Revenge of the Spellmans (15 page)

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few days after my brother’s return, my mother demanded a family dinner—at David’s house, now that she’d discovered its superiority to her own home. I bowed out with the fortunate excuse of having a shift at the Philosopher’s Club (my very last shift). My mother said a pleasant good-bye and uttered something like “Maybe next time.” Fifteen minutes later, Milo phoned and informed me that he would not need my services that evening. When pressed on whether my mother was behind his decision, Milo pled the fifth.

While I had observed my brother through a camera the last few days, I hadn’t yet seen him in person. I waited for all the Spellmans to arrive before I made my exit and entrance. I figured their presence would provide enough distraction to keep any suspicious eyes off of me.

Through my hidden camera, I spotted my parents pulling up the driveway. I gave them ten minutes to get settled and then I slipped out of my new home, stealthily walked along the side of David’s house, scanned the periphery for nosy neighbors, and then casually walked up the steps to David’s house. I’d toyed earlier in the day with bringing a bottle of wine from David’s own wine closet, but I decided that if this new living arrangement of mine was going to work, I would have to show some restraint.

My father opened the door. His forehead was creased a bit more than
usual. The result was an expression of concern, but not with me. I entered and heard my mother in the kitchen interrogating my brother.

“Have you seen a doctor?” Mom asked.

“Yes, when it happened,” David insisted.

“Have you seen an American doctor?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

That was most definitely a lie; David had been home all day long.

“How much weight did you lose?” my mom then asked, continuing her investigation.

“Mom, calm down. I’m not dying,” David replied.

“Sit down and start eating right away.”

I followed my father into the kitchen and saw Rae seated in a chair staring at my brother as if he were a stranger. And it was then that I finally saw up close what was worrying my family.

Old David, the one of four weeks ago, had an almost blinding glow of health. He was the cover shot on a men’s magazine. His skin was flawless, his posture perfect; his clothes often appeared as if they’d just been released from the dry-cleaning wrapper. But this man, slumped in a chair in his kitchen, looked like my brother if he had been living on the streets for the past four weeks. Not to mention the blue cast on his left arm in the canvas sling.

New David, approximately twenty pounds lighter, wore his clothes like a stranger. His Levi’s hung off his hips; his T-shirt and sweater crinkled with the extra space. David’s hair had grown longer and unkempt; he sported a beard, I suspect to hide his sallow cheeks—or because shaving is difficult when one’s dominant arm isn’t working. Bluntly, David looked unwell. My mother’s concern, regardless of whether it was stronger than necessary, was certainly warranted.

After I took in the spectacle of my new and unimproved brother, it was time for me to comment.

“Some vacation.”

“What happened to ‘hello’?” David asked, commenting on my manners.

“Sorry,” I replied. “Welcome back. It’s so nice to have you home.”

“Liar,” David replied.

“How’d you break your arm?” I asked.

“He fell on the steps of the Vatican,” said my mom. “Can you believe that?”

“No,” I replied. “How much weight did you lose?”

“About fifteen pounds.”

“In four weeks? That’s so unfair.”

“I had food poisoning,” David clarified.

“Eating what?”

Pause. “Fish.”

“What kind of fish?”

“Ceviche.”

“Excellent answer. A dish famous for its food-poisoning potential.”

“Speaking of food poisoning, I’m starving,” said Dad.

“Me, too. I could eat an entire one-pound bag of M&M’s,” Rae chimed in.

While Mom cooked in the kitchen, Rae and my dad foraged through the refrigerator, looking for something to quiet their appetites. Finally David and I were alone and able to speak freely.

“Bravo,” I said after a pregnant pause.

David smiled. He liked having his handiwork acknowledged. “I have to know: In what order did you find my evidence?”

“The gun, the ledger, the drugs. Nice touch with the basil.”

“You didn’t try to smoke it, did you?”

“You do something once when you’re thirteen and nobody lets you forget it.”

“I couldn’t resist,” David replied. “So, when did you decide I had a gambling problem?”

“After your goons dropped by. I’m guessing golf buddies?”

“Basketball.”

“So, where were you? Because I know you weren’t in Italy.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go another round of Italian Internet trivia? I’d be happy to give you a few days to study.”

“Seriously, David. You’d never go to Italy without your Hugo Boss suit. Word on the street is that you’re madly in love with it.”

“Whose word?”

“First, I’d like credit for not commenting on your bizarre relationship with clothing.”

Rae returned to the living room with a bowl of pretzels and sat down on the sofa in between me and David. I wasn’t interested in bringing Rae into my investigation, so I let the subject drop and pretended to be fascinated by David’s phony vacation.

“There’s only one person who had enough information about my wardrobe to know when a piece is missing. Was Petra here?”

“She came to the party,” Rae said with a mouth full of pretzel mush.

“Rat!” I shouted.

Rae at least finished chewing before landing her retort: “Unemployed!”

“Cheater!”

Apparently sound travels farther in David’s house than I thought. My dad promptly exited the kitchen and said, “Nothing has been proven yet!”

David turned to his bar for comfort and pulled a bottle of whiskey for a drink. After careful scrutiny of the liquor cabinet, which I had apparently restored too closely to its appearance at the point of David’s departure, my brother grew suspicious and then certain.

“Isabel, when are you going to behave like a grown-up?”

“When you treat me like one.”

Over dinner David was caught up on the latest goings-on in this ball of deceit we call a family. My mother became briefly suspicious when Rae
asked David if he brought her back any Italian candy and David apologized and said it had slipped his mind, a violation of David’s lifelong tradition of bringing Rae candy from all his vacation spots. However, even though I could see my mother’s suspicion beat like a drum throughout the evening, she remained mute on the subject. I found this particularly annoying but true to form. David has always received the full spectrum of respect from my parents, which is totally unfair.

What sparked the most conversation during dinner was the extension of my forced therapy. David found great joy in this discovery, and whatever exhaustion his mysterious illness and vacation had caused, this particular topic seemed to have a salubrious
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effect on him. Glowing as if he had won some great victory, David decided to add his two cents.

“You know, Isabel, maybe this time you should actually talk about your troubles.”

I smiled sheepishly, allowing David his petty pleasure. I was going to inhabit his basement rent free. My victory was much sweeter.

After dinner, Rae informed David that his secret junk food stashes needed to be replenished. David left the kitchen and returned ten minutes later with an airtight container holding a mixed array of individualsized candy. If David were fifteen years younger, I would have accused him of robbing a trick-or-treater. My sister wanted to know what secret hiding place she’d failed to discover and David refused to answer even when her pleas went beyond what would have been my breaking point.

Then Dad asked me to lunch. Well, first he asked David, who was really swamped that week, having just returned home. Then he asked Rae, who explained to Dad that during lunch hour she was usually in school, but if he wanted to give her an afternoon reprieve, she’d be happy to join him. Then Dad asked me. I watched Mom shift her head slightly and eye me from the other side of the room, so I didn’t even think of saying no.

“Sure, Dad. Name the time and the place and I’ll be there.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Isabel.”

“Huh?”

“If you don’t have the time or the inclination to have lunch with me, you can just say no.”

“But I just said yes.”

“Really?” Dad replied skeptically.

“Yes, really.”

“What gives?” he asked, which was actually kind of annoying, and I was ready to change my mind. But then I took another look at Mom and decided against it.

“Well, Dad, right around lunchtime, I tend to get hungry. So, I figure you’re buying, right?”

“Right.”

“Why don’t you pick me up from therapy tomorrow afternoon? I’ll tell you all about it.”

THERAPY SESSION #13

M
y new therapist’s office was located in the Avenues off California Street. The level of convenience was comparable, which I suppose my previous doctor considered, but this location made driving a reasonable option if I wasn’t in the mood for public transportation. However, on this day I took the bus, since my father was picking me up.

I busied myself before, during, and after my session by making up a mental compare-and-contrast sheet between my two therapists. This I did in lieu of any real “work,” which I would later learn was a term used to define the effort one puts into the uncovering and confronting of personal demons. It’s not like I didn’t think I had any demons. I did, but I could name them—and even provide an address and telephone number for each. As far as I was concerned, those demons could go to therapy instead of me.

Dr. Sophia Rush’s waiting room had better magazines than Dr. Ira’s. She also had a little self-serve coffee/tea station and a relaxing fountain, which I would later realize had less to do with relaxation and more to do with drowning out the sounds of therapy in the other room. She also had a cool key-code system for entering the waiting room, which I found very satisfying.

I was so preoccupied with noting the differences between Dr. Ira and Dr. Rush that any pre-therapy anxiety didn’t surface until Dr. Rush finally made her entrance.

While I had no expectations or a preconceived visual concept of her appearance, my first reaction was
This can’t be Dr. Rush.
I guessed her age to be forty-five based on the diplomas on the wall, but she was one of those really well-preserved forty-fives. Or an imposter. She was dark and Italian-looking and very attractive, yet I got the feeling she went out of her way to hide it, or at least didn’t flaunt it. I doubt she had anything on her face other than moisturizer and her wardrobe was neither bland nor stylish. She wore simple, well-cut trousers, a plain but tailored crewneck T-shirt in a finer fabric than necessary, and a cardigan sweater. The result was something that wouldn’t distract. Her office décor followed a similar code. It didn’t strike me as empty and yet there was nothing in it that I found terribly compelling. By contrast, I could stare at the overloaded bookcase in Dr. Ira’s office for hours, calculating its weak spots, debating whether it was secured to the wall, wondering how it would fall and if Dr. Ira would survive in the inevitable massive earthquake that has been hanging over our heads for years.

But that’s enough talk about inanimate objects; let me get to the therapy session.

[Partial transcript reads as follows:]

DR. RUSH:
Isabel?

ISABEL:
Yes.

DR. RUSH:
I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.

ISABEL:
I didn’t think I had a choice.

DR. RUSH:
We always have a choice.

ISABEL:
I don’t think so.

DR. RUSH:
Sit down.

I sat down. So maybe she had a point. I had the option to not sit down, but that would have been awkward.

[Long pause.
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]

DR. RUSH:
I take it you’re not happy to be here.

ISABEL:
I served my time. I should be free by now.

DR. RUSH:
Are you associating therapy with incarceration?

ISABEL:
Not exactly.

DR. RUSH:
Would you like to tell me how you do perceive your sentencing?

ISABEL:
I know what I did last year was wrong.

DR. RUSH:
I’d like to hear about it in your own words. I’ve only gotten this information secondhand.

ISABEL:
In a nutshell, I found my parents’ neighbor suspicious and couldn’t stop investigating him. He filed a restraining order, which I broke. I admit that the charges against me were legitimate and I even thought that the original terms of my plea bargain were fair. But I met those terms. I saw Dr. Ira once a week for three months straight. You can’t go around changing the rules. I mean, what if you decide after twelve sessions that I’m not cured and I need another twelve?

DR. RUSH:
I can guarantee you won’t be cured.

ISABEL:
Great.

DR. RUSH:
I don’t cure people. I’m just a tour guide, so to speak.

ISABEL:
Yes, but what happens when we finish the tour? Will you make me go on another one? I took a tour through Alcatraz once. It was fun. Doesn’t mean I want to do it once a week, indefinitely.

DR. RUSH:
Interesting that you bring back a prison-related reference.

ISABEL:
My family doesn’t go to museums. The tour options were limited. I suppose I could have gone with an aquarium analogy.

DR. RUSH:
How about we make a deal?

ISABEL:
What kind of deal?

DR. RUSH:
I promise you that when your twelve sessions are up with me, we’re done.

ISABEL:
What’s the hitch?

DR. RUSH:
The next time you step through that door, bring an open mind.