Prodigal Son

by Danielle Steel

  He mentioned it to his brother when he came out to go fishing with him that weekend. Michael wished him luck with it, but Peter noticed that he didn’t suggest that Peter look up his nephew. Clearly, the two were seriously estranged, and Peter didn’t say a word about it either.

  “When are you going?” Michael asked him as they divided up the day’s catch. They had a good time fishing together.

  “Monday,” Peter answered. And then Michael looked sad for a minute.

  “I know it’s selfish of me, but I hope you don’t get it. Not for a while anyway. I’m going to miss you when you leave here and go back to the real world.” They were catching up on so many years, and they were both enjoying having their twin back, and in a relationship they had never shared before. It was a blessing for them both.

  “Yeah, I know. Me too. The last few months have been great. But you know, when I do leave, I won’t stay away again. You won’t get rid of me now.”

  “I hope not,” Michael said, putting an arm around his brother’s shoulders. They both smelled like fish, and he started to laugh. “Maggie won’t let me back in the house.” They both laughed like two kids as Peter helped him put the bucket of fish in the car. He couldn’t remember being this happy in a long, long time. He stood there and waved with a slow smile as Michael drove away.

  Chapter 12

  Peter took a flight from Boston to London, and left his truck at the airport, as he had when he went to L.A. He didn’t expect to be gone long. He had taken a day to travel, another for the interview, and two days after that in case anything else came up or if they wanted a second meeting. He had sent his résumé to several other investment banks in London since he was going to be there anyway, but so far no one had written back or asked to see him. Jobs were in short supply in the foreign markets too.

  Peter watched a movie, ate dinner, and slept for two hours on the flight. A flight attendant woke him just as they were about to land. Peter looked at the familiar landmarks of London on their way to Heathrow, and wondered about his hotel. For years he had stayed at Claridge’s, but needing to save money, this time he was staying at a smaller, lesser-known hotel. All he really cared about now was the interview. He tried to imagine what it would be like to live in London, as he took a cab into town, and he was satisfied with his room at the hotel. All he had brought was carry-on luggage, with a suit for the interview, a pair of jeans, two tweed jackets, some shirts, two ties, a pair of loafers, and running shoes. He had no social plans. And he took a walk in Hyde Park that afternoon, enjoying the May sunshine, as he sat on a bench and watched people wander by.

  He had dinner alone in a pub that night, and thought about calling his nephew, but he didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t seen him since he was seven years old, and he was sure that Bill had grown up knowing that his father and uncle were at odds, not to mention the fact that finding a William McDowell in the London directory would probably not be easy. He could have called Maggie for the number, but he didn’t want to get her excited about his seeing Bill, and then disappoint her if he didn’t. He decided to try it on his own the next day.

  He had time on his hands in the morning, and he took the London phone book out of the drawer in the desk at the hotel. There were seven William McDowells, and he didn’t know the neighborhoods well enough to identify which one was most likely. So Peter decided to try them all. The first two didn’t answer, and on the third one an answering machine had an American voice. He knew it was his nephew immediately, because he sounded just like his father. There was no way he could be the wrong one. Peter left him a message saying that he was his uncle, hadn’t seen him in a long time, but he was in London for a few days on business and would enjoy seeing him, if his nephew was so inclined. And he said that if not, he’d understand. He left him the number of his BlackBerry and the name of his hotel. He wondered if he’d return the call, and then he forgot about it when he went to the interview that had brought him to London. He met the managing partner and several others, one of whom had worked at Lehman Brothers in New York. They talked about the sad demise of a great firm.

  It was after four o’clock when Peter left the building, and he thought the meetings had gone well. The managing partner had explained that they weren’t hiring at the moment, but they were hoping to do so in the near future, and they had started meeting people to that end. He said that Peter was at the top of their list, if he didn’t mind moving to London, and Peter said he was open to the possibility. They said they would pay for an apartment in London, which was appealing to Peter too. And after that, he went back to his hotel, took off his tie and suit coat, loosened the top button of his shirt, and lay down on the bed. The phone in the room rang almost as soon as he dozed off. The voice at the other end was the same one he had heard on the message machine that morning, and the man who asked for Peter McDowell sounded tense.

  “I just got your message,” he said in his father’s voice. “I was surprised that you called. I’ve never heard from you before.”

  “I’ve seen your parents several times recently,” Peter explained. “I’m living at Lake Wickaboag at the moment. I was with Whitman Broadbank when they folded, so I’m taking a break. I came over on business, and I thought I’d look you up.” There was a long pause at the other end.

  “How’s my mother?”

  “She seems all right,” Peter answered. “About the same. I didn’t tell her I was going to call,” he said honestly. “I didn’t know if I’d be able to reach you, and I didn’t want to get her hopes up, or promise something I couldn’t deliver. Would you like to get together for dinner tonight?”

  The young voice hesitated again. He wasn’t sure whether to trust Peter or not. He had been described as the enemy all his life, but Bill had always been curious about him, and he sounded sane and normal on the phone.

  “Yes, I would,” Bill finally responded. “I can pick you up at your hotel. I live nearby.”

  “There’s a pretty decent pub downstairs. I had dinner there last night. Good steaks, warm beer, all the usual fare.” They both laughed, and Peter could hear his nephew starting to relax. “I can meet you there. What time works for you?”

  They settled on six o’clock, since Bill said he had studying to do, and he had to make it an early night, and at the appointed hour, Peter was there, sitting at the bar, nursing a scotch and water, as a young man walked up to him who looked shockingly like Peter himself. It was like looking in a mirror. They were the same height, had the same build, the same thin frame. He appeared much more like Peter than his father, which Peter suddenly realized must have made it even harder for Michael when they didn’t get along. It must have been like battling with his twin brother all over again.

  “You seem surprised,” Bill said with a serious expression when he walked up to him. He had recognized Peter instantly, just as Peter had noticed him. The resemblance between them was remarkable. Neither Michael nor Maggie had mentioned it. Genes played funny tricks on people, especially with twins.

  “You’re all grown up, that’s all.” Bill slid onto a bar stool next to him and ordered a beer, and the two men looked each other over for a minute, while they tried to figure out what to talk about. Peter knew nothing about him except that he didn’t get along with his father. And he could hardly open with that. But his nephew did.

  “The only reason I agreed to see you was because I know you hate my father,” he said, looking intensely at his uncle. “So do I.” It was quite a start.

  “That’s a pretty tough statement. And I don’t hate your father. We had some serious disagreements with each other when we were younger, but your mother encouraged us to make peace a few months ago. Fifteen years of the cold war between us seemed long enough. At our age, you start to realize life is short.” Bill didn’t answer and just nodded, and then looked at Peter with narrow eyes.

  “Did my father ask you to see me?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Peter said honestly. “He has no idea I called. I wasn’t su
re if I would. It’s a little crazy calling someone you haven’t seen since they were seven and saying here I am, let’s get to know each other.”

  “Why did you call?” Bill had wondered about it all day.

  “Probably the same reason you came to meet me. Curiosity. We’re related. Your mother seemed sad when she said you won’t come home. I did pretty much the same thing at your age. It was probably the right thing for me to do at the time. I needed to get away, from Ware, my family, your father, our fights with each other. I went away to college and business school, which was a good thing. But there are some things I regret now.”

  “Like what?” His nephew was curious about him. They both were. And Peter was wondering about the nature of his disagreements with his father, and if he could help in any way. It would have been nice if someone had done that for them years before. He was enjoying his brother now, and would never have thought it possible before.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t spend more time with my mother before she died. You don’t get those opportunities back. But I was too angry to come home, except once,” Peter told him quietly.

  “That’s why they left everything to my father.”

  “Except the lake house,” Peter corrected. “That’s not what I regret. I found some of my mother’s journals recently, and I really made her sad. Michael was there with her, I wasn’t. He was a much better son than I was. I was too busy with my own life at the time, and too blinded by my fury at your father. I think your mother helped us both get over that. And maybe it was just time.” Peter sat there looking peaceful as he glanced at his nephew, and took a sip of his scotch. The maître d’ came to escort them to their table then, and the conversation was interrupted, but Bill took it up again as soon as they sat down.

  “I’ll go back and see her one of these days,” Bill said quietly. “I know she misses me. I just can’t stand what my father does to her. I can’t stop him, so I left.” He looked bleak as he said it, and Peter looked puzzled.

  “From what I can see, he takes very good care of her. He treats her like a porcelain doll. I don’t think she’d get better care anywhere in the world. She’s never really been healthy since her accident when she was in college.”

  “My father convinces her of that so he can manipulate and control her, and isolate her. He has her terrified she’s going to die any minute. A look, an expression, he takes her blood pressure, feeds her pills, keeps her loaded on tranquilizers and sleeping pills, and tells her she needs them. He makes her stay in bed until she’s so weak she can’t stand up. I used to argue with him about it, but it’s pointless. He’s a doctor, he’s convinced her he knows what’s best for her. It’s only what’s best for him. My father wants to control everyone around him. I think it’s why he married her, because as an invalid, he has so much more power over her than if she were healthy. He isolates her completely. She doesn’t see anyone but him and my sister, and he treats Lisa like his wife, while my mother lies in bed upstairs in their bedroom, and he assures her she’s too weak to come down.” Peter was startled by what his nephew was saying to him, and the spin he put on it. It had a ring of truth to it, and reminded Peter of their childhood. Michael had tried to control everyone and everything then too. Even if he had to lie to do it.

  “Are you suggesting she’s not as sick as he claims?” The thought had never crossed Peter’s mind. But the notion of Michael needing to manipulate people was familiar to him.

  “I’d be sick too, if someone kept me in bed for years, loaded on sleeping pills, telling me I was going to die any minute. I’ve watched him do it to her all my life. I’m sure there are some things wrong with her after her accident. Head injuries can be dicey. But from everything I know, and I’ve read a lot about it, she made a good recovery, and there’s no reason for her to be as sick as she seems to be. There’s no valid explanation for it, except that my father tells her she is. And he won’t let any other doctor near her. He even took care of her when Lisa and I were born. He put her on bed rest for eight months to ‘protect her.’ From what? She needs exercise for her stiff leg from the accident, fresh air, a life, people. He doesn’t want her around ‘germs.’ He doesn’t want her to be part of the human race. And this way, he runs her life. Isolation is a form of abuse. And you’re right, he does treat her like a doll—his doll. My mother is a prisoner, and she’s totally controlled by him. He manipulates her subtly with fear. It’s going to kill her, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. He does everything he can to convince her that she’s sick. It’s mind power. My mother is a helpless puppet, and he pulls the strings.”

  “I think there must be more to it than that,” Peter said sensibly. Bill’s theory sounded extreme to him. “It isn’t easy for him either, to have an invalid wife. No one would want that.” Even Michael at his worst.

  “He loves it. He keeps her that way so he can tell her anything he wants. She believes everything he says, and does whatever he tells her. I think she’s healthier than he acknowledges. The only diagnoses she ever gets are by him. Who knows if they’re true?”

  “I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t even know you, but I find that hard to believe. He is not Machiavellian. He’s a man with a sick wife.”

  “You don’t know my father. He’s a very disturbed person. He’s a pathological liar. Believe me, I’ve read a lot about it. I don’t think he has a conscience about anything. Why do you think he takes care of all those old people? Because they leave him money. Five, ten, twenty thousand dollars. He acts surprised every time. He’s not surprised. That’s why he spends all his time making house calls to them, because he’s waiting for them to leave him money, and he’s sucking up to them so they do. Who knows if he doesn’t kill them? I wouldn’t put it past him.” What Bill was saying was brutal, and Peter was totally shocked. Bill was painting a very frightening portrait of his mother’s life, and the brother Peter had once loathed, but even to him, Michael’s early lies and manipulations had seemed far more human scale. He was not the monster his son believed. And one thing Michael had never demonstrated was greed. He had very simple needs.

  “Those are tough claims to make, especially against a doctor. You’re accusing him of murdering his patients for financial gain,” Peter said soberly. He didn’t believe a word of it.

  “I think he’s capable of it.” Bill reminded Peter of himself in his youth. He had believed Michael capable of anything, without a conscience, but he had come to know him better now, and he sincerely believed he was a good man. He was not after old people for money. He had everything he needed or wanted. Michael had never wanted a grand lifestyle, and had criticized Peter for his, and had the utmost contempt for it. He was happy with his life in Ware.

  “I used to say things like that about him,” Peter said honestly after they both ordered shepherd’s pie and kidneys. It was the specialty of the restaurant. “I always thought he manipulated our parents to turn them against me, but the truth was that he was just easier to get along with than I was. I see that now. I was mad at someone or something all the time.” Bill seemed a little that way too.

  “Maybe you had good reason to be mad,” Bill said, sounding convinced.

  “I thought I did. I’m not so sure of that now. And I really think he’s totally devoted to your mother. I am fully convinced of that. He knew what he was taking on when he married her. He adores her. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.”

  “Except let her live like a healthy, normal human being. He talks to her about her ‘nerves’ all the time. He used to say it to us too. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her nerves that a normal life wouldn’t cure. My father won’t let that happen. All he wants is to keep her debilitated and control her.”

  “Possibly, but it can’t be much fun for him to have an invalid wife either,” Peter said reasonably. “Why would he want to do that to her?”

  “It’s the only way he can feel good about himself. He’s not as innocent as you believe. And now I think he’s tryin
g to kill her,” Bill said, with a muscle working in his jaw. Peter could see that he was serious, and it broke his heart for him. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than believing that your father was trying to kill your mother, but he could see that Bill was sincere. “I know that sounds crazy. But I really think he is. All my life I’ve watched him make her think she was weak so she has to depend on him. And now he wants her to think she’s dying, and one of these days she will.”

  “It takes more than manipulation and suggestion to get someone to die, Bill,” Peter said, speaking in a tone he would have used with his own sons.

  “Maybe he’s poisoning her. I used to think that too. It drove me crazy when I was home, just watching him with her. My father is a sociopath. I’m convinced of it, and you know it too.” Peter was silent for a long time as he listened. He had hated his brother for years, but he had never put a label to it like this one. “He has no conscience, no integrity, he does whatever he wants, and he wants to control people.”