“But I still hope you have a great time. And take lots of pics. And, you know, it’s an opportunity to start a conversation with your father. It’s time, Ror, I think, to figure that out for yourself.”
I had figured it out for myself. I know who he is. I know what I want, and what I don’t want. It was like being in the therapist’s office early on, a joint session where Shelley told the guy she was concerned that her feelings about Sherman were bleeding into mine. That we were too enmeshed. Of course her feelings were bleeding into mine. And mine into hers. Unavoidable. And not the point. Enmeshed. I’d never heard the word before. I hated how it took my independence with one two-syllable swipe. Fuck. That. I am not enmeshed. And what I couldn’t say then, or wouldn’t say, was that I don’t feel the way I feel about Sherman because he left Shelley, but because he left me.
Mommy. I’ve tried, telepathically, to let her know I’m okay. I wanna believe there’s such a thing as telepathy—that you can be so connected to another human, they can feel your thoughts. I guess enmeshed isn’t always bad.
* * *
—
This pink laptop. I’ve just discovered something tragically amazing about this laptop.
I opened up the contacts a few minutes ago. Looking for what? Someone who could help us? A name or e-mail I might recognize? I don’t know anyone’s e-mail address. Or telephone numbers. Not even Aunt Lill’s. It’s all in my phone. Who remembers numbers? Anyway, I didn’t find any contacts I recognized, but I was nosy, so I looked at the photo files.
I’m so stupid for not connecting…I mean…This guy, Javier…I didn’t link him with the little girl that died in Hidden Oaks, but then this photograph popped up—of a smush-face six-year-old in her white first Communion dress—on a prayer card from her funeral. Nina Fernandez.
Javier’s daughter. Nina. She was riding a scooter in front of the house her mother was cleaning up the hill from us, not far from the third set of gates to the Kardashian compound, when she fell and hit her head. Another kid who saw Nina fall said she didn’t even cry.
Nina got up and went into the mansion, where her mother was washing the floor, to show her the goose egg on her head, and she either tripped on the threshold or slipped on the wet floor, or her injury made her dizzy and she fainted. Either way, she cracked her skull in the foyer and bled out over the travertine.
Miller Law took on the case for Javier and his wife, suing the homeowner. But it caused a lot of controversy and conflict in Hidden Oaks. And a few weeks later, Sherman dropped it, directing Javier to another law firm without even consulting my mother. In the end, Shelley’s confusion over that decision is what uncovered my father’s affair. The owner of that house where Nina bled to death? Sugar Tits. That’s how my dad met her.
But before Sherman dropped Javier as a client, and before he started his affair, my parents hosted the wake for Nina at our house. I was supposed to be there for it. But I was completely stressed by the start of school and cross-country, and I didn’t think I could hack all that tragedy, plus it was Brooky’s birthday and she was having a sleepover and spa day. It’s not like she was gonna postpone her birthday. My parents couldn’t stand it when I was sad, so my mom said I should go to Brooky’s but remember to stop in and pay respects.
It’s possible that our parents are making a terrible mistake when they try to shield us from disappointment and pain and sadness. Maybe we’re supposed to feel bad sometimes. Maybe we’re supposed to feel like utter fucking shit.
I watched from behind Brooky’s bedroom curtains that day—as one does—well, as I do—all the greasy gardeners’ trucks jamming the cul-de-sac, the nannies and housekeepers clacking around in kitten heels, and the mow-and-blow guys in new suits from Burlington. Everybody carried plates of food in foil, even though my parents had hired a caterer.
There was this one guy, an old dude, who stood at the end of the driveway just staring at our house for a really long time. I wondered if he was too sad to go in. Then he stooped to pinch a wilted rose from the bush