Chapter 21
Frankie
Later that afternoon, on the drive to our “appointment” with Malcolm, things are a bit tense between Piper and me.
That’s on me. I didn’t appreciate having my motives questioned about leaving Serenity and Cal behind.
When she got back from picking up the sushi, I wasn’t exactly chatty and she probably couldn't hear my mumbled goodbye when she left. I wasn’t ready to admit she’d hit me with some truth bombs.
I’m still not ready to admit that. At least not out loud. Maybe because I can’t tell if it’s my head or my heart seeding doubts about whether I did the right thing saying goodbye to Cal.
Instead, I reach from the back seat of Archie’s car and squeeze her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Pipey.”
She glances over her shoulder with a grim look. “Thanks. Not sure I am.”
Archie reaches across the console to take her hand. “We’re all in this together, yeah?”
I nod. Piper squeezes his hand.
“It’s only an hour.” Archie hangs his other hand over the steering wheel and uses his wrist to steer the car through traffic.
Piper grabs the emergency handle, but I sit back and enjoy the fact I’m not the one navigating side streets and alleyways to avoid the traffic on the 101.
“Is it weird I’m nervous about seeing our own dad?” Archie asks.
“Yeah, nah. Not when we had to make an appointment slot, like he’s a dentist, to visit him on what may be his deathbed,” I answer.
Archie flinches at the word deathbed. Piper squeezes his hand and offers an encouraging smile.
“You think he’s really dying?” Archie gives me a worried glance in the rearview mirror.
I’m tempted to soften the blow for him, but I’ve got too much pent-up anger toward Malcolm to be gentle about anything involving him. Even his potential death. “According to Sybil’s statistics, there’s at least an eighty-five percent chance, Arch.”
The car goes quiet. The only sounds come from the stereo that’s quietly playing Archie’s Get Pumped playlist. I’m very familiar with it. We used to blast it together before surf comps.
“Maybe we should plan on being there more than an hour,” he says after a minute or two.
“Maybe we should see why he wants us there, first,” I counter a bit too firmly.
He nods.
“You set the limit, Arch. We’ve gotta stick to it. And if things don’t go well, we give ourselves permission now to leave before that hour’s up,” I add.
Archie nods again, but there’s no conviction in his agreement. Piper shoots me a stealthy look from the mirror in her visor. She’s as worried as I am about Archie caving and getting sucked right back into Malcolm’s black hole.
Too soon, we pull up to the gated driveway of the Beverly Hills House. Piper tenses. This was her home when her mum was married to Malcolm. Archie and I have only been here once or twice. We never really spent time together as a family when Piper was our stepsister.
Archie announces our arrival through the speaker, and the black, wrought iron gate opens with a slow, ominous squeal.
The driveway isn’t long enough, so within seconds we’re parked in front of the stucco house that could be dropped in the rolling hills of Tuscany, and no one would know it hadn’t been there for five hundred years.
I check my watch. “We’re early.”
“Not on purpose,” Archie sighs.
The three of us stare at the entry way where Sybil waits for us in front of the ten-foot arched double doors.
Sensible tan pants, matching suit jacket—slightly too big—black shoes; looking like she’s auditioning for a reality TV make-over show.
If her clothes were any more boring, she’d fade into the house’s beige stucco.
“Why do I have the urge to rescue her from her wardrobe?” Piper mutters.
I snort. “Right? What’s wrong with us?”
We smile at each other, and getting out of the car suddenly seems doable.
The three of us walk together up the sweeping porch steps towards Sybil. When we arrive, she directs all of her attention and her hello toward Piper.
I reckon she doesn’t feel obligated to say hello to Archie and me again today after she already did over the phone. Sybil’s got a strict quota for friendly greetings. She’s met hers for the day.
“Hello, Sybil.” Piper returns Sybil’s monotone greeting in the same voice, then Sybil leads us inside.
This house is bigger than the one Arch and I grew up in, in Brisbane, before Mum and Dad’s divorce.
Bigger than the one Mum lives in now that she bought with the settlement she got in the divorce.
Being here brings back all the old feelings of bitterness toward Piper’s mum, Cynthia, who’s partly to blame for Mum and Dad’s marriage breaking up.
If I’m honest, though, Dad’s mostly at fault for that. Cynthia ended up being another pawn sacrificed in his game.
Piper’s gaze sweeps across the foyer walls and ceiling before she walks to a large oval mirror hanging above a table. She traces her fingers over the bottom of the gilded frame. “I helped Mom pick this out,” she says. “I felt so important when she wanted it hung right here.”
Her wistful words remind me that Archie and I aren’t the only collateral damage left in the wake of Malcolm’s long list of betrayals.
“I need to collect your mobiles,” Sybil says, all business. Polite, but efficient. “For privacy.” She holds out her hands. There’s not a question in her request, just an order—a reminder of Malcolm’s need for control.
Reluctantly, I hand mine over along with Piper and Archie. Then we follow Sybil down a hallway.
“His office is this way,” Piper whispers to us, and a familiar prick of jealousy follows.
For the decade Cynthia and Malcolm were married, Piper was closer to Malcolm than I ever had been.
He was more of a father to her than to me.
I bet she has more memories of one-on-one time with him than I do.
Malcolm’s time was always limited, and Archie got more of Malcolm’s attention than I did when we were growing up.
At the end of the hallway, Sybil opens the large double doors and ushers us into Malcolm’s office. Across the room from us, someone sits behind a large desk, and I stop short when I realize it’s Malcolm.
When I picture my dad, I picture him behind a desk just like this one.
Dark wood; large and imposing with sharp lines and angles.
This is the image of him that’s most familiar.
I have at least a hundred memories all bundled together of moments just like this, meeting with Dad in one of his many offices scattered across dozens of homes and office buildings.
This is the first time, though, that he’s ever looked small, no matter how big the desk.
His thick red mane that Archie and I inherited is gone, replaced with tufts of feathery white hair.
I’m surprised he hasn’t just shaved his head until I see a wig that looks just like his old hair perched on a stand on the shelves behind him.
Then I understand: he has a reason for letting us see him like this.
And I doubt it has anything to do with actual vulnerability.
Another light bulb pops on…I come by my acting skills honestly. Whether by nature or nurture—maybe both—I’ve inherited them from Malcolm.
He’s on a call and points us toward the three chairs, side-by-side, across the desk from him. Quietly, we slide into the seats, slipping right into the part we’re used to playing—seen and not heard until Malcolm’s ready for us.
Suddenly, his face goes red, and he tugs at the knot in his tie. “Sorry, Walter,” he says into the mobile in a hoarse voice.
Sybil rushes over, takes the mobile and calmly says, “Mr. Forsythe will be right back.” Then mutes the call.
Only then does Malcolm let out a long dry, hacking noise. While he hacks, Sybil pours him a glass of water, but he’s coughing too hard to take it from her. Archie stands like he wants to do something. Malcolm glares at him, and he sits back down.
We wait, shifting in our seats like they’re covered in fleas, but we don’t want to make our host uncomfortable by pointing it out. Finally, Malcolm’s able to take some deep breaths and loud gulps of water. Beads of sweat dot his almost bald head.
Sybil helps him stand and slip off the thick, silk robe he’s wearing.
Dark circles dampen the pits of the crisp button-up he has on underneath his robe.
A tube peeks from between the buttons of his shirt, and I follow it to a black pump at his side.
It beeps, echoing the sound I heard on our call with Sybil this morning.
He loosens his tie and collar before sinking back into his high-backed leather chair, engulfed by his own throne. “Tell Mr. Osaka I’ll ring him at five o’clock.”
“Yes Mr. Forsythe.” Sybil hovers for a second, making sure he’s okay, before padding across the room and shutting the doors behind her.
“You look well,” Malcolm says to all three of us collectively and offers a tight smile.
“You don’t,” I shoot back.
His lip tugs higher. “Still as direct as ever, Francesca. Good to know some things don’t change.”
I open my mouth to say something. Piper grabs my hand and squeezes it.
“We were sorry to hear about the cancer,” Piper says politely, like she’s talking to an acquaintance and not the man who played father to her for nearly a decade.
Malcolm nods. “Bit sorry myself.”
“Wish we would have known earlier, Dad,” Archie says quietly.
Malcolm nods slowly before his eyes drift to mine, like he’s expecting me to say something. I'm not sure what that something is. I wish I could say I’m sorry. I wish I could say I hate that he’s sick.
Part of me does hate it. The part that will never quit wishing Malcolm were the kind of dad who would greet me with an I’ve missed you or even an I love you instead of an appraisal like you’re still direct. I’d like to hear something genuinely affectionate from him at least once in my life.
“So why did you want to see us?” Piper asks.