Chapter 1 #2
I made the mistake of calling my parents that night.
I don’t know. I thought they should know their daughter had passed.
Samantha never spoke to them again after she left the house.
Of course they knew about Sydney, but my father had disowned Samantha, and whatever my father decided meant my mother went along with it.
Hell, I had to keep our communications a secret until I moved to New York.
I didn’t see my parents often, even when I was in college.
I would go visit for a day or two at Christmas, but that was about it.
I told them I had to work the holidays, which was true.
What they didn’t know was that I volunteered to work those days so I didn’t have to go home.
My father insisted I come home. I tried to argue, but he gave me a whole song and dance about wanting a relationship with his granddaughter.
He said he regretted the fact that he and Sam never reconciled their relationship.
I shouldn’t have believed him. It was wholly and completely unlike my father to ever change his mind about something.
I should have known family was no exception.
He’s barely muttered more than five sentences to Sydney since we came back to Connecticut.
I’ve tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking maybe he was overwhelmed by grief or something, but it’s been apparent in the week and a half since my sister’s passing that he has little interest in any relationship with Sydney.
And Syd has noticed it, too.
“Let’s go back to the house, girls,” my mother says in a teary voice.
I take Syd’s hand, standing from my seat in the front row at the gravesite.
At least they didn’t make us sit through a funeral mass.
This entire charade would have been even more insulting if they’d had a service in the church.
The only time we attended church was at Christmas and Easter.
I have no idea who my parents were trying to impress—other than the other rich assholes they associated themselves with.
When Sam was sixteen, she threw a huge fit.
She announced that she was an atheist and refused to be seen in church to make it look like they cared about worshipping any sort of God twice a year.
Of course, I went that Easter Sunday with my parents.
I always did what was expected of me and never wanted to cause waves—especially over something that took only an hour out of my day—but Sam refused.
The story my mother told the congregation was that she was home sick with the flu.
I’d have been surprised if half those people even recognized my sister had they passed her on the street, but Marion Fuller made sure to keep up appearances.
The three of us walk to the black limousine, and the chauffeur opens the car door for us.
Once settled, my mother takes a bottle from the tiny bar set up in the back seat.
She pours a hefty amount of clear liquid into one of the crystal glasses and takes a healthy swallow, finishing nearly half the glass.
“I’m guessing that’s not water?” I ask, giving her a reproachful look.
God, I am regretting being here more and more with each passing minute.
“Camryn, when you have to sit at your daughter’s funeral—a daughter that you haven’t spoken to in years—then you can judge me. But until then, I’m just doing the best that I can,” my mother responds, taking another drink from the glass, this time finishing it.
“Should you be drinking with your medication in the first place?” I ask.
My mother has been prescribed a bevy of pills over the years by several different doctors.
I’m honestly shocked she was able to even get out of bed this morning.
Usually when she has to do anything even remotely challenging, she ends up drugging herself into a near coma.
Guess my father put his foot down and insisted she be here.
It certainly isn’t to support her other daughter or granddaughter.
“It’s only a little vodka. I still have to get through the entire funeral reception,” she says, reaching for the bottle.
I take it out of her hand as my father opens the car door. When he slides in, he takes the bottle from me and grabs my mother’s glass. He pours her another couple of fingers of the alcohol and hands it back to her.
She smiles at him with a grateful gaze. “Thank you, William.”
“Of course, Marion,” my father responds, giving her an indulgent smile. “I know today has been taxing. Just a couple more hours and you can go rest. I’m sure no one will say anything if you need to go upstairs and lie down before everyone leaves.”
My father pulls his phone from his pocket and begins scrolling.
It’s no surprise that work can’t wait, even though his granddaughter, whom he insisted he wanted a relationship with, is sitting across from him.
My mother continues drinking, and I hold Syd’s hand the entire way back to the house as she stares out the window.
Syd knew who her mom was. She knew the problems her mom had on and off throughout the years.
The partying, the drinking, the drugs, and the men.
There was always a man in Samantha’s life.
Until a couple years ago, Syd didn’t really talk to me about the shit her mom was involved with.
But I saw the signs before Syd confided in me.
By that time, I was living a short subway ride away.
Syd knew I would drop everything to be there for her if she asked, though she never did.
But it wasn’t uncommon for her to take the train to the private school where I taught art and wait in my office for me, or go to my apartment and spend the night several times a month.
Maybe she was afraid her mom would get in trouble, and I would take her away. In a sad way, it kind of reminded me of the way Samantha and I grew up.
We never told anyone that we were basically neglected our entire lives.
As far as anyone knew from the outside looking in, we were a happy family.
Our dad was a wealthy businessman who was married to a beautiful woman who came from a rich family.
They had Samantha right away, then two years later, I came along.
We were perfect, dutiful daughters. But that was far from the truth.
Our mom is a pill-popping alcoholic, and our dad couldn’t give two shits about anything other than his image or his bank account.
When we pull into the circular driveway of my parents’ Tudor-style mansion, my father turns his attention to me. “You’ll need to make an appearance. No running off. There are people I want Sydney to meet.”
“You mean we need to put on a show for your business associates.” After all these years, it’s still all about image.
“Don’t be difficult, Camryn. Not today of all days,” my mother says.
“You and Sydney are part of this family and need to act like it,” my father chides. God, this is so reminiscent of my childhood, I could fucking scream.
I get out of the car before the driver has a chance to open the door and wave at Syd. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get something to eat.”
When she gets out, I take her hand, and we walk into the house, heading toward the kitchen.
The catering staff is still setting everything up in the formal dining room where there will be a giant buffet.
Trays of fruit, meat, cheese, and bread are being arranged on large silver platters and carried out.
I grab a couple plates and pile a little of everything on them.
Handing one of the plates to Syd, I say, “Come on.” Syd follows me upstairs and into my old room.
It’s not much different from when I lived here, except there aren’t a ton of art supplies littered throughout the space.
I was never allowed to hang posters on the wall or anything as lowbrow as that—at least that’s how my mother put it.
“Are we allowed to eat in here?” Syd asks as I sit down on my bed.
“Probably not, but I don’t really care at this point.”
“I take it you like your parents about as much as Mom did,” she says with a half smile as she sits on the bed next to me, her plate in her lap.
“It’s been a difficult few years,” I say. “But what happened between your mom and our parents was on a whole other level.”
“They wanted her to have an abortion. Mom told me the story. She told me the names her father called her.”
I find it interesting, although not unusual, that she doesn’t refer to my father as Grandpa. Anytime he or my mother has been brought up in conversation this week, it’s always been your father or your mother.
“I was hoping they really wanted a relationship with you, Syd. I’m sorry. I should have known better,” I tell her.
“It’s okay. It makes sense. I think we both wanted more from our parents.”
Samantha was killed in a car crash. There were empty bottles of vodka found in her car, but we haven’t gotten the report back from the autopsy.
Though considering my sister’s struggles with substance abuse, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she was probably drunk or high when she got behind the wheel.
I just thank God Syd was with me that night and not home alone or in the car with my sister.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Each of us lost in our own thoughts. Finally, when we’ve finished our food, Sydney turns to me and asks, “Should we go down there?”
“Probably,” I tell her honestly. “But I really don’t want to.”
“Me neither.”