recedes. Andrew’s grim look of determination mirrors mine. James has about three seconds left in the room.
“How can I trust that you’re telling the truth, Dad?”
“Because I don’t lie, son. I don’t need to.” He squints at Becky’s phone. “This is terrible publicity! Wedding antics are one thing, but this...”
“If you want to turn a wedding into a media event, then go and find someone to marry yourself! Don’t ruin my and Andrew’s wedding!” I tell James, inserting myself between him and Mom.
Stunned silence fills the room, the beep of medical machines turning into background noise, as if the heart monitor were the only thing keeping everyone alive.
“What?”
“I won’t tolerate it any more, Dad. Amanda’s right. Stop it. Now.”
James isn’t listening to him, though, eyebrows knit in a strange sort of scheming. “Find someone to marry.”
“Are you even listening to me, Dad?”
“No,” I whisper. “He’s not.”
Have you ever watched those nature shows on cable, the ones where some poor prey animal is injured, and the predator comes along and scoops it up, devours it, then leaves the carcass for scavenger animals to pick over?
Bet you thought when I started describing this that James was the predator.
If he keeps this up, I’m going to abandon his sorry ass in the alley behind the hospital, because he’s gone too far.
James waves some frightened teenager running his cellphone camera over to us.
“Who’s this?” Louise asks with rightful suspicion.
“My grandson,” James snaps. “Record this,” he hisses to the poor kid, who looks like he’s about to piss himself. The kid is probably one of the many college interns from Northeastern, a local university. Bet he never signed up for this when he imagined working for a Fortune 500 company.
“You don’t have grandchildren,” Andrew announces.
“I know I don’t look old enough, but I do.” He points to Mom. “Now, Pamela, I’d like to have a word.”
The room goes quiet again, the teen taping everything, as James slowly bends down on one knee, flashing a smile for the camera.
“Did you drop something?” Mom asks.
“Only my heart. It’s shattered in pieces on the floor, Pam. I need you to pick them up and make me whole.” James looks like a pale imitation of Laurence Olivier doing Hamlet. More like Robert Goulet singing at Sizzler.
Andrew is murderous, making his way over to the teen to grab the phone out of his hand.
“Pam, I’ve adored you from afar, our friendship one built on mutual distress over our children’s failings,” James begins, eyes cutting to the camera the entire time.
“What?” Mom gives me a pleading look. “No! No, I don’t think of Amanda as failing at all. You’re the one who complains constantly about your kids. You said you’d rather have Spritzy as a son than-- ”
“Be that as it may,” James bulldozes over Mom, “the time has come for us to move from friendship to more.”
“More?” Mom squeaks, heart rate skyrocketing.
“Hey, now,” Louise declares. “You all need to leave. My patient is -- ”
“A man in my position has many, many, many women to choose from,” James continues, plowing over everyone else’s wishes and needs.
I’d forgotten about Becky, James’ assistant, who stands in the corner holding a sheaf of papers, all askew, her lip quivering. It’s a poorly kept secret that Becky and James are having an affair.
Becky is a few years younger than me.
And married.
“I can’t marry you, James!” Mom gasps.
“Why not?” He turns to the camera and breaks the fourth wall, whispering, “It’s always so adorable when they’re demure.”
Mom closes h
er eyes, takes a deep breath in, and announces, “Because I’m not attracted to you.”
“CUT!” James bellows. “CAMERAS OFF!” He grabs the cell phone from the teenager and turns it off, pushing him out the door, shoving the cell in his breast pocket. The poor kid skitters away, leaving me with so many questions.
“We’ll just be out here in the hall,” Andrew says, thumbing toward the door, desperate to escape but stuck.
We? I’m not going anywhere. My mom is vulnerable and sick and she needs protection.
I need to fix this.
“What do you mean you’re not attracted to me, Pam? Everyone’s attracted to me! What’s not to be attracted to?” James holds his hands out like he’s Moses parting the Red Sea.
“You’re just not my type, James.” She pats his hand and gives him a weary smile. “Let’s just be friends.”
Andrew sucks in a breath of horror, the sound so raw and ragged I run to him. “Are you okay?” Once again, Mom and Andrew vie for my attention.
“Your mother,” he chokes out, “just friend-zoned my dad.”
“Huh?”
“The death of all male egos starts with Let’s Just Be Friends. Poor Dad.”
“Poor Dad? Poor Dad? Your father just created so much stress for us all that my mother landed in the hospital with a health crisis! James added even more pressure by proposing to her on live television, and your sympathy is with your father? ARE YOU CRAZY?”
I am screaming. Screaming at my future husband. Actual screams, with a loud voice and a head that feels like a bolt of red-hot iron heated to a thousand degrees. My throat turns raw and burning, as if I’m ejecting fury through my throat muscles, pushing it out of my body and aiming for a direct hit.
Andrew isn’t Andrew anymore. He is a man I don’t know, mouth open, eyes bulging, as he watches me being angry at him. Every object in the room takes on distinct edges, my own body curiously, infuriatingly, unraveling at the same time.
All the boundaries around the rest of the world sharpen while my own smear and shatter.
God, this feels good.
Powerful.
Like a long, deep stretch that brings blood where it needs to go, giving energy and strength. All these years I’ve spent fixing problems behind the scenes, finding ways to head off conflict, not making waves while I covertly make sure everything is just fine without setting anyone off and now, now I know the truth.