Chapter 1 #2
Sometimes I wondered if the creature inside me, the one that filled my head with strange thoughts and impulses that didn’t feel like my own, was some remnant of the early years I’d spent with my mother before she died. Some remnant of her need.
When morning broke, Shelli snuck out the window for her own bed, and I curled in a ball like a grub and prayed to the universe for the day to pass quickly.
But as much as I wanted to wallow, I knew that if I continued to lay there, at some point my uncle Carl would poke his head in and say “Feeling lazy today, are we?” hoping to catch me in my underwear.
I used to lean a chair against my door in lieu of an actual lock, but that had been prohibited for the sake of “fire safety.”
I dressed and walked downstairs, passing the new oil painting hanging above the mantel. It showed my cousin Dinah posing with her lustrous chestnut horse Cocoa Puff. Their manes shone equally in the play of light.
The painting looked out of place in my aunt and uncle’s modest suburban house, as did the other dissonant luxuries they owned, like Carl’s yellow Porsche, or Lorraine’s tanning bed, which she kept in the living room for lack of space.
I didn’t know how they could afford these things, given Carl managed a Chili’s and Lorraine worked part-time for their church, but I assumed it was something pathetic like tax evasion.
Carl liked to pretend he was a red-blooded male, but at his core he was too meek to do anything truly risky.
In the kitchen, they were already eating their breakfast with Dinah.
Five tiny purebred dogs surrounded them, breathing poorly, their beady eyes trained on the bacon between my aunt’s fingers.
As I moved about the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee and adding cream, my uncle watched me with a similar expression.
“Rhea, you’re looking very mature this morning,” he said.
My body suddenly felt enormous and fleshy, and impossible to hide. I glanced at my aunt to see if she was listening, but she was busy cooing to one of the dogs and feeding him bits of burned fat. When I tried to make eye contact with Dinah, she looked away.
I had learned it was better not to engage Carl. If I told him to eat shit, he’d treat me like an alley cat that needed to be tamed. He liked to watch my skin flush. It was part of the game.
I kept my face blank and leaned against the counter with my cup, preferring the physical distance. But then he continued to gaze at me from head to toe, and I moved to the table, hiding my bottom half from view.
“Happy birthday, Rhea,” he leered. “It’s a big one this year. Eighteen.”
God, I was going to be sick.
Lorraine looked up from the dog and smiled wanly. “Oh right, yes, happy birthday. Dinah?”
“Happy birthday,” she said, staring down at her breakfast.
“Thanks.” I cringed internally, praying that was the end of it.
The doorbell rang, and we all looked sharply toward the door.
“Are you expecting someone?” Carl asked Lorraine.
“No.” She glanced at me and Dinah, and we both shrugged.
Carl grunted and went to the window that offered a view of the front stoop. He gestured at Lorraine, who joined him, and they whispered fiercely to each other before Carl muttered he wouldn’t hide in his own home and opened the door.
A man in a well-tailored suit carrying a briefcase stood in the doorway, elegantly silhouetted against the suburban sunshine.
“Mr. Blau, we weren’t expecting you.”
“Good morning, Mr. Keller. I apologize for the intrusion, but it could not be avoided. I have made many attempts to get in touch with Miss Larsen via phone and mail, but they have all been unsuccessful.” His speech was polished and polite with a slight twang.
Lorraine stepped between them and lowered her voice. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Have you gotten any of our messages?”
His mouth flattened into a thin line. “Yes, I have.” He didn’t elaborate. “May I come in? I’d like to speak with Miss Larsen.”
Carl stepped in front of the doorway. “No, you may not. As her legal guardians, we’re not comfortable with you speaking to our daughter.”
Carl liked to invoke their “guardianship” when it suited him, as if they were my fierce, loving protectors. Never mind that after eleven years, they still hadn’t adopted me.
“Am I mistaken that today is Miss Larsen’s eighteenth birthday? She is no longer a minor, sir, and therefore, no longer under your jurisdiction.”
I had never seen anyone talk to Carl this way. I was stunned, and incredibly confused.
Mr. Blau craned his neck around my flustered relatives and made eye contact with me. “Miss Larsen, if your aunt and uncle aren’t comfortable with me coming inside, would you care to join me on the front lawn?”
“No! No. You can come in,” Carl blustered, and Lorraine ushered the man past the door before the neighbors could witness any more. They moved to sit on the couch in the living room, but Mr. Blau stopped them. “This will be a private meeting between Miss Larsen and I.”
Carl swore under his breath and Lorraine scowled, but they begrudgingly trudged upstairs to their room, gesturing for Dinah to follow.
Mr. Blau trained his gaze toward the ceiling, and I watched it catch on the oil painting of Dinah and her horse.
He studied it curiously until we heard two doors shut upstairs, then he took a seat and folded his hands in his lap.
“Miss Larsen. My name is Anthony Blau, and I am your mother’s estate lawyer.
Now that you are eighteen—” He paused awkwardly. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
My stomach turned at the words, and I urged him to go on.
“As I was saying, now that you are eighteen, you may assume control of your mother’s estate as indicated in her will.” He opened his briefcase and laid out a few papers on the coffee table.
From the picture Lorraine had painted, I’d always imagined my mother dying penniless in a dirty motel room, and my father’s family being forced to take me in out of Christian guilt. I wondered what kind of “estate” she could have left behind.
He continued, “These documents describe the full contents of the estate, which includes a financial portfolio of various stocks, bonds, mutual funds, retirement accounts, and a few real estate holdings in Nashville. We’ve also set aside some cash that you can access right away—”
My mouth went dry. “What… what is this?”
“This is your mother’s estate.” He gestured at the papers. “Which is now being passed to you.”
“How… how much is it worth?”
He pursed his lips. “If you liquidated right now—of course you’d pay some hefty fees, but if you wanted to take the hit…
” He paused, calculating. “I’d say you’d have about ten million in cash.
Of course it’s worth more than that if you allow it to continue to grow.
” He glanced up at me for a response, but I was having a hard time breathing.
“Pardon my rambling. Do you understand the basic concept, or is there something I can explain a bit better at this juncture?”
“No, I don’t understand. Where did this all come from? How did she have so much money?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, as you know, she was quite successful when she was alive, especially in the five years before her death. She was shrewd with her money, and she set it up well for you. It has grown immensely over the years.”
“What do you mean, ‘she was successful’? Doing what?”
He paused, collecting himself. “You don’t know who your mother was?”
Shame prickled in my cheeks. “I mean… I know her name was Lulabelle, and she was from Tennessee. That’s where I was born.” I also knew she was a junkie who basically killed my father, but that didn’t feel right to mention.
He scowled, and his eyes flicked back toward the ceiling. “Your mother’s name was Lulabelle, yes, but she was more commonly known, at least by the public, as Belle. Belle Powers.”
“The country singer?”
“Yes.”
The image of a woman with towering blonde hair and garish makeup entered my mind like a fever dream. My heart beat in my temples. “Is this a prank or something? I don’t understand.”
His mouth settled into a flat line. “Rhea, I don’t know what your aunt and uncle told you, but Belle Powers was, without a doubt, your mother.”
“I think you have the wrong person…”
He shook his head. “You and I met once before, when you were smaller. Before she died.”
“But I was just a baby then. How would you even know it was me?”
Without looking down at my chest, he said, “I would know that birthmark anywhere.”
Heat spread across my collarbone, where part of the mark poked out above my tank top.
“Wait—so did she die of an overdose?”
He looked taken aback. “What on earth? Is that what they told you?”
I nodded, and his shock resolved back into a scowl. “I can’t believe…” He paused, collecting himself. “No. Your mother died in a plane crash. It actually happened a few hours from here, off the coast of Santa Barbara.”
I felt a bit woozy, like my body was dissolving and pooling into the polyester of the couch. My entire existence was a lie. “And my father? Who was he? How did he die?”
Mr. Blau swallowed uncomfortably. “Your father was a notable songwriter—wrote a few songs for big acts, I believe.” He smiled slightly, then went solemn again. “But he did in fact die of an overdose, I’m sorry to say.”
So maybe my life wasn’t a total lie. He’d OD’d. But not her. Her death had been some romantic tragedy. Not of weakness and negligence, but cruel fate.
And they had both been artists. Creative, glittering geniuses, and not worthless druggies fallen from grace. It struck me that I finally had something of real value, parents who were special and luminous.
And in the next moment, I’d already lost it—they were both gone.
“I know this is a lot to process,” Mr. Blau said, reaching across the table and resting a gentle hand on mine. When I didn’t respond, he sat back and crossed his arms over his lap. “What are your summer plans?”