Painless (54 page)

“It’s hard to explain, Samantha,” she sighed softly.

Samantha? She never ever
ever
called me Samantha unless she was really mad at me. But she wasn’t yelling. She sounded…sad.

“Well,” I hissed and cried at the same time, “do your best to explain it.” Silent tears dripped from my cheeks, onto my naked body. So much for not crying until I got off the phone. I suddenly felt way too naked. I walked over to the chair where my robe hung and slid it on.

“Samantha, the spark between your father and I has dimmed.”

Then I remembered all the passion in my mom’s voice every time she’d warned me that Christos would love me and leave me a broken woman struggling to pick up the pieces of my life. Had Mom been mourning the loss of a passion she had once known but had lost years ago?

Geez, I didn’t know the first thing about adult relationships and marriage.

I steeled myself for what I had to ask next. “Mom,” I sniffed, “is Dad my dad?”

“What?” she said, confused.

“Is Dad my father?”

She chuckled, “What are you talking about, Samantha? Of course he’s your father.”

Why was she making this so hard? Now I was shaking again and my robe felt sweltering. “Is Dad, you know, my biological father?”

There was a very long, drawn out silence. It lasted for months.
 

“Of course he is, Sam,” she chuckled. “Where did you get such a crazy idea?”

Was she lying? She had to be lying. “Tell the truth, Mom.”

“I am telling the truth, Samantha. I would know if you were some other man’s daughter. That’s crazy.”

I had my lie detector turned on to the most sensitive setting. It all sounded true. “You mean it?”

My mom sighed. “Do you want to get a DNA test? If you don’t believe me, I’m happy to do it. Where did you get this idea anyway, Sam?” she asked with a combination of urgency and concern. “Did your father tell you?”

“No,” I said.

“Then who?” she demanded.

“I don’t know.” I wasn’t going to try to explain my soap opera logic to my mom.

“Well it’s crazy, Samantha. You are Bill’s daughter, and I’m your mom. Okay? You have no idea how much your father and I love you, no matter what is happening between him and I.”

Why did that make me want to cry ten times harder than I already had? Maybe my parents weren’t as lame as I’d thought. “Then why are you leaving Dad?” I sobbed. I needed to sit down. I looked around for the nearest chair. But Christos had already wheeled one of the office chairs in the studio over to me. I sat down and he kneeled beside me, hugging me around my shoulders.

“It’s complicated,” my mom said. “Isn’t that what you girls say nowadays?”

I sniffled a reply.

Mom took a long, deep breath. “I don’t know how to explain it, Samantha. Maybe when you’re older, you’ll understand. I don’t know.”

Understand? When I was older? I hoped I never understood what it was like to be in my mom’s shoes right now. I looked at Christos and he kissed me softly on the cheek. My heart was sling shotting around in my chest like one of those giant bungie rides at an amusement park. I couldn’t even speak.

Mom said in a kind voice, “I know this is a lot to take in right now, Samantha.”

That was an understatement. I was literally speechless.

She said, “It sounds like you need some time to process all this. Why don’t you call me at this number if you want to talk further. It’s my cell phone number. It’s always on.”

That was a shock in its own right. My mom had a cell phone? I wanted to make a joke about her finally stepping into the 21st century. I wanted to accuse her of using it to make secret plans with her new boyfriend, because duh, she obviously had. But I couldn’t talk. My mom had stolen my power of speech.

After more silence, my mom said, “I’m hanging up now, Samantha. Call me if you need anything.”

The line went dead.

My heart did too.

===

TIFFANY

I closed the front door behind me as quietly as I could. I didn’t want anyone to know I was home, my mother or the house staff.

I was sick of the elaborate marble grand foyer of my parents’ lavish mansion. When I was a girl, this foyer made me feel like a princess returning to her castle. Now it was like coming home to an elegant, expensive prison.

I couldn’t stand it.

Everything about this house reminded me of my mother Gwendolyn, the evil queen of her domain. The mere thought of her made me nauseous. Literally. But lately, when it came to turning my stomach, this house came in a close second.

I leaned against the front door and slipped off my new $1,000 Louboutin ankle boots. As much as I liked the way they lengthened my legs, they made way too much noise on the marble floor of the foyer.

I padded toward the staircase on the right.

What was the point of having two staircases when they went to the exact same place? Vanity? Gasp! That couldn’t be. Gwendolyn didn’t have an ounce of vanity in her body.
 

She had gallons.

My father, Westin-Conrad Kingston-Whitehouse, tap danced down the opposite staircase. I swear, he always managed to keep at least thirty feet away from me at all times. “Your mother is looking for you,” he said as he slid out the front door without saying goodbye.

I could never decide who was more scared of my mom: me or my dad.

I turned three corners and as many hallways on whispering feet before making it to my bedroom. I had my hand on the polished brass door handle, about to turn it.

Almost safe.

“Did you go out looking like that?” Gwendolyn sneered from the far end of the hallway.

Typical Gwendolyn.

Throwing barbs at your back when you weren’t looking. But she loved the face off just as much.

“No, Mother,” I said respectfully. “I changed into this outfit in the car before I walked in the door,” I said sarcastically, “just to irritate you.”

She strutted toward me, sashaying her hips. Gwendolyn wore stylish outfits at all times and changed them at least three times a day. I don’t know who she was showing off for. The maids? I’m sure they didn’t give a shit as long as Gwendolyn signed their checks.

Gwendolyn half hooded her eyelids. One of them flickered spasmodically. She was so damn good at that look. It drove me cray cray. I think her expression right now could induce epileptic seizures in the weak and subservient. It was made worse by her ugly beauty. Yes, I had been blessed with Gwendolyn’s good looks. It was my cross to bear.

Gwendolyn smiled like a piranha. “Must you always be so snide? I’ve taught you better than that, Tiffany.”

She taught me how to be snide, that was for sure. Not consciously. I’d picked that up from her along the way. It was unavoidable.

If you asked Gwendolyn, she was determined to fix all the mistakes she’d made in her own life, which she claimed were few, with mine.
 

Sadly, that made her a tad domineering.

Her snideness was just a bonus.

“Mother, now is not a good time,” I sighed gripping the door handle to my room like a life preserver. If I could just get through this door unharmed…

“I need to speak with you about the summer gala. You still haven’t picked out a dress.”

She was referring to the annual gala at the La Jolla Country Club. Gwendolyn had to make a splash every year, each year bigger and bolder than the last. I was a part of her display. One of these years, I think she planned on hiring someone to build a parade float so she could drive up to the gates of the country club on a throne made of five hundred thousand fresh orchids. I’d be stuck sitting by her feet like a jewel on display.
 

Gwendolyn folded her hands in front of her waist and said, “Since you have been dissatisfied with the dress options I’ve given you, I’ve had Fred Segal courier down several new gowns from their Los Angeles boutique. They should be here this afternoon. I’d like you to try them on. Two of them are smashing off the shoulder numbers from a hot new designer in Beverly Hills named Rocco Ferrara, who I absolutely adore. Please try them all on and pick one, Tiffany. I won’t have you attending the gala in your street attire.” She eyed my outfit with obvious disgust. But it didn’t show on her face. She kept a perfectly pleasant smile in place around the clock. I think her face was frozen that way. It was just that awful flinty glint in her eyes that gave away her irritation.

I arched my eyebrows, hoping she was finished. I’d learned to say little in the presence of Gwendolyn. It gave her fewer opportunities to pick at me.

“Have you decided on an escort for the gala?” she asked.

Sometimes, the silence didn’t help any.
 

“No,” I sighed.

“Have you considered Brandon Charboneau?”

“No, Mother,” I muttered. No matter how many hints I dropped to Brandon, he was always too busy. I was starting to wonder if he was gay. It was the only explanation, considering how obvious I’d been with him in the past.

“What about Christos Manos?” Gwendolyn cocked her head slightly. “I’ve always been fond of that young man.”

My lips tightened down. I could feel my eyelids wanting to flutter from my impending tears. I was determined to hold them back. “Christos is…busy.” I choked. My voice was on the verge of cracking. Gwendolyn always struck with practiced accuracy. Right at the jugular.

“I don’t understand what your problem is, Tiffany. Are you scaring off all the eligible bachelors in San Diego?” She made it sound like getting a good man was as easy as filling a gas tank at the gas station.

“No, mother,” I muttered.

“Speak up, dear. That mousy voice of yours is half the problem. No man wants a mousy girl. Show some confidence. You’re a Kingston-Whitehouse.”

“Can I go now?” I asked in a garbled voice.

“Yes. But be ready when those dresses arrive. I want to see how they look on you.”

She was determined to treat me like a dress up doll no matter what I did. I opened my door and stepped into my bedroom.

“Tiffany?”

I stopped, my back to her, bracing for the usual criticism. I still clutched the brass doorknob. I imagined myself yanking it off the door and planting it right in the center of Gwendolyn’s forehead.

“Is that skirt tight on you?” she asked thoughtfully. My mother had the heart and eyes of a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.
 

Yes, my skirt was tight. It looked like it was painted on, and I looked awesome in it. I worked my ass off at the gym and ate like a mouse to make sure of it.

“Do you need to lose a pound or two? Your waistline is a bit puffy today.”

Typical Gwendolyn.

I didn’t answer.

“No matter,” she sighed heavily. “Those dresses will be here shortly. With any luck, you won’t burst any seams when you try them on.” She sounded defeated already. Double crossed by the puffy waistline of her traitorous daughter. Didn’t Gwendolyn know what a period was? Oh, wait. I think she had her uterus removed a long time ago. My guess was that she’d hired a surrogate to carry me to term rather than stretch her waistline. And I knew she would never have stooped so low as to have an elective C-section. It would’ve left a scar.

I quietly closed my bedroom door behind me and walk into my expansive walk in closet. It held more awesome outfits than a Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. At least there were some perks to being a Kingston-Whitehouse. I placed my red lacquer soled Louboutins in the shoe rack amongst dozens of others.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled a photo album off of my desk and sat down on my plush comforter atop my four poster bed. I leafed through it. There were photos going back to when I was a little girl.

Certain ones stood out, and I lingered on them.
 

A school play in the fourth grade. Robin Hood. I played Maid Marian and Christos was Robin Hood. Of course. He was dashing even then.

An Easter Egg hunt when I was six. I had known then that I was in love with Christos. I’d even told him I wanted to marry him that day.

Christos at the beach, sometime in high school. He was shirtless and ripped. No tattoos yet, but muscled and handsome. The man he would become was already obvious. All the girls had eyes for him.

My eleventh birthday party. Surrounded by balloons and confetti and friends. The birthday cake was right in front of me and I was blowing on the candles. Christos was leaning toward me, a sly look on his face, kissing my cheek. I hadn’t washed my cheek for a week after that day, I remember.
 

I rubbed my cheek longingly.

Tears dripped onto the plastic sleeve covering the photos. I pulled the photo out to get a better look.
 

Christos Manos.

Christos.

I squeezed my eyes shut and my head dropped to my chest. I stifled my sobs. Gwendolyn had ears like a vampire bat and would no doubt sense me out and give me shit if she heard me crying in my room like a baby.

Christos was gone.

I shook my head, not wanting to believe it.

It was that stupid Samantha.

She’d ruined everything.

She’d taken him from me.

It was all her fault.

Christos and I had been getting closer over last summer, before classes had started. We’d been hanging out all the time. Almost every day. I had started to think maybe we’d had a chance. Christos had finally cleaned up his act, working on his paintings, becoming a respectable young man. It had been touch and go with him for several years. But he’d finally gotten his shit together. He wasn’t an embarrassment anymore.

And Samantha had swooped in and stolen his heart.

I fucking hated that bitch.

I
hated
her.

I hated her with all my heart.

I was going to make her life miserable if it was the last thing I did.

Starting with her hearing in front of the SDU tribunal. She was getting kicked out of SDU. Whatever it took.

I stood up from my bed and walked into my closet, closing the door behind me. I went to the back of the closet and pushed aside coats and gowns. Like I needed yet another gown for the summer gala. I had three that still fit. But no, they’d been worn once. In public. Gwendolyn would be ashamed of me for even suggesting I wear one again.