by A. H. Kim
The first time I broke down in front of Charlotte, I told her about the snowy night of my tenth birthday, seeing Mother sprawled naked on the bed while Papa stood by.
“Oh my God, this is like a Psych 101 exam,” she laughs. I’ve always loved her throaty, no-holds-barred laugh. “How many Freudian issues can you spot? Masturbating mother equals Madonna/Whore complex. Sexy father equals Oedipal—or in your case Electra—complex.”
“He’s not my father,” I protest for the umpteenth time.
“Yeah, technically he wasn’t your father, but c’mon, who’s kidding who? He made you call him Papa. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah—the pipe’s a classic phallic symbol but also an oral fixation. Was it Magritte—or maybe it was Freud—who said, ‘Sometimes a pipe’s just a pipe’?
“Let’s see, what else? The naughty girl peeking through the door, what could she stand for? Transitioning from the latency stage to the genital, maybe?”
I feel a flush of shame mixed with a wave of relief.
The second time I broke down in front of Charlotte, I told her about the night after Mother’s funeral.
“Father was passed out on the living room couch, and Martin and Eva were taking turns checking on his breathing to make sure we didn’t lose two parents in one week. I was sitting alone in my bedroom when Papa walked in.
“I remember he was wearing his nicest black suit, the one with the subtle herringbone texture. He came in and sat next to me on my bed. I still remember the delicious smell of his cologne—an expensive mixture of sandalwood and citrus.
“We stared out my bedroom window at the streetlights on Nebraska Avenue. I loved the way they went on automatically, as if Tinker Bell was flying from light to light and touching them with her magic wand.
“As I sat there, Papa told me about the things he loved about Mother—the subtle spray of freckles on the bridge of her nose, the tiny golden sparkles in her crystal-blue eyes, the way her soft pink lips turned up in the corners.
“And then I realized he wasn’t just talking about Mother. He was talking about me. Before I knew what was happening, he leaned in to give me a kiss.”
“How old were you?” Charlotte asks.
“Fourteen.”
I expect Charlotte to turn away. Instead, she holds me all night.
The third time I broke down, I confessed my relationship with Papa didn’t end with that kiss.
“Martin went back to Dartmouth to start his senior year, so I didn’t have him to talk to. Eva channeled all her grief into school and trying to get into a good college, meanwhile eating everything we had in the house and throwing up afterward. Father drank himself into oblivion. And then there was Papa, who seemed like the only person who understood what I was going through.
“I was fourteen, and my girlfriends were losing their virginities left and right, so it didn’t feel like a big deal. But instead of getting screwed by some hormonal boy in his stained twin-size bed, I was made love to by a grown man on imported Frette bedsheets.”
“A grown man who made you call him Papa,” Charlotte interjects.
Okay, yeah, I guess that part was kind of fucked up.
The fourth time, I had just gotten a call from the hospital informing me Father was dead.
“After Mother died, Father had no one to keep his drinking in check. You can do a lot of things and still be a drunk, but you can’t be a driver. Fortunately, Papa was reassigned to work at the UN, so we moved to New York, and Father was given a new job as the doorman at our co-op apartment. A job he kept until the day he died.”
“When did it end with the Ambassador?” Charlotte asks.
She can’t bring herself to call him Papa. “Too creepy,” she says.
“I was still adjusting to life in New York and my new friends at Brearley. Papa and I were hanging out in bed when Martin decided to visit. No advance warning or anything. When Martin saw us together, he went ballistic. I swear, he beat Papa to within an inch of his life. Papa never forgave him, and Martin’s had to make it on his own ever since.
“After that night, Papa never slept with me again. I don’t know if Papa was scared of Martin or maybe he just realized it was wrong. Anyway, even after our relationship ended, Papa continued to take care of me. He paid for my trip to Europe, my college tuition, even gave me an allowance. And then the day after I graduated from Barnard, I found him dead on the floor of our Park Avenue apartment. Papa had killed himself.”
That time, Charlotte not only held me all night, she called in sick the next day.
Charlotte has always been super understanding about my fucked-up life, but there’s one thing that I never told her.
Going back to that fateful night in my parents’ bedroom, Charlotte always assumed that I identify with Mother, that I saw myself in her, the object of another person’s desire. That makes sense, right? I mean, why else would I place myself literally in my mother’s position after she died?
The reality, and the thing that I haven’t told anyone, not even Charlotte, is this: seeing Mother’s naked body, her full breasts and spread legs, was the first time I felt sexually aroused. It was the first time I understood the connection between sex and power. And it was the first time I wanted to be in power.
Yes, I wanted to be her, but I also wanted to be him.
beth
thirty-six
It’s the last day of the Lindstrom family reunion, and I’m trying to get as drunk as I can. I don’t want to think about what lies ahead. Besides, starting tomorrow, I’ve got nearly ten years to go cold turkey.
“I can’t believe you think it’s Eva,” Sam says.
He pours a healthy glug of Grey Goose into the mixing glass and shakes up another batch of dirty martinis.
“I mean, she’s your own sister. Sisters don’t betray one another.”
Sweet, unsuspecting Sam.
“What about Martin?” Sam pours the faintly green liquid into a chilled martini glass and drops in two jumbo olives, just the way I like it. He hands me the drink, and I take a sip.
Damn, he’s a good bartender.
“I know he’s desperate for cash these days,” he continues. “Ever since Chaz got diagnosed with cancer, he hasn’t been able to bring in any new clients. EMC is on the verge of bankruptcy. And Karen keeps spending money like there’s no tomorrow.”
“There’s no way Martin’s the one,” I say. I scoop out the olives with my index finger and pop them into my mouth. I bite down and savor the brine.
“He would never do that to me,” I say with conviction. As if conviction in my tone could cast away my lingering doubts.
“No, I’m sure it’s Eva. She’s hated me ever since I slept with her first boyfriend. And the three boyfriends after that. Anyway, Eva’s the only one I can think of beside you and me who knew about the photos.”
“Well, there’s no way to know for sure,” Sam says. “It’s not like Eva’s going to have a come to Jesus moment and confess.”
I throw back the rest of the dirty martini and hold my glass out to Sam for a refill. He obediently pours me another.
The alcohol lubricates my imagination, and my Spidey senses are tingling.
How would I feel if I had turned in my own sister to the federal authorities, sending her to prison for nearly ten years? Even if I hated her, wouldn’t I feel just the slightest bit of guilt, if not for my sister, then at least for my two young nieces who’ll be left without a mother?
Wouldn’t there be a part of me that wanted to confess?
“I know what we’ll do,” I say.
I look at Sam with a mixture of love and pity, knowing he’ll do whatever I say.
Sam returns my gaze expectantly.
“You need to fuck the truth out of her.”
I sit and wait in my bedroom for Sam. The pasta puttanesca is sitting in my stomach like a brick.
It was a stupid choice for a last meal. There’s going to be lots of pasta in prison. What I really should have ordered is sushi.
I look over at the clock on my nightstand. It’s been about an hour since I left Sam and Eva in the great room alone together. I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs a while ago, so knowing Sam, it shouldn’t be much longer.
To kill time, I walk over to the bookshelves and look at the Shutterfly photo albums I’ve amassed over the years. My eyes are drawn to the album I created for Eva’s fortieth birthday.
I bring the album back to my bed and feel a strange lump in my throat as I pore over the photos of Eva and me over the years. The ones from Sweden, when we were both very young, show the two of us in matching little-girl outfits that Mother had sewn herself. We are smiling broadly, without a trace of artifice, thrilled to be together, two peas in a pod.
Things change when we move to the US—not immediately, but very clearly. We stop wearing matching outfits. Eva embraces the Laura Ashley look, while I’m more of a Calvin Klein jeans type. My parents start calling Eva “the smart one,” and me “the pretty one,” as if determining our destinies. I suppose in some ways they did.
There aren’t many photos from our teen years. After Mother died, there was no one to document our lives. In the few photos of those sad years, Eva and I stand stiff and apart, forcing smiles for the camera. Eva’s college-aged face gazes mournfully at me, her eyes distorted by her thick eyeglasses, the blurry images of forgotten freshman roommates in the background.
I reach for the bottles on my nightstand, which have become a fixture in my life ever since I learned I was headed to prison. I take a swig from the half-empty Evian bottle to choke down the pills. I’m startled when Sam walks into my room.
“Mission accomplished?” I ask.
“God, Beth, you can be so cold sometimes,” he says.
“Don’t get soft on me now, Sam.”
“Yeah, mission accomplished,” he says, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“And?”
Sam takes a moment to observe the scene. I can’t tell if he’s worried by the prescription bottles on my nightstand or if he wants to take a couple himself, like a social smoker bumming a cigarette off a stranger.
“I did everything you said,” Sam says. “Told her how lonely I’ve been ever since Lise left. How you spend all your time with Charlotte. How it’s too bad she’s happily married to Alex because I’ve always found her so attractive.”
“And?”
Sam looks pained.
“Sam, what happened?”
“Like you said, Eva fell for it. She practically threw herself at me.”
“And then what? What did she say?”
“You know, the same stuff she always says when she’s shit-faced. That she should have been a better sister and should have been there to protect you. From the Ambassador. And from yourself.”
“Anything else?”
“Nah, she just pulled on her clothes and ran back to her room.”
“You were that good, huh?”
Sam looks hurt.
“Geez, I was kidding,” I say.
“Any other brilliant ideas?” Sam asks.
“Nah, that’s enough for now. You did good. Now get some sleep.”
Damn, that didn’t turn out the way I thought.
A part of me is disappointed that Eva didn’t confess, but another part—a tiny ember deep inside of me—is relieved. Maybe she didn’t betray me after all.
I give Sam a consolation kiss and send him to bed. He doesn’t even beg for sex the way he usually does. Ever since that nymphomaniac Lise left, Sam’s been hornier than ever. I can thank Eva for giving me the gift of a night off.
I look around my beloved bedroom. The walls painted the perfect shade of soft blue; it took me forever to decide on Benjamin Moore Forget Me Not. The one-of-a-kind crystal lamp that Charlotte and I found tucked in the corner of that antiques store in New Hope, Pennsylvania. The astonishing collection of seashells that Claire picked up on Sanibel Island that spring I was huge and pregnant with Ally.
It took me so long to create this space. Will it still be here when I get out of Alderson? As the saying goes, you can’t take it with you.
Feeling justifiably sorry for myself, I stride to the other side of my bedroom, pull down the rest of the photo books and pile them up on my bed.
I linger over the photos of the girls as they went from mouse-like infants to plump and juicy toddlers to bright-eyed little girls. I always thought Claire took after Sam’s Korean side, but now I see just how much she looks like Hannah. Her Cupid’s bow lips. Her shiny black hair. The way her cheeks glow when she’s excited.
My brain starts to get fuzzy as the Ativan and Ambien kick in.
* * *
It’s the next morning, the day I’m supposed to self-surrender at Alderson. I’m in the steam shower with the water turned up to the hottest setting. The heat feels good against my skin. I turn the color of a medium rare Kobe steak, and my mind turns back to the last time Lise stayed at Le Refuge.
It was a few days before Martin and Eva were due to arrive with their families for the annual Lindstrom family reunion. Lise, Hannah and I take the girls to the U-Pick berry farm in the morning. Hannah wants to make individual strawberry shortcakes for dessert, and Claire and Ally are excited to explore the open fields.
Lise forgets to put on sunscreen, and she comes back from the day trip as red as a lobster. Hannah researches home remedies for sunburns on the internet and makes a concoction of iced green tea, fresh mint leaves and aloe.
Lise sits on the shady veranda, her chest, arms and legs covered in white gauze strips soaked in the soothing solution. Claire and Ally are glued to Lise’s side, fascinated by the sight of their former nanny and favorite playmate sitting there like a Zen-scented mummy.
“Does it hurt?” Hannah asks.
“A little,” Lise replies. “This is helping,” she says, indicating the gauze. “And this, too,” she adds, taking a long sip of her mojito.
“I remember when you got a sunburn on Maui,” Claire says.
“Wow, Claire, you remember that?” Lise asks. “You were just a tiny girl when that happened.”
“How tiny?” Claire responds. “Tiny like Ally?”
Ally looks up from the veranda floor. She’s naked except for her diaper. Her pale brown hair is still just growing in and stands up in a shock, like a mini Billy Idol.
“Claire, come upstairs with Mommy,” I say, “and we can get the photo album I made about that vacation.” The whole point of making those damn photo albums is to preserve—or maybe even create—happy memories for the girls. Thankfully, Lise is a whiz at doing shit like that.
“Uppy,” Ally says, raising her dimpled arms. Of course, she wants to join us. She can’t stand to be separated from Claire. I hoist her to my right hip and take Claire’s hand with my left hand.
“I want to be carried, too,” Claire pleads.
“Claire, your mommy has her hands full with Ally. Why don’t you let me carry you?” Hannah suggests.
Claire starts crying, “No, I want to go with Mommy.” She squeezes her eyes shut, as if by blocking the sight of Auntie Hannah, she can make her disappear.
I don’t blame Claire. We only see Hannah once or twice a year. She’s essentially a stranger to the girls.
“Don’t worry about it, Hannah,” I say. “I can handle both girls. You stay here. It looks like Lise needs a change of gauze anyway.”
I schlep the two girls up to my room, where I scan the shelf for the Maui vacation photo album. As much as I love my housekeeper, Maria, she always puts the albums on the shelves willy-nilly, so it takes me forever to locate anything. But on that particular day, I am pleasantly surprised: all the photo albums are in perfect chronological order.
A coup
le weeks later, Lise quits her job as my personal assistant and disappears from our lives. Without notice. Without explanation. And without apology.
At least she learned one thing from me.
A few months after that, the whistle-blower suit lands on the God Hälsa doorstep with a heavy thud, and my world implodes.
My mind returns from that long-ago day to today—my last day of freedom before going to prison. I’ve been standing in the shower so long that the air is thick with steam. I can’t see a thing. I won’t be getting many hot showers in Alderson, I fear.
I emerge from the steam shower, and the air clears. I grab a towel for my hair. When I open the door to my bedroom, I discover Hannah waiting there, startled as a fawn, my bed made and the room tidied up. And then I notice all of the Shutterfly photo albums have been returned to the shelf.
My brain starts to itch. The pieces slowly come together. I reach for Charlotte’s jar of Guerlain body crème sitting on the makeup table, and I open the golden lid. I stand there, stark naked, and apply the emollient all over myself, knowing that Hannah will be so uncomfortable that she’ll leave me alone.
And when she does, I’ll go to the shelf and confirm what I already suspect.
hannah
thirty-seven
I’ve always been a planner. When I was a young girl, I used to plan my daily outfits, my homework study schedule, even what I’d pack for school lunch. My life was a well-oiled clock.
When Sam came along, I did my best to plan for him as well, but things didn’t always work out as planned with him. Sam was constantly screwing up. Playing tackle football during recess and staining his brand-new button-down shirt on class photo day. Losing his take-home algebra test and forcing me to walk across town to his best friend’s house to make a copy. Sneaking off campus to buy pizza for lunch and wasting the perfectly good ham and cheese sandwich I packed for him.
I can’t blame Sam for the biggest mistake of my life, however. I have to take full responsibility for that. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I had done my legal research. I thought I knew how to fix Sam’s life.