GILT: All Fall Down

by Geneva Lee

  Her perfectly manicured nails are chewed down to the quick, and she twists her fingers nervously. She’s wearing a simple wrap dress instead of a tailored suit and although her hair is done, it hangs flatly over her shoulders. Somehow she’s become the before shot in a shampoo commercial.

  This is the woman I grew up with—harried, nervous. My dad’s gambling problems made it impossible for his business ventures to succeed. I’d watched her dreams slip away for years, until this was what she looked like. She’d turned herself around then and left behind anyone who might have dragged her back to this state. I’m not sure what it means that she’s here now.

  Josie tip-toes down the hall to greet her. “Hi Mrs. Von--”

  My mother holds up a hand to stop her. “Mrs…um, I mean Vivian is perfectly acceptable, Josie.”

  Perfectly acceptable. Well, it’s good to know that the rod that maintains her stiff formality is still in place.

  Josie glances at me worriedly. I’m not imagining that she looks like hell.

  “I’ll leave you two to talk.” With that she disappears.

  Mom and I stare at each other. Usually we meet on neutral ground. When she’s in Vegas, mom doesn’t come to dad’s house. We meet for brunches or afternoon tea. Occasionally, she convinces me to go shopping, and while the Deckard’s house isn’t home to either of us, it’s far from neutral.

  That means that in my mother’s eyes, it’s up to me to play the hostess.

  “Uh, why don’t we sit down and eat,” I finally manage. That’s about the time I realize she’s holding another Happy Meal. Apparently, mom also wants to pretend she’s a kid again. I guess adulting doesn’t get any easier. She catches me staring at the bag.

  “I brought one for Josie,” she explains.

  “I’ll give it to her,” I say, seizing the opportunity to run away for a minute.

  Josie holds up the sign of the cross when I enter her bedroom.

  “I brought you food.” I toss the happy meal on her bed like a sacrificial offering.

  “I’m still not bailing you out of this.”

  “Please do not make me talk to her alone,” I beg.

  “Un-uh.”

  “I’m revoking your friendship card,” I tell her.

  “I think I can find someone else to French braid my hair,” she teases.

  I shut the door a little too hard behind me.

  “Josie’s been battling the flu,” I say as a means to explain why she’s hiding out.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” mom says absently. “It’s probably best that we talk alone anyway.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask her.

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  That makes two of us. Later, I’m going to regret not eating these French fries, but right now I know I couldn’t force them down. Not when my mouth is so dry, it feels like someone shoved half a package of cotton balls in it.

  “You look well,” she says at the same time I blurt out, “You look like hell.”

  “Don’t say hell,” she admonishes me.

  “There’s no such thing as hell, mom.” I’ve been making the argument since I first dropped the h-bomb to her.

  “There is. It’s where sinners and unbaptized babies go.”

  “When did you go Roman Catholic on me?” I ask. She’s not Mèrely acting strangely. I think she may have actually lost it, full-blown One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest style.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot…” she begins.

  In my experience thinking rarely leads to being born again. Something bigger is happening here.

  “And?” I prompt her.

  “I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she says.

  “I guess it’s a good thing since you’ve been thinking,” I say slowly.

  “Do you always have to be so sarcastic? It’s really unbecoming.”

  “You have your ways of landing your billionaires. I have mine.”

  She winces at my joke, and I feel a twinge of panic in my stomach. Is this where she lowers the boom? Is she about to admit to me that Becca is Nathaniel West’s daughter? Is she about to admit to me that I am, too?

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” she says in a strangled voice. “You need to know. I shouldn’t have kept it from you for this long. I thought it was for the best, but…”

  Oh, shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  “It’s about your father.”

  Shit.

  This is not happening. Some part of me reverts back to being five years old and I have to resist the temptation to plug my ears so I can’t hear what she’s saying.

  “We’ve split up,” she says finally. I could swear I hear a record screech to a halt.

  “Yeah, years ago.” It’s official. My mom has had a psychotic break. She’s clearly forgotten the last eight years of her life, seeing as she can’t remember she’s remarried to a pedophiliac scumbag, but remarried none the less, and that I’m too old for Happy Meals.

  “Not your father,” she says with emphasis. “Your stepfather.”

  That’s a clarification that should have been part of the original thrust of the argument. “Good. He’s slime.”

  “Emma!” She says reproachfully, but her expression softens and my heart sinks. “I know what he did to you. I know what he did to Becca.”

  And just like that, a dam bursts inside of me. I haven’t cried to my mom since I ... I don’t think I ever cried to my mom. The idea that she found out and took action is baffling and reassuring at the same time. It’s a gesture I didn’t know I needed her to make. Now that she has, that only leaves one more thing. “He belongs in jail.”

  “Yes, but…”

  There’s always a but.

  “Out with it mom. What did he buy you with?” I shouldn’t expect more, but I suppose it’s not too far-fetched that a woman who would leave her husband for what he did to her daughter would also want his ass in prison. But how could he pay alimony from a cell? Plus, there’s the issue of how it will look to those on the outside. A divorce is hardly unprecedented in the land of filth and money, but scandal should be avoided when possible.

  “That’s unfair Emma. I had to think about both of us. About our financial well-being.”

  “And our reputations?” I add.

  “He’s forgoing the prenuptial agreement. I get half of everything.”

  “Do you get half of his guilt?” I spit back.

  Nothing could ever make me feel more disgusting than when Hans von Essen admitted to me that he’d molested my sister for years. He could claim it was mutual all he wanted but in the eyes of the law, and in mine, it was rape. Although the fact that my mother can overlook this comes pretty close to that sickening.

  “Emma, you have to think about the consequences, how it will affect all of our lives if this comes out.”

  “Yes, I wouldn’t want to destroy his career making crappy movies.”

  “This isn’t about his career,” she shoots back.

  “Then what is it about, Mom? Explain it to me.”

  No one has held Vivian von Essen accountable for far too long. It’s a little tragic that it has to be her daughter that finally does it.

  “I don’t want your sister to remembered that way.”

  “As a victim?” I ask her. “Because newsflash, she’s already a victim. She’s already remembered that way. Don’t try to make this about anything more than the fact that you want to save face.”

  “And so what if I do?” she admits haughtily. Fire sparks in her eyes, bringing some life back to her weary appearance.

  “What about the other girls, Mom?”

  “What other girls,” she asks in horror. She could always play the naïve ingénue on command.

  “The other girls he’s done this to,” I explain to her. “Do you think Becca was the only one? Do you think I was a fluke? How many girls have found themselves on his casting couch?”

  Tales
of movie producer’s ethics have always been the stuff of legends. There’s no doubt in my mind that Hans had all too eagerly embraced that perk of his power.

  “He told me there were no others,” she says too quickly. She’s not lying, but she knows that he is.

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  “Look,” she says, shifting tactics, “A trust fund has been set up in your name.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “There’s $10 million in it.”

  “I don’t care,” I repeat. “He can’t buy my silence.”

  “You’ll never have to worry about money.”

  One way or another I’m not going to have to worry about money without taking Hans’ dirty money. “I don’t need his money. After all, think of the other trust funds I might be privy to.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she says.

  “I know about Becca. I know why Dad settled with Nathaniel West all those years ago.” I take a deep breath and ask the one question I’m not sure I want an answer to. “What I don’t know is whether or not Nathaniel West is my father?”

  It takes a second for my query to process through the shock frozen over her classic features.

  “No, he’s not,” she tells me, but the pit in my stomach doesn’t close.

  How am I supposed to trust her when her idea of nurture has been telling me lies? Even now, she prefers the trussed-up lie to the ugly truth. Could she even admit it to me if Nathaniel was my father? “I think you should go.”

  “Emma, I need to know that you aren’t going to tell anyone.”

  “I’m not,” I interrupt her. I’m fighting too many battles right now to take on one more, especially one that should be hers.

  “Thank you,” she begins, but I stop her.

  “You should be the one talking to the authorities. To the media. To everyone.” I cross the room and dig a business card out of my purse, then I wait by the door until she gets the memo. She pauses at the threshold and I hand her the card.

  “Agent Mackey, “she reads, shaking her head. “Oh, Emma.”

  “You’ll just love her,” I promise. “Isn’t it convenient I know an FBI agent?”

  Chapter Five

  “I think you should talk to him,” Josie announces the next day.

  “Who?” I ask in confusion. “Maddox?”

  Even Marion had begun to question having a safety detail parked outside her house at all hours. Personally, I’d taken to grabbing him Starbucks when I went out on errands. Considering Maddox doesn’t get involved unless he’s needed—and he hasn’t been—he’s a bit more like having a faithful guard dog. Plus, I’ve discovered, his bark is worse than his bite. He might look like a pit-bull but secretly he has the heart of an English bulldog. A little dumb and very lovable.

  “Not Maddox. Jameson.”

  “Oh, him.” Josie is probably right. I should talk to him. It’s the rational thing to do, which is why I’m not doing it. Not a single aspect of my life falls into rational or logical at the moment. Why should he?

  “Your mom told you that Nathaniel isn’t your father.”

  “And you believe her?” I ask. “Because everything she says is so credible.

  “I don’t really have a reason not to believe her. She admitted that Becca was Nathaniel’s.”

  “Here’s a better question: does she even know who my dad is?” It seems my mom had spent the late 90’s bed hopping. “My dad could be anyone.”

  “Your dad is your dad,” Josie corrects me. “My dad could be anyone.”

  “Sorry, Jos. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” According to Marion, Josie’s dad was a visiting businessman who gave her a bogus name and a bogus occupation. When she tried to track him down she discovered that the company he worked for didn’t exist. “You know, I’ve been thinking your mom probably could’ve paid someone at the hotel to give her the registration information on the sly.”

  Josie shakes her head quickly. “Don’t ever suggest that to her,” she advises me. “Mom’s feelings on it are pretty strong. She says that if he wanted her he wouldn’t have lied to her in the first place, and…”

  Neither of us have to finish that thought out loud. If he hadn’t wanted Marion, he definitely didn’t want Josie. Given the generally disappointing men I’d encountered in my life I’d say the Deckard women were both better off.

  “Don’t let your mom ruin what you have with Jameson,” Josie interrupts my thoughts, bringing me back to the topic--one that I’d been trying to avoid.

  “The fact that he might be my brother is what might ruin things with Jameson.” I practically spell it out for her.

  “Well, then he deserves to know too.”

  “Josie, we didn’t do it, but we did other stuff,” I say, striving to maintain some delicacy, “and you know, I just ... I don’t want him to be thinking about ...”

  “You don’t want to wreck it?” she guesses.

  “What if he starts thinking about the fact that I might be his sister and then if I’m not, he can’t look at me.”

  “Psychologists don’t analyze things this much, Em.”

  “You’re probably right.” I’d grant her that but it doesn’t mean I’m going to call him.

  “Um, are we expecting company?” Josie asks, pausing the TV so that we can both hear the car pulling into her driveway. We wait for a minute, half expecting it to turn around but it doesn’t.

  “Maybe it’s Maddox. Probably wants to go on a caffeine run.” I hop up and go to the window, but it’s not Maddox’s familiar black sedan parked out front. It’s a tiny, gold convertible. The kind of ostentatious car that only one person I know could pull off driving.

  “If I were you I’d hide,” I tell Josie. “The Wicked Bitch of the West has come to call.”

  “Life was so much simpler six months ago,” Josie says with a sigh, scrambling off the couch to seek sanctuary in her room.

  “And yet you’re the one who wants me to call Jameson.”

  “If you call him maybe my house won’t be Grand Central Station,” she yells before she shuts the door.

  “Hormones much?” I say to the now empty living room.

  I save Monroe the humiliation of having to come inside a 2-bedroom house and meet her outside. Judging from the fact that she hasn’t gotten out of the car she already views this as a self-service errand. Her worst half, Sabine, glowers at me from the passenger seat.

  “I see you’re back from LA,” I say, conversationally. Sabine doesn’t reply.

  She doesn’t talk. She just exists.

  Monroe pushes her Louis Vuitton sunglasses to the tip of her nose and looks me up and down. “You’re alive.”

  “Thanks for the info.” Whatever tenuous truce that Monroe and I had managed earlier this summer is fraying at both ends. She’s never liked me, and I have the kind of dirt that could destroy her. She’s not ready to let the cat out of the bag on her escort empire. What she doesn’t know, though, is what I found out about who killed Nathaniel West. The information Mackey gave me points suspicion for the murder at Nathaniel’s own daughter.

  Since I know it wasn’t me, she’s the next possible suspect. The trouble is that the evidence doesn’t match up. If Monroe really has been passing her free time working as an escort for an exclusive Las Vegas agency, then it doesn’t seem likely that she had any remnants of virginity to shed on a towel after the murder. But this is a city based on illusion. One where you can win big, play with magic, and live without consequence. Have I ever seen the real Monroe West?

  “Paging Emma Southerly,” Monroe says. “My brother requests that you turn your cell phone on.”

  “My cell phone is on,” I tell her dryly.

  “Then unblock him.” She smacks her steering wheel so hard that the horn honks.

  “I don’t see why it matters to you. I’d think you’d be glad to be rid of me.”

  “I like to keep my frenemies close,” she informs me. “Plus he’s impossible to li
ve with. He’s either moping or throwing shit. There is literally no in-between. He broke mom’s Baccarat vase yesterday. She’s going to have him arrested. Call him.”

  She flicks a platinum blonde strand of hair over her shoulder.

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell her.

  “He doesn’t like you staying here,” she continues, “and I can see why.”

  “Not enough room for the servants?”

  Monroe’s eyes narrow into slits. “He requests that you stay at one of our other residences.”

  “Our?” I repeat. When did I get inducted into the West hall of infamy? “I’ll think about it, sis.”

  “Whatever. I’m just the messenger.” Apparently, this is the new form of passing notes in class. Send your bitchy sister to handle the situation.

  “It must’ve taken a lot for you to lower yourself to that position.” I lean down on the door and drop my voice to a whisper. “Then again, you know all about lowering yourself into positions, don’t you?”

  “Come home,” she says, with a wicked smile that displays two rows of sparkling white teeth, “so I can teach you to fight like a West. You need practice.”

  She throws the car into reverse, barely giving me enough time to jump back before she peels out of the driveway, leaving nothing but the glimmer of a Mercedes logo in her wake.

  * * *

  I go to the only place where I know I’ll never be judged. The graveyard is silent. The grounds-keeper must have been through recently, because the stones are swept free of dead grass clippings, artificial flowers are tucked neatly into their urns, and the whole place feels more like a museum of the dead than a cemetery. I sit at the end of Becca’s grave and stare at her stone. Even now, those dates don’t make sense to me.

  “It doesn’t feel real,” I say to the wind. “How can I be 18? How can I be older than you?”

  The brutality of that fact is one reason why I’m glad my birthday has been overshadowed by other events this year. Josie is busy weighing her options. Mom is focused on the divorce proceedings. On the off chance that Jameson remembers, his call can’t get through to me anyway.