Revenge of the Spellmans (9 page)

T
hat same night, when I finally had David’s place to myself, I poured myself a drink from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s with my name on it and roamed the sprawling residence, searching for either more incriminating evidence or at least something that could explain the gun.

After an hour and a half, all I’d found was a snack-sized bag of M&M’s in the back of a file cabinet and an unopened box of Red Vines in the linen closet. I thought about the “Do NOT” list, especially its “Do not sleep in my bed” dictum, and decided to refocus my investigative energies on the bedroom. I had already checked between the mattress and the box spring, rummaged through the storage bins on the top shelf of his closet, searched for false bottoms in his dresser drawers, and even scanned the floor for loose boards. Nothing.

I was about to give up on the bedroom when I grabbed a flashlight and crawled under the bed. There was nothing on the floor, but when I twisted onto my back I found a notebook stuck in the slats of the bed frame.

I’ll be honest: I was hoping for something juicy like a diary, although in retrospect the idea of my brother having a diary is rather disturbing, so I guess in the end it was a good thing. Besides, even I would be racked with guilt over reading someone’s diary. Not that I wouldn’t do it, but I would certainly feel bad about it.

What I found was a notebook resembling a ledger. Inside I found something unexpected. It was a handwritten spreadsheet of dates, sporting events, point spreads, bets, wins, and losses. It was in my brother’s handwriting and there was no way to see this notebook as anything but a gambler’s record. But, obviously, the gambler was my brother, and based on the record of wins and losses, he was losing big.

I spent the rest of the evening trying to contemplate a scenario that didn’t paint my brother as a compulsive gambler. The following morning I decided to give myself a break from the David investigation and involve myself in a much more enjoyable activity.

A
s you may have gathered, it was my plan to break every rule on David’s “Do NOT” list. The party was the one rule I was most looking forward to breaking. However, good parties usually involve a celebratory occasion, and since birthdays, New Year’s, and every other booze-oriented holiday were either long past or far away, I had to arrive at an altogether different festive theme. And then it occurred to me—a theme more festive than any other I could think of: the end of my court-ordered therapy.

I planned the party on a Friday morning. The modest guest list included the following individuals: Petra, Morty, Gabe, Daniel (Ex-boyfriend #9, the dentist) and his wife, Len and Christopher, Milo, Mom, Dad, and Rae. My paltry list of invitees confirmed a long-standing opinion of my brother’s—I don’t have enough friends my own age.

As if to confirm that fact, I then phoned Henry (age forty-five) to see if he and Maggie wanted to attend. The conversation went like this:

ISABEL:
I’m having a party on Sunday to celebrate the end of my therapy. Want to come?

HENRY:
Will Rae be there?

ISABEL:
Yes.

HENRY:
I respectfully decline.

ISABEL:
She’ll behave, I promise.

HENRY:
You can’t promise that.

ISABEL:
I’d be happy to uninvite her.

HENRY:
I’ll think about it.

ISABEL:
Bring Maggie, of course.

HENRY:
She’s on a camping trip.

ISABEL:
Oh. Good. I mean, not good. But, then you know there won’t be any Maggie-and-Rae conflicts. Okay, bye.

I hung up the phone and reminded myself that I was supposed to look into the credit file breach for Maggie and I had completely forgotten. I wondered what Dr. Ira would say about that. Was I being passive-aggressive? (See, I learned a few things in therapy.) I decided it was best not to bring up any new material for my final session and simply made a mental note to look into the Maggie matter as soon as possible. But first, I had a party to throw.

My best friend, Petra, arrived early with booze and snacks. I promptly marched her up the stairs into the bedroom and then the closet and demanded that she tell me what was amiss.

“Huh?” was her first reply.

I realized that she’d require more information for an informed inspection, so I mentioned my suspicions about David actually being in Europe. “Can you just look through the closet and see whether the right clothes have been taken for a European vacation?”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable being your informant,” Petra replied.

“How about a drink?” I said. “Would that make you more comfortable?”

I think Petra’s own curiosity got the best of her. She gave David’s ward
robe a quick peek. Then she focused on the suits, quickly filing through them.

“His Hugo Boss is here,” she said.

“Intriguing,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely clear on why it was intriguing.

“He wouldn’t go to Italy without that suit,” she said.

“Why?” I replied.

“Because he’s madly in love with it.”

“Creepy,” I said. “Could he be cheating on it with another suit?”

“It’s possible,” she replied. “But unlikely.”

“Do you notice anything else?” I asked, realizing that Petra was itching to get out of the bedroom.

“It looks like some blue jeans are missing and some hiking boots. If that’s all, I need to start making the Magic Punch,”
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Petra said on her way out of the bedroom. I contemplated the missing suit for a few minutes, but then the doorbell rang and I realized that my revelers were going to require some attention.

Like most parties—or at least my memories of them—my End of Court-Ordered Therapy Party is best portrayed as a collage of incongruous moments. Here’s how I remember it, upon reflection:

I.

[Rae, upon passing Gabe in the hallway:]

RAE:
Who are you?

GABE:
Gabe.

RAE:
That means nothing to me.

GABE:
I’m Gabe Schilling, grandson of Mort Schilling.

RAE:
The old guy?

GABE:
Yes.

RAE:
I can see the resemblance.

GABE:
Thanks.

RAE:
You always go to parties with your grandpa?

II.

[As Petra came upon my mother in the kitchen:]

PETRA:
Oh, hi.

MOM:
Hi, Petra. How have you been?

PETRA:
Okay. You?

MOM:
I’m looking for toothpicks. Know where I might find them?

PETRA:
Third drawer on the right.

[Awkward silence.]

III.

DAD:
Tell me the truth.

LEN:
Listen to me carefully. I’m about to tell you something extremely important. Pleats are over. Do not wear pleated pants under any circumstances. Do you understand me?

DAD:
That means I’d have to buy an entirely new wardrobe.

CHRISTOPHER:
Just new pants. The shirt is not so bad.

LEN:
The shirt is okay, but I’d get rid of the shoes.

DAD:
I don’t know if I can do all that.

CHRISTOPHER:
Baby steps. Get rid of the pleated khakis.

LEN:
Deal?

DAD:
Deal.

IV.

RAE:
Why did you invite Daniel?

ISABEL:
Because he’s my friend.

RAE:
You should only have to see a dentist once every six months. They shouldn’t be invited to parties.

ISABEL:
You’re lucky you were invited.

RAE:
I know there are some Red Vines hidden around here somewhere. Have you seen them?

ISABEL:
No.
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Why don’t you just eat the party food?

RAE:
[Some adolescent noise I can’t spell.]

V.

MORTY:
What?

MOM:
Can I take your sweater?

MORTY:
I already had one, thanks. It was delicious.

MOM:
How about I refresh your drink?

MORTY:
No, but I could use another ginger ale.

VI.

GABE:
We should do something sometime.

ISABEL:
That’s so vague.

GABE:
I’ll try to think of something more specific.

ISABEL:
Okay. But it can’t be illegal because I can’t handle any more court-ordered therapy.

GABE:
That certainly narrows down our options.

ISABEL:
Don’t I know it.

VII.

HENRY:
Rae, stop offering me junk food. If I’m hungry, I’ll find something to eat on my own.

RAE:
I’m being hospitable.

HENRY:
Take your hospitality somewhere else.

RAE:
Dude, you need to relax.

HENRY:
How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me “dude”?

RAE:
A couple hundred times and maybe I’ll stop.

VIII.

MILO:
Come on, tell me what’s in the punch.

PETRA:
No.

MILO:
Please.

PETRA:
Never.

IX.

DANIEL:
Very interesting crowd, Isabel.

ISABEL:
Uh, thanks, I guess.

ROSA:
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[to Daniel] Don’t you think Isabel would be perfect for Mark?

DANIEL:
That’s a terrible idea.

ISABEL:
Trust me, it’s a bad idea. But thanks.

ROSA:
[to Daniel] How about Jonah? He’s so sweet.

DANIEL:
I’d like him to stay that way.

ISABEL:
Hey, I’m still here.

DANIEL:
I think a congratulations is in order. Three months of therapy. You must be a new woman.

ISABEL:
No, not so new.

ROSA:
I know! My friend Jack. He’s very cute.

ISABEL:
Excuse me. I need to get some more Magic Punch.

I considered my ECOT
4
party a smashing success. By the end of the night, I could almost feel the three-month cloud of therapy giving way to a clear sky. The next day I would say good-bye to Dr. Ira for good and I could barely contain my bliss.

THERAPY SESSION #12

[Partial transcript reads as follows:]

ISABEL:
So this is good-bye.

DR. IRA:
For you and me, it is.

ISABEL:
Of course, just for you and me. Who else would it be good-bye for?

DR. IRA:
There’s something I need to talk to you about.

ISABEL:
Right now you’re wishing I brought in that cake, aren’t you?

DR. IRA:
No, I’m not. Listen, Isabel. There’s a form that I need to fill out for the court, acknowledging that you’ve complied with the terms of your sentencing. I’m having some trouble filling out that form.

ISABEL:
I’d be happy to fill it out for you and you could just sign it.

DR. IRA:
I must admit that I’ve failed you, Isabel.

ISABEL:
Don’t say that, Dr. Ira. I think you’ve done a great job.

DR. IRA:
We haven’t begun to crack the surface of what makes you tick.

ISABEL:
You underestimate yourself, Doc. A crack was made. Maybe even a dent.

DR. IRA:
I don’t believe so.

ISABEL:
Have you been talking to my parents?

DR. IRA:
As I’ve explained to you on numerous occasions, I do not talk about our work here with other people.

ISABEL:
So, you admit work was done.

DR. IRA:
[sigh] Isabel, please, I’m doing this for your own good.

ISABEL:
What
are
you doing, exactly?

DR. IRA:
I’ve arranged with the court for you to continue therapy with another doctor. It’s hard for me to admit this, but I just was not the right therapist for you. My colleague, Dr. Sophia Rush, may be better suited for treating you.

ISABEL:
But I’m done with therapy. According to the court documents, I just had to complete twelve sessions.

DR. IRA:
Not anymore. Now you have another twelve sessions to complete—twenty-four total.

ISABEL:
You can’t be serious.

DR. IRA:
You’ll thank me later.