Chrysalis, p.13
Chrysalis, page 13
“It’ll be an even bigger story if you don’t show up.”
She lets out a frustrated sound between a growl and an aimless yell that tells me just how upset she is about all of this.
“I fucking hated him.”
Except some part of her didn’t. Because anger and sadness are parallel emotions. And I know what it’s like to hate yourself for giving a shit about your low-life father.
“It’s over. You never have to see him again.”
“Fuck my life,” she groans.
I hear her shaky breathing on the other side of the phone. The car rounds the corner of her street and there are, indeed, paparazzi outside her house. I motion to the driver to go around to the back alley.
“I wish you were coming.” Her voice breaks then.
“Of course I’m coming. Someone has to make sure you wait ‘til everyone’s gone before you spit on his grave.”
Shakily, she sighs. “I feel like shit asking you to spend 24 hours each way getting here just so you can hold my hand for half a day and suffer through disingenuous speeches and funeral bullshit.”
“I already made up my mind.” I motion for the car to stop.
“It’s me who’s supposed to be getting on a plane right now. We’re supposed to be lying on a beach somewhere…”
I grab my garment bag and my duffel, key in the security code to her back gate, and shuffle up the kitchen steps.
“Are you trying to talk me out of coming?” I interrupt.
When I hear her sniffle my arms ache to hold her.
“Because I’m on the back steps. So you’d better open the door.”
I’m kissing her hair. She’s been suspended in an extended slumber that is strangely deep—she’s been out for fifteen hours. I slept next to her for about twelve of those, because I’m fucking exhausted, too. Now I lie awake, staring up at our butterfly painting, holding her in an attempt to make her feel engulfed. My arms pull us flush, my legs intertwine with hers, and I am attempting to offer her every comfort I can.
“I knew you would come.”
Evidently, she’s more awake than I thought.
“You needed me.” I kiss her hair.
“I always need you.” And it’s a knife in my gut. I feel her tense.
“I’m sorry.” We say it at the same time, her voice panicked, mine ashamed.
“Jinx,” she says softly. She tips her head up to look at me, remorse in her wakeful eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.” I kiss her hair again.
“I just miss you.”
“I know. I’m working on fixing that.”
Her arms pull tighter around me. “I’m sorry this hijacked our vacation.” It’s the saddest I’ve heard her sound since I arrived. “You have no idea how much I was looking forward to being alone with you.”
My traitorous dick stirs, but I try to shut it down. “We’ll reschedule. And don’t you dare apologize.”
“I’m still not waiting ‘till January.”
I repeat what I’ve told her a thousand times. “The sooner, the better. Come any time you want.”
We’re quiet again, holding each other gently, touching each other softly. Since the moment I arrived, our bodies have been in constant contact. It’s an odd exchange. I’ve come here to comfort her, but being next to her like this has a healing effect on me. I think that’s what both of us need right now—to heal. Our jobs are killing us. Being apart is hard. And things with Frank and the South Side keep dealing both of us blow after blow. We need to lick our wounds, to find comfort in one another, to leave this shit behind and build something brand new. She’s right—holing ourselves up in a beach cottage in Australia can’t come soon enough.
But there’s no escaping the now. Even as I lie here with her, I’m playing a role. Until the sharks stop circling, I’m the gatekeeper. I’m keeping the phones and televisions silent. I’m keeping away the press, the cops and well-meaning, but distant, friends. I’m working with Frank’s assistant to answer on Darby’s behalf about funeral details and other inane logistics—access to the Evanston home for the repast and the reading of the will.
The only people who have penetrated this fortress are people from Darby’s inner circle. People who are dear to her in some way, who have a role to play right now. Anne was by the day before I came with crass jokes and alcohol. Andrew came by with his little dog. And a sweet woman named Iris showed up with homemade comfort food and something for Darby to wear to the funeral. After we lounge for a while, I convince her to head downstairs and have something to eat. Just as we are finishing, she gets a call from Ben.
I jump on the opportunity to discreetly read what the newspapers are saying this morning. Darby doesn’t need to be exposed to this right now, but I want to know what’s being said about Frank’s death. I pull out my laptop and angle it away from her, multitasking as I clean the kitchen. After I’m done, I go to grab my earbuds and settle onto a barstool to check out a few video news segments. When I realize Darby’s talking about me, my ears perk up a little and I delay putting my earbuds in.
“Yeah…he got here yesterday. Showed up on my doorstep before I could even ask him to get on a plane…I know…I know…I know he does…yeah…this would be ten times worse if he wasn’t here…”
When she says that last part, she glances over at me. Through the door that connects the two rooms, she has a clear line of sight. She knows I’m eavesdropping, but she doesn’t look uncomfortable that I’ve heard. She even throws me a little smile.
“Well, he hated him, too. I never told you what happened. I’ll tell you when you get into town…yeah…he’s cute when he’s worried…yeah…” She laughs at something then. “I know…he’s waiting for me to start grieving.” She looks at me again when she says that.
When she walks into the kitchen a minute later, she tosses her phone on the counter. She’s hung up with Ben, which means it’s time for me to stop what I’m doing. I close the windows on my browser and shut my laptop. I do it casually, but with deliberate speed. I don’t want her to see the headlines confirming that Frank’s death has been ruled a murder. I’ll have to find another quiet moment to talk to Avi about that.
“I’m not waiting for you to start grieving,” I say gently.
“Yes you are,” she smiles again. “And it’s okay. It’s what everyone’s waiting for—the mournful daughter. But you can stop worrying. I’m fine.” She turns to open a cabinet above her and takes a few steps toward the fridge to fill a glass of water.
“You may have hated him, cupcake. But he was still your father.”
Her hand halts in mid-air, the drink of water she was about to take temporarily forgotten.
“When someone hurts you enough…by the time they actually die, they’ve already been dead to you for a long time.” Her eyes stay on mine as her glass completes its journey and she takes a deep swallow of the water.
I must not look convinced.
“I see grief every day, Michael. The families of addicts…they all know how it’s gonna end. When the people they love die, there are only two kinds of survivors: the ones who are just starting to grieve and the ones who accepted it a long time ago.”
She’s telling me that she’s already grieved. And in a certain respect, I know she has. But I think of my own father, who has also been dead to me for many years, and how being forced out of the blue to relive our relationship has dredged up a river of shit.
“So what is it that you’ve accepted?”
“Hating him,” she says simply. “Grieving for someone who has failed you is different from grieving somebody who loved you well.” She’s looking down at her fingers, playing with her glass in her hands a second before she places it back on the bar. She looks me straight in the eye. “Do you want to know the truth? When I got the call, I felt relief. It’s all I’ve been feeling for the past three days. You may think I’m cold hearted for saying it, but I’m glad he’s dead.”
I don’t think she’s cold hearted, but I do worry that she’s oversimplifying things. “It’s not an either/or. You can be glad the shitty part of him is dead at the same time as you mourn the parts of him you loved.”
She walks over to where I’m sitting and stands between my legs. My arms slide around her waist as she rests her arms on my shoulders. Her fingers stroke the short hair on the back of my head, just above my neck, and her touch feels so good.
“True…” she admits. With me sitting, she’s slightly taller than me, looking down. “But I’m not avoiding my emotions, okay? Right now, relief is what I feel. Maybe I’ll feel differently in a week. Who knows? So you can keep your handkerchief in your pocket. I’m still blazing mad over the media frenzy. But I won’t be shedding any tears.”
I study her for clues—for any tell that she’s lying to herself about this, for any signs of bravado. “So nothing more you found out about him could hurt you…” I test. “Like, if I told you he was tied up in human trafficking, or ran a child pornography ring, or that he was a drug lord or something…”
Realization dawns in her eyes and they narrow in recollection. “You were gonna tell me what was really going on, on the South Side.”
“It’s bad.”
But nothing in her reaction shows fear or apprehension. She looks at me with something akin to pity, and shakes her head. “Do you even remember how many times I tried to warn you off of crossing him? I know what he was capable of. We’d be up all night if I told you all the things I’ve seen him do to gain more status or make another buck. So whatever this thing is you’re not telling me…it’s just details. You can’t hurt me with what I already know.”
Avi is here. He’s been in Chicago since the meeting. It’s hard to believe that everything I witnessed happened only four days ago. He stuck around to poke his other sources for information that would get us closer to knowing the truth. Piecing things together has been easier said than done. Avi’s questioning can’t be too obvious or direct. If it is, he’ll blow his cover and get dragged in to it.
We sit Darby down in her living room and start from the beginning. We tell her how it began—as an attempt to learn the identity of the kingpin. About figuring out it had to be an inside job. About the steel plants and the government contracts and all roads leading to Frank. She listens patiently, intently, asking all the right questions, and becoming convinced. When Avi pulls out his laptop and shows her video of the factory scene, she takes it better than I thought she would. It takes her a full five minutes to speak and she’s still staring at the last frame of the video on Avi’s screen. Her body is still, but I can see the fire, burning brighter with every passing second, in her eyes.
“I knew it,” she says simply, finally turning her eyes to me. “I always knew this is how it would end for him. He’s always been a bad man. He’s always done business with bad people. And he’s always been cocky enough to think he’d never lose.” She shakes her head. The expression on her face is hard to read. “And he’s still fucking me over from beyond the grave,” she continues, turning to Avi. “But I need to make it right. Will you help me?”
He says “Yes” at the same time I say “No”.
“There’s no need for you to get involved in this,” I insist, signaling to Avi that I will deal with him later.
“She’s already involved,” he says gravely. And I don’t like the understanding that’s passing between he and Darby right now. What has he figured out that I haven’t?
“I’m Frank’s next of kin. Unless he cut me out of the will, I’m the new owner of those plants.”
I let this sink in.
“I’m not letting those drugs on the streets. You know that, right? The businesses have legal access to confiscated drugs. The right thing to do is to destroy them.”
“Now that the mobs see dollar signs, they’re not gonna let this go. They may already be in cahoots with Sweeney,” I say. “You can’t let yourself be in danger from cleaning up a mess your father got you in, Darby. You have to get rid of those plants.”
“So find me someone.” She stands up and turns to Avi. “Find me someone to sell the plants to, someone who will take them over and do the right thing. Who had the contracts before my father’s company won them?”
“Different players,” Avi says.
“Find out all the ones who were legitimately destroying the drugs. Get me those names, and I’ll sell the plants back to them.”
She’s sleeping deeply again, but I’m wide awake. I slip out of bed, take a shower, and get myself ready for the funeral. I want her to get rest, so I wait until the last possible moment to rouse her. I awaken her as I have so many times before, with my fingers combing gently through her gorgeous mane of red-brown hair.
“It’s time,” I say simply when her eyes open to mine.
When she closes them again, I can feel her sense of dread.
“The motorcade will be here in an hour,” I explain apologetically.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, she’s showered, donned the black dress and coat Iris brought her, and a ridiculously dramatic wide-brimmed black hat that I’m sure she wouldn’t have worn under any other circumstance. I recognized it for the disguise that it is—it will add to the illusion that she’s the appropriately mournful daughter. Never one to forget a single detail, I pass her large, stylish sunglasses that I find in her closet before sliding on a pair of my own.
It occurs to me for the first time in a long time what a striking couple we’ll make, and how much attention my act of supporting her so publicly will garner. Darby is no longer just the late senator’s daughter—she’ll be a focal point of Frank’s mysterious death, and is now the heiress to a far more notable fortune than the one she already possesses.
I take her hand then, and when I do I get the distinct sense that the feeling of me steadying her is all that her consciousness can register. Outwardly, she is perfect, but I can hear that she is hollow inside. A motorcade complete with a police escort and all the state regalia awaits us, and after we climb into the limousine, she stares out the window, saying nothing. She seems eerily absent except for the determined grip with which she holds my hand. Despite what she says, I know that this will be hard and that I am the only thing that’s grounding her. I feel grateful that I’ve gotten here so quickly, grateful that she has so willingly placed me in this role.
“Captain Obvious graces us with his presence.”
I don’t even see Anne walk up to me. I’m too busy hovering over Darby from a distance. From what I’ve gathered, she and Rich haven’t spoken much since she fired him from her project. But he showed up and the two of them stand in the corner. It’s the first time I’ve left her side all day but it seems like they need to talk. I flip my eyes to Anne’s for a split second before training them back on Darby. She seems fine for the moment, but I want to be ready the second that changes.
“It’s written all over you, you know,” she continues.
“It’s not a secret.” I’m not an idiot. I know what Anne is talking about.
“Then why haven’t you told her?”
“How do you know I haven’t?” It’s useless misdirection. I have no doubt that Anne knows everything about what has or hasn’t been said. I’m glad she was there for Darby, even when I wasn’t, even if leaving us in more limbo than we probably need to be makes me kind of a dick.
“She needs to hear it. Even if its over, she needs you to say it.”
“She knows it’s not over.”
“No shit, Sherlock. She still needs to hear it.”
I sigh heavily and look back at her. “I’m going to tell her. Soon.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“We’re supposed to be on a romantic vacation together on the Great Barrier Reef. We were going to talk about things between us then.”
Anne nods in understanding. “Then Frank fucked up your plans by having the nerve to die.”
“Among other things.” I change the subject before Anne can push on that. “How bad is it at work?”
“This is a conversation you should be having with her.”
“I know it is.” I’m careful to soften my voice before I speak again. “But her father just died. So can you cut me a break?”
Anne thinks this over for a minute. It doesn’t take her long to spill, even though I can tell she doesn’t like the idea of spreading Darby’s business. When she does it’s as I suspected.
“She buried herself in work as soon as you left. I think she thought it would pass the time. She bit off more than she could chew, then things got worse after Rich left. They also fired her boss, over the Huck thing. The new guy’s okay, but it’s a lot of change.”
I glance back over at Darby and Rich, who seem to be chatting pleasantly enough but my ears are listening to Anne.
“I don’t think she’s happy. I don’t think all this is good for her.”
Anne is trying not to glare at me—I know she’s conflicted about whether I’m good for Darby. She blames me for Darby being unhappy and I can’t be mad at her for that. For a year she leaned on me. I helped her beat Huck and all the shit her father pulled with Sweeney. We both know Darby would be better if I were still here.
“I know this looks bad.” I might as well level with Anne. She can smell bullshit a thousand miles away and even though she hates me right now, we are allies to a common cause. “I know you think I abandoned her. But what we had before wasn’t made to last. That arrangement was predicated on a promise that there would be no commitment. It had to die.”
“You didn’t have to try to kill her along with it.”
Anne’s words hit me hard. But I punch back. I’m not perfect, but I’m not the person she’s making me out to be.
“I’d been in line for that promotion for months. She never would’ve let me fall on my sword. And don’t forget—before I got Huck fired, Darby was looking too. I may have dealt the death blow, but it was both of our game.”
Something changes in Anne’s eyes and I think I’m winning her over.
