Authors: Tessa Saks
Brianna looked away
as she dabbed the corners of her eyes. She looked old. She was probably forty.
She didn't know what to say. What
do
you say to your daughter?
“Mother, it's just
that
…
these past few months
…
and now this. I'm so sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry for
what?”
“For not loving you
enough.”
“You did, I’m sure
you did,” Sam said, hoping to sound convinced.
“No, Mother, I
didn’t. All the things you wanted me to be
…
you were
…
I didn’t see
it. I challenged you on everything. I wanted, well, I was determined to never
be like you, to live the way you did.” Brianna looked away, her voice softened.
“I wanted to hurt you.”
“Why?” Sam couldn’t
imagine why anyone with such rich parents would want to blow it.
Brianna nodded. “I
don’t know why. I always felt like you had to control everything. That you
couldn’t just let things be. You had to be right on every subject. You made me
feel like my opinions were never good enough.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sure
I didn’t mean it.”
Boy,
Sam thought,
you should have tried a life
with my mom, not much nurturing or mothering happened there. A life filled with
neglect, abuse, drugs and constant worry.
And her mom expected Sam not only
to bail her out financially by marrying rich, but also to help her mom’s
boyfriends and other screwed-up family members.
Brianna continued,
“I know, now I do. But then
…
back
then I hated you. I wanted to love you, but I always felt this wall, as if
there was a wall around your feelings—some were allowed and others were
banned.”
Sam looked out into
the hallway. She did not want to have this conversation. What she needed was to
get a message to her own mom. But here, now, this woman was baring her soul to
her. Right now, and to the wrong person. Sam sighed.
What does she want me
to say? What would Ellen say?
She sat a moment and tried her best to think
of something honest, something helpful at least. “I was a shitty mom, wasn’t
I?” Sam finally said, with a wide grin.
Brianna laughed. “I
wouldn’t say that.”
“I would. I was a
selfish bitch. I was only ever concerned about myself, right?”
Brianna looked at
her, silently staring, her eyes wide and her mouth dropped. Shock no doubt. She
sat in silence for a moment, as if considering the truth in the statement.
Finally, Sam spoke
again. “Right. Yes, I’ll answer that. I cared more about what snobby society
people thought than anything else, right?”
“You certainly have
been obsessed with it. But now I see you were only trying to do what you
thought would be best for us, for all of us.”
“Best for you? You
think it was best for you?” Sam asked.
“Yes, I see it all
now. You sacrificed your dreams to fit into the life that would protect us and
give us opportunities we wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
Sam looked away,
shaking her head. “I don’t remember any dreams. The only dream I ever had was
to be rich and have whatever I wanted.” Sam turned toward Brianna, her face
drawn into a tight frown.
“I never understood
why you didn’t leave him.”
“Leave him? Why the
hell would I have done that?”
“He’s been a
complete jerk. Look what he did to you all those years. How many nights have
you cried? How many years of lies and deceit? And now—look what he’s done now!”
Brianna grabbed Sam’s hands. “Mother, I want to help you. I know I have also
been hurtful—but I love you. And I want to help you get better.”
“You could help
me—yes
…”
A glimmer of hope
surfaced as she considered Brianna’s offer. “Yes. You know why I’m here—”
“So you don’t commit
suicide again.”
“Hell no! No!” Sam
jumped up pushing Brianna’s hands away. “No, I’m here because of the people who
want to kill me. They may have hired someone and this is the best way to
protect me. It’s like a secret witness protection program. I’m safe here. No
one knows I’m here.”
“Mother, everyone
knows you’re here—the gossip has been
…”
Brianna stopped.
Sam fell back onto
the bed. No one was supposed to know, Dr. Sutton and Jonathan had assured her.
She looked at Brianna. “No one was to know—what else are they saying?”
“That you’ve had a
breakdown—that you’re unstable and
…”
Brianna paused, “delusional. That this is a desperate attempt to stop Dad from
leaving you.” Brianna’s eyes rimmed with tears as she looked at Sam. “I
probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No. I need to know.
Now who? Just who exactly said so
…
go
on, spill,” Sam demanded.
Brianna shrugged. “I
don’t know
…
everyone—Dad, your
friends, the gossipers. Some trash media, I guess.” Brianna sighed. “I
shouldn’t have said—”
“No. No, you did the
right thing. I’m glad you did.” Sam rose and started putting her cosmetics into
her make-up bag. “I need to go home and straighten all this out.”
“You can’t.”
“Of course I can. I
put myself in here.”
“Mother.” Brianna
stood and moved closer to Sam. “Dad had you committed. You can’t leave. I
thought you knew—you signed the forms.”
“What?” Sam backed
away. “Of course I can leave. That’s insane—why would I let him do that to me?
I would have to be crazy to allow that.”
Brianna shrugged
again and sat down again. “I don’t know why. Dad said you were acting extremely
paranoid and this was to protect you.”
“Well, yes, from the
people
…
from the
hit
people.” She slammed her hand on the dresser. “Damn him. I should have gone to
a hotel—that’s what I wanted in the first place.” Sam flopped onto the bed. “So
how do I get out? I guess I need to talk to the doctors?”
“Mother, you’re in
here for a long time. They think you might try to kill yourself again, so you
need to be watched and that—I hate to be the one to tell you—”
“Damn him!” Sam
screamed as she jumped up, throwing her open cosmetic bag across the room, the
various containers spilling out and scattering across the smooth floor. “He
can’t. God damn it! I can’t stay here. Not here. God, no—I’ll die if I have to
stay here. I should kill him for doing this
…”
Sam started banging on the protective window mesh. “I hate this place. He
couldn’t—he wouldn’t do this to me.” Sam was crying as her banging got louder.
“Mother! Calm down
or—”
“Calm down! You tell
me I’m locked in this pathetic dungeon and want me to calm down?” Sam picked up
a vase of flowers and threw it onto the ground with a smash. The plastic vase
bounced, the water spraying in all directions. “Damn her
…
that bitch. Your twisted mom has destroyed my life—I
should strangle that evil bitch—”
A flurry of
attendants rushed into the room; one of them quickly grabbed Sam by the arm.
Sam pushed the chair away as they tried to restrain her. “Mrs. Horvath. Are you
are upset again?” an attendant asked, as he grappled her arms.
“She’s fine,”
Brianna said. “I dropped the vase. Sorry.” Brianna grabbed Sam’s arm whispering,
“Mother, calm
…
calm. Sit down
and relax.” Brianna turned to the attendant. “I shouldn’t have upset her with
bad news.”
Sam knew she should
have sat when she heard Brianna cry “Mother,” but the angry blood steaming
through her veins blocked any rational behavior. Pressure built in her head.
“That bitch, your mom—she’s destroyed everything,” Sam cried out. “This was not
what was supposed to happen. I’m the one he really loves. I’m the one he should
be marrying, not her. I’m his love—he doesn’t love her—it’s me
…”
Sam sat at the edge of the bed as
they held her arms. “It’s me—I’m Sam. I’m the one he truly loves—no one
understands what happened—”
Brianna held her
hand. “Mother, I believe you—I do. Relax and—”
“What are you
doing?” Sam screamed as they pushed the needle into her arm. “What is that? Is
that poison? Are you trying to kill me?” Sam wrestled to free herself. The
strong grip of the attendant held her. “I know what this is—tell them,” she yelled
to Brianna. “Tell them! I’m not supposed to be in here.”
Brianna stood,
wiping her wet cheeks with her hands. “I’m so sorry, Mother.”
“Help me,” Sam
whispered. “Don’t let them hurt me
…
get
me out of here
…”
Brianna leaned over
and put her arms around Sam. It felt good to be hugged, so good
…
Sam’s mind started to get fuzzy as
the room blurred. She reached to hug Brianna back but her arms wouldn’t
cooperate. She felt heavy, so heavy, it was hard to stay sitting up. Sam lay
back as the attendants moved away. The room filled with whispers and shadows
and trying to lift her head caused the room to pivot up and down. Heaviness
pressed upon her. The lights grew dimmer as the voices hushed into a soft hum.
Slowly. Quietly. Fading. Fading into darkness.
***
Ellen stood in front
of her mirror, putting the last coat of mascara on her lashes. She admired the
pretty face reflecting back to her. S
he may not be me, but she certainly is
pretty to look at, she
conceded. And Jonathan certainly enjoyed looking.
She adjusted her bra strap, pushing her cleavage even higher and smiled. Seeing
Jonathan tonight, she wanted to make sure he was still committed, and whatever
Sam could do to remind him, she would do.
The phone rang. “Hi
Jonathan, I’m almost ready.”
“I can’t come get
you. I’m at the hospital—my heart, of all things.”
“What? No. Oh,
Jonathan—”
“Damndest thing, I
was getting my check-up and my chest tightened, then my arm went all prickly,
just as if it was asleep, only worse. Doc said I was having a mild heart attack.”
“Oh darling, are you
all right? I’ll be right over. What hospital?”
“I’m fine, now. Bit
of a scare, though. I’m weak mostly. They gave me some nitro—want to monitor me
for a few weeks. I have to take it easy—nothing strenuous—including you!” Ellen
giggled, an unexpected girlish laugh. “I want to see you anyway,” he said
softly. “Come to the house, I’m on my way there now. No excitement, remember?
Just take a Yellow cab to 15 Woodland Boulevard, use the Horvath Industries
account number 90666. There is something important we need to discuss when you
get here.”
Ellen felt her
stomach drop, leaving her nauseous.
He wouldn’t end things now, would he?
She scolded herself for thinking the thought and put her diaphragm in her bag,
just in case.
As she sat waiting
for the nausea to pass, she tried to imagine what she would do if he died. What
would happen? Nothing would happen, that’s what. She’d be still broke and
alone. She needed money. And he was by far the best bet. Could she get onto his
will?
She laughed and
realized this was exactly how Sam must have felt.
The cab pulled up
and Ellen got inside, giving the driver directions to her home. Home! It had
been five months since she had been home. She tried to imagine how it had
changed. In spite of Sam’s redecorating, it would be good to be home. She had
missed her home more than she ever imagined, missed the comfort of having her own
home, free from the noise and irritation caused by others, of having a patio
and yard, trees and flowers and the ability to walk outside, to be part of
nature. And the space—how she missed having space around her. Of course, she
also missed the beautiful furniture and her luxurious décor.
As the cab exited
the expressway, the scenery became more familiar with every turn. The boutiques
on the corner were the same. The huge oaks and maples lining the streets were
still beautiful, and all her neighbors’ homes still stately and unchanged. A
warm feeling swept through her as she recounted endless trips down this road,
twenty years’ worth of memories.
The cab pulled up to
the gates and Ellen asked the driver to stop and speak into the speaker,
requesting entrance. She stared at the stone columns and heavy ornate
wrought-iron gates, giving thanks that everything looked the same. The heavy
gate opened and her heart raced as she directed the driver to pull onto the
driveway and drive as slow as possible, allowing her to take in every detail of
her yard. As the car crept along the winding drive, Ellen stared at the garish
sheets of copper and steel, hideous monstrous sculptures that littered the
lawn. Rusted and decaying shards of metal aggressively contrasted the
ornamental trim on her regency house. These unwelcome intruders stood guard, a
vigilant metal army against the helpless captive home.
As they drove
further up the drive, it was apparent that the hedges hadn’t been pruned in
months. Weeds covered the lawn and her bougainvillea looked sparse and sickly.
In all the pots, shriveled leaves whispered the despair they had endured as
they clung to their last shreds of life. Neglect. Everywhere neglect. Where was
Raoul? Manuel? How could Jonathan let this happen?
Ellen signed the
receipt and stood for a few minutes, surveying the wreckage all around her. “Sorry,”
she said aloud as she answered their cries of abandonment. Her eyes suddenly
registered on the purple front door. Bright purple.
As she drew closer,
the shiny lacquered surface greeted her. Where were the original
hundred-year-old regency doors, imported from France? She shuddered as she
imagined their horrific fate. Ellen stood on the landing and rang the bell,
overcome with a wave of nausea.
“Carlos!” Ellen
cried out. He didn’t respond. “Oh Carlos, it’s good to see you.” Ellen grabbed
his hand. As she smiled at him, she realized the vacant look in his eyes, the
blush of red across his cheeks. She let go of his hand. “I’m Samantha Miller,
Jonathan’s expecting me.”
“Of course, Ms.
Miller. Come in,” he said in the clipped tone he used for people he didn’t like.
He stepped back and ushered her inside.
Ellen stepped
through the doorway and froze. Any hope she held that her doors were safe and
installed elsewhere was instantly shattered as she took in the updated interior
surrounding her. Garish colored walls clashed with gaudy patterned furniture.
Her stomach buckled.
“Mr. Horvath is
upstairs. I will take you to him.”
Ellen smiled and
removed her coat, handing it to Carlos. “I know the way. Thank you.”
Ellen surveyed the
additional casualties. The front giltwood console table, a Louis XVI piece, one
of three ever made, replaced with a clear yellow Lucite Parson’s table. Ellen
hated Parson’s tables as much as she hated modern sculpture. The pair of Empire
parcel-gilt chairs, bought at auction in London, from the estate sale of Lord
Grey IV and his lover, rumored to be from Napoleon’s private study—gone.
She walked toward
the parlor entrance. Her late seventeenth century framed silk and metal-thread
embroidered panels, replaced by a very large and quite hideous drippy
splattered canvas. The Empire mahogany
regulateur
clock, its grand
pendulum signed LS Tavernier, 1808.
Gone.
Her pastel, silk Louis XV Aubusson
carpet—whose soft tones perfectly accented the cream silk drapes and gold
furniture—
all of it, gone.
Ellen took a deep
breath to cool the fire in her blood. All her beautiful treasures, replaced
with hideous modern rubbish. Jonathan would never have allowed these priceless
and irreplaceable pieces to go—they must be somewhere.
He knew how many
years it took to find them, all the money and research required to obtain such
valuable and highly collectable pieces. He stored them to protect them from
Samantha’s destructive decorating addiction. Yes, they were stored. They were
safe. They had to be.
She looked up, then
slowly ascended the once-familiar staircase. As her hand slid along the new
chrome railing, her heart longed for the feel of mahogany and the patina of
eighty years of hands, big and small, wearing away the wood as they slid up and
down its top rail. The original railing, an eternal piece of beauty and grace,
now replaced by harsh metal, with its wires and bolts—an insignificant,
worthless piece of junk. How could anyone compare them? One was timeless—a
legacy, full of history and character that improved with age, the other—loud,
obnoxious and completely replaceable.
Doesn’t that idiot know wood like that
doesn’t exist anymore? That once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.
She shook
her head as her hand slid further along the metal impostor.
Along the stairs,
all the family portraits had conveniently vanished as well, replaced with very
large, chrome frames filled with black and white photos.
What exactly are
they photos of?
She stopped and leaned closer.
Back alleys, and tattoos
…
skin and
…
is this a
…?
Ellen turned away, unable to enjoy the offensive art that callously
replaced her children’s smiling faces.
At the top of the
stairs, the hallway appeared the same. She was about to peek into her bedroom
when she heard Jonathan coughing. “Sam, in here,” his voice called out.
Ellen let go of the
doorknob to her bedroom and walked toward his bedroom. Standing in the doorway,
she let out a big sigh of relief—every piece, still in the same location as
before. Every beautiful treasure, still as it was when she left, or rather,
disappeared.
She walked over to
him and held his hand. “How are you?” she asked, kissing his cheek.
“Fine, just fine.”
Ellen pulled up the
Empire parcel-gilt chair, running her hand against the silk damask and engraved
edges. “I’m surprised you kept your room the same.”
“Hmm
…
yes. Ellen went mad redecorating
the house—I didn’t want to stop her, as the good doctor said it was excellent
therapy. But I couldn’t let her change this room, not after I saw what she did
with the rest of it.”
“Where are all the
antiques? In storage?”
“Gone.”
Ellen choked on his
word. “Gone! Not all of them?” Ellen’s heart seized as she tried to grasp the
reality of his words.
Impossible!
It hurt just to think about what that
depraved woman had done.
“All of them, every last
one—except these
…”
His hand
circled the room.
“She
couldn’t—they’re irreplaceable. They took years to find—you can’t just replace
them like that.” Ellen’s chest tightened. She closed her eyes and tried
unsuccessfully to calm herself.
That stupid, stupid girl.
Her heart
raced faster. “What on earth was she thinking?”
Jonathan shook his
head. “I know—I paid for the damn things. I know very well what I paid to get
them and what I paid to have them hauled away—then I paid for the bloody
replacements.”
“They’re atrocious.”
Jonathan laughed.
“They are, aren’t they?”
“But how could she?”
“There are a lot of
things about Ellen I don’t understand. I never knew what made her tick before,
but now—now, God help her.”
“What do you mean
you never knew what made her tick?”
“Everything. All
this stuff—the house, the furniture, the yard—it all mattered so damn much to
her. Hell, she cared more about what the house looked like than what it felt
like to live in it. It was a bloody museum—cold, uncomfortable, uninhabitable.”
Ellen let go of his
hand. “You don’t mean that, it was our—your home.”
“Home is people, she
never got that. Home is what you do inside a house.”
Ellen sat back and
resisted her strong urge to hit him. “All those years, she made it a home,”
Ellen said. “She tried. I bet she tried to make it wonderful for everyone.”
“Yes, she tried all
right. She wanted it to be perfect. At first it was fun—buying this house, our
dream house.”
Ellen smiled at the
memories brought back to life, the day they found it and Jonathan surprising
her when he bought it right away.
“I had a lot of
dreams with this house,” he said with a smile.
Me too
, Ellen
thought, fondly revisiting those dreams.
“Then, I don’t
remember when exactly, it happened.”
“What happened?”
Ellen said, wincing.
“Little by little,
room by room
…
she decorated.
She planned. She perfected everything until she squeezed all the life out of
this house—all the fun—all the memories.”
“Well, Sa—Ellen has
certainly undone whatever memories were left.”
“Yes, but I didn’t
care. I also wanted to erase them. I was actually glad she changed things—”
“Glad?—to look like
this? This horror—are you mad?”
“Sweetie, why does
it bother you so much?” he said, reaching over and stroking her cheek. “You can
redo it, you know.”
“Redo your house? I
hardly think she’d approve.”
“She won’t have to.”
A smile spread across Jonathan’s face. “I’m leaving her, I’ve decided once and
for all. I’ll tell her just as soon as I can get out of bed to see her. I’ve
already told the kids.”
“I’m shocked, happy,
but—”
“But nothing. I love
you. I want to be with you. I hate this house. I hate my life here. I want to
start fresh. We could buy our own house—you can decorate it however you want.”
“I
…
oh, Jonathan.” Ellen leaned over
and kissed him. “What about Ellen? What will happen to her? I thought—”
“Poor Ellen. She’s
not going anywhere. She’s had a couple of breakdowns at the hospital. Dr.
Sutton thinks she’s extremely far gone. She needs to accept this—us. I see that
now. I’ve kept her from moving past everything with my fear that she would try
to kill herself again. They will help her now—and I want us to move forward.
This heart attack scared me and reminded me of what is important. My life may
not be long, but I want it to be happy. I want to be with you.”
He kissed her hand.
“I don’t love her, so why pretend? I feel bad for her, but that’s not a reason
to stay. She needs help and I’ll help her, but I won’t play the loving husband
anymore.”
Ellen kissed him
again. “How will she react when she hears this?”
“She’ll fall apart.
She’s already so far gone—no longer herself. I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve
been understanding, but the fact is
…”
He pulled her hands next to his heart. “I’m happy.” He kissed her hands again.
“You make me so happy.”
“Jonathan, you mean
more to me than I ever realized.”
“I do, do I?” he
said with a sly twist in his smile. “Why don’t you show me?”
Ellen sat back.
“Show you? Here? But the doctor said—”
“Come on,” he said.
“A little taste. I’ve missed you so much.”
She sat motionless, about
to protest. Ellen stood and closed the door. This was part of the package—do
what Sam would do. She walked over and lifted the sheet, unsure why she felt
cheated—this was, after all, everything she had desperately wanted.
***
Sam stared at the
large clock on the wall. It seemed frozen. Time was never moving forward.
Minutes seemed like hours, hours were days, and days seemed eternal. One whole
week of entire misery. How did all this happen? How did she end up trapped in
this wretched place? And her, of all people. She was smart. She walked right
into this trap, in fact, created the stupid thing, and now had only herself to
blame.
To make matters
worse, she felt sick, not just, ‘I hate my life’ sick, but nauseous and weak.
She tried telling the nurses but they seemed more interested in medicating her
into oblivion than helping her. Their first reaction to anything was “Here,
take this pill.” It was probably all the damn pills that were making her sick
in the first place. Sam lay back and stared at the ceiling. What could she do?
She tried the letters and failed. What about escape? She ran through the entire
scenario, right up to the point where she gets caught and locked up on a higher
security floor. No, that would only guarantee she never got out of here, ever.
But she had to do
something. Her only hope was to convince Jonathan to let her out. To convince
him it was safe now. Sam pulled the sheets closer to her chest and lay on her
side. Her heart was heavy, weighed down with sadness and fear. Which was worse?
She would take fear over sadness any day. At least in the big house she could
have friends over, go shopping, throw parties. She clenched her teeth as
another cramp stabbed her fragile stomach.
What had she done?
Ruined everything, that’s what. Her fuzzy, incoherent brain struggled as she
tried to unravel all that had happened these past months. She wished she would
wake up and be back at the big house. She wished she could undo all the
mistakes she made, including the big ones with all the society ladies, and be
able to try harder to have them like her. She wished Jonathan would love her
again and make her feel special and adored, sexy and desirable. She wished she
could see Rory again, touch him, hear his laughter, and have him hold her.