Damaged In-Law (5 page)

“Right. Thank you ladies. Your support means so much,” Jack
sighs, surprising me by taking my hand in his. I stare up at him as he pulls me
to my feet and starts leading me up the marble steps, away from his ardent
admirers. The second the women are out of earshot, he lets out a low groan.
“Good Christ. Can
’
t get away from it anywhere. I
’
m surprised they didn
’
t start asking for
autographs.”

“So, are you going to fill me in on the status of your
movie, or I am going to have to read about it online, like I do with every
other aspect of your life?” I ask Jack, hurrying along as he leads me down the
second story hallway. Where he
’
s taking me, I have no
idea. But to be honest, I
’
m pretty OK with that.

“You make a habit of reading up on my life, Cal?” he asks,
grins smugly.

“No, I mean,
ugh
,” I exclaim, flustered, “Just give
me the scoop, would you?”

“Here we are,” he says in response, leading me through a
very familiar space. Or at least, what
was
a very familiar space. My
childhood bedroom.

These days, my room of old is filled with an elliptical and
a free weight set that appear to be untouched. A home gym. Typical. Jack
brushes past the workout equipment and out onto the balcony. I follow him,
speechless. Does he have the same memory of this place as I do? Is he having
the same trippy deja vu about the night of my sweet sixteen party, when he very
nearly kissed me for the first time? Standing here with him now, I feel that
old insane rush of adolescent lust, coupled with very adult knowledge of what I
’
d actually like to do with Jack, now that I know a thing or two
about what can happen between a man and a woman.

He and Avery were engaged
, my conscience reminds me,
what
the hell are you thinking?

“Some good times up here,” Jackson says, derailing my guilty
train of thought.

“Yep,” I reply lamely, looking out over the same old
grounds. Not a thing has changed about my parents
’
house.
It
’
s like a museum. Or a crypt.

“You know this is how Avery used to sneak out, right?” Jack
goes on.

“Over the railing, down the trellis, I know the drill,” I
reply, “She wasn
’
t the only one sneaking out, you know. I
just didn
’
t end up at the same parties as you two.”

“Except for that one time,” Jack corrects me, “What was it,
your sixteenth birthday party or something?”

“You remember?” I reply, secretly thrilled that he does.
Maybe that almost-kiss meant more to him than I thought. Just knowing that he
recalls it at all is satisfaction enough. Certainly, now is not the time to
start expecting the world from Jackson Cole.

“I remember it perfectly,” he says pointedly, his eyes fixed
to my face.

“Yeah?” I ask, trying not to shiver—with delight
and
cold. I seem to have forgotten my jacket once again.

“Yeah...” he says, slowly. “Actually. I don
’
t
want to embarrass you, but...Isn
’
t that the same dress you
were wearing at that party ten years ago?”

I glance down at the black dress, then back up at Jack. In
unison, we burst out into uproarious peals of laughter, clutching onto the
railing as our bellies start to ache. It
’
s positively
ridiculous, trying to keep up the act that anything about this night, this
conversation, or
any
of what
’
s going on here is
normal. A good laugh is exactly what we
’
ve both been
needing, I think.

“Same old Callie, huh?” Jack says warmly, wrapping an arm
around my shoulders there at the railing.

“Or something like that,” I reply, fitting myself into his
muscular side.
A bit more experienced
, I want to add, but bite my
tongue. This is neither the time nor the place for flirtation, I remind myself
for the millionth time.

“Listen,” Jack goes on, looking down at me with sudden
earnestness. “I want to fill you in on...well, everything. Everything that
’
s happening with my work, and my life. Everything that was
happening with Avery before she... But I can
’
t do it here.
If I spend one more minute cooped up in one of these Westchester mausoleums, I
’
m gonna snap. Can we meet somewhere else?”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Uh. Sure, Jack. Where?”

“There
’
s a bar back at my hotel in the
city,” he tells me. “Will you come and have a drink with me? Tomorrow?”

I blink up at him in the half-light, mesmerized by his face being
so close to mine. “Are you asking me out...at my sister
’s
funeral?
” I ask him slowly.

He rolls his eyes, tugging me playfully against his side. “I
mean, I wouldn
’
t put it that way, Cal.”

“Is there another way to put it?” I shoot back, suddenly
tired of his hell-if-I-care attitude. “Sorry, but it feels a little off. You
know? We haven
’
t seen each other for years. You were part
of Avery
’
s life. Not mine.”

“Will you meet me or not?” he asks impatiently, just as
tired of my attitude as I am of his.

“
I...I don’
t...” I stammer. Why is it
so hard to say no to this man?

“Please, Callie,” he says, all of the arrogance in his
expression falling away. “I really need to see you again.”

“I
’
ll...have to think about it. I
guess,” I allow, confused by all the odd turns this conversation has taken. “It
just feels a little weird, Jack. I hardly even know you anymore.”

“Yes you do,” he says firmly, his blue eyes locked hard onto
mine. “You always have. Sleep on it, alright? I gotta get out of here.”

Jack turns on his heel and takes a step toward the door.

“By the way,” he adds, pausing at the threshold, “Happy
belated birthday, Callie.”

I stare after him as he makes his exit, my mouth hanging
open. At least one thing about that man hasn
’
t changed a bit
since we were sixteen-year-olds making jokes about Shakespeare and stealing
nips of vodka: I never, ever know what to expect from him next.

“And where did
you
disappear to?” my mother asks, as
I descend the marble stairs once more. The reception guests have all dispersed,
leaving me alone with my parents in this expansive mansion. The clicking of my
heels on the steps echoes eerily around the empty halls.

“Just getting a bit of air,” I reply, my voice fraying at
the edges.

Sylvia waits for me at the foot of the stairs, a
nearly-drained martini glass clutched in her skeletal hand. The strain of this
ordeal is finally starting to show on her implacable face, but I know we
’
ll never say a word about it. I stop in front of my mom,
returning her stony gaze. Of all the surreal things that have happened these
past couple of days, the most baffling by far has been realizing that my own
mother is now a total stranger to me.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she snaps, frowning.
“Are you on drugs or something, Calista?”

“
No Mom,
” I sigh, “Just lost in my own
thoughts, I guess.”

“Quite,” she replies, turning and walking away from me
across the foyer.

I trail after her into the living room and find my father
sitting on the antique sofa, reading over the day
’
s paper,
a replenished cocktail at his side. My body goes stock still as my mother
settles down across from him, rifling through her day planner. Looking at the
two of them now, you
’
d think this was just an ordinary
night in the Benson Home. They sit in silence, occupied with their own tasks,
as if their daughter
’
s memorial service hadn
’
t
just concluded an hour ago. As if their only remaining child who they haven
’
t seen in years isn
’
t standing before them
now, utterly at a loss.

“Oh! You
’
re still here,
”
my father remarks, glancing up at me over his reading glasses.

“Yes, Dad,” I reply, acidic anger roiling in my core, “I
’
m still here.
”

“I thought you
’
d gone back to the
commune
already,” he drawls, taking a catty swipe at my new
town.

“Not just yet,” I shoot back, crossing my arms tightly
across my chest, “I had to pocket some of your silverware first. Gotta make
rent somehow, am I right?”

My parents look up at me sharply. Of course, the mere
mention of their valuables being stolen gets their attention.

‘“Is that your ironic, roundabout way of asking for money?”
my mother asks primly. “We
’
d prefer you just come out with
it and—”

“I
’
m not asking you for money,” I cut
her off. “I haven
’
t once asked you for money. Not from the
moment I left this place. It
’
s something I
’
ve
always been proud of, you
know
that.”

“We
’
re well aware that your pride
trumps your common sense,” my father sighs.

“If you don
’
t need money, then what is
it you want?” my mother asks testily.

“What I want, Mother,” I reply, my words gushing out on a
swell of white hot ire, “Is to know what the hell you were thinking, inviting
Daryl Hellman to Avery
’s
memorial service
.
”
I can almost hear the air being sucked out of the room as my parents stare at
me, unmoving. “You
know
that what he did fucked Avery up for the rest of
her—”

“We are not having this conversation again,” my father says,
his voice hard.

“No, you
’
re right,” I shoot back, “We
can
’
t have this conversation ‘again
’
because
we
’
ve never had in the first place! You completely
dismissed us every time we tried to tell you what he
’
d
done. You told us we were lying, that we just wanted attention. You were more
concerned with keeping up appearances at the country club than standing up to
your daughters
’
abuser. And even now that Avery is gone,
you let that monster stroll into her memorial service as if nothing—”

“I will not be attacked in my own home!” my father roars,
rising to his feet.

“But it was OK for your daughters to be?” I cry out, my
hands balled into angry fists. “That
’s quite enough,
” my
mother says, placing herself between me and my father. “Calista, you cannot
speak to your parents that way.”

“That
’
s the only thing I have to say to
you,”
I tell her,
“So if you won
’
t
hear it, then I guess that means we
’re done.
”

“Yes. I think we are indeed done for the evening,” my father
huffs.

“No, Dad,” I say, swallowing the hard knot that
’
s formed in my throat, “We
’
re not done for
the evening. We
’
re done for good. You won
’
t
be hearing from me again.”

“Oh please,” my mother scoffs, “Don
’
t be
so dramatic. We
’
ve already had one
actress
in the family. We certainly don
’
t need another.”

“This isn
’
t an act,” I tell her,
dragging shallow breaths into my lungs. “This is me, finally doing the right
thing. What I should have done a long time ago. Avery and I needed you to stand
by us, all those years ago. We needed you to protect us. Love us. And you
just...didn
’
t. You failed at loving us.”

“
Calista, for god
’
s
sake,” my father murmurs, the very mention of the word “love” making him
cringe.

“Not even losing Avery could make you own up to what you
’
ve done wrong,” I say, in awe of their cold-heartedness. “
Well...Let
’
s see what happens after you
’
ve lost us both.”

I don’
t wait for a response. I don
’
t say goodbye. I know now that nothing will ever get through to
Howard and Sylvia Benson. All these years, some tiny part of me was holding out
hope that they
’
d admit their failings, apologize to me and
Avery for not helping us when we needed it most. As I storm out of my childhood
home, I feel that tiny spark of hope sputter out inside of me.

It
’
s over.

No one comes after me as I rush away from the house,
slipping into my winter coat. My breath billows around me as I sink into the
driver’s seat of my well-worn car. I have no more tears to spare, after
everything that
’
s happened today. Taking a deep, steadying
breath, I pluck my cell phone off the passenger seat and punch in the number of
Bernadette, my downstairs neighbor back home.

“Hey Bern,” I say, as her answering machine picks up my
call, “I know I told you I was going to be home late tonight, but something
’
s come up out here. I might be another day or so. Just wanted
to give you a heads up so you don
’
t go filing a missing
person
’
s report, or getting a search team together or
anything. You know...like last time. Anyway, I
’m sure I’
ll
see you soon. Give the dogs my love.”

I start up my car and peel away from the Benson estate.
There
’
s no way I could have returned to my lonely little
apartment tonight. It would be too hard, too lonely after everything that has
happened these past couple of days. It
’
s back to the motel
for me. Besides, come tomorrow they
’
ll be a drink waiting
for me in New York City...