Before, she’d have been in a huge private suite that fit a five-star hotel more than a hospital. Silken royal blue and ivory wallpaper. Her gown would be elegant white with an expensive, pearly sheen. There would be enough fresh flowers to overpower the antiseptic. Soft music of her choice.
The room’s still private, but nothing special. White industrial paint on the walls. Her gown is a shade between blue and dirty laundry water with the hospital name and logo. No flowers, and the odor of antiseptic stings my nose.
Seeing this hurts. It’s a reminder that not only have things been terribly wrong with my family for almost two decades, but that they’ve hit the point of no return.
We’ll never be whole again, never be right.
Mom’s in bed, her gaze focused on something beyond the wall in front of her. She’s a beautiful woman. The smooth porcelain skin, soft golden hair and the unusual green and blue eyes. Her mouth is soft and painted a light pink. She’s always been slim, but she’s lost more weight recently. The IV needle buried in her arm makes her appear even more vulnerable.
Bitterness ripples over me. What a waste. She could’ve had everything. She did have everything. Until…
“Harry, you’ve come,” she says, her voice soft. She extends her hand.
“Court,” I correct her, even as I go over to wrap her hand in mine. I hate that name, hate how long I let people use it.
Harry is the nickname she gave me when she decided I would replace my older brother in her affections. I let her, because I was ten back then, too young and stupid enough to believe I could help fix our broken family if I just went along.
Going along was precisely the problem.
“Harcourt,” she says. Typical. She has to be the one in charge. The air of frailty she wears is a weapon she wields like a knife.
“The hospital staff who called said you were sick.” I squeeze her hand. It’s warm and soft, perfectly manicured. I’m close enough I can smell her classy, expensive perfume, and note the slightly rosy tint to her cheeks underneath her foundation.
“I am.” She gives me a smile. “But I’m feeling better now that you’re here.”
I realize what she’s up to, and I’m tired of the manipulation and annoyed with myself for not having seen sooner. “If you’re feeling better, I should get going. I have things to do.”
“You’re going to start working for your father.” A satisfied glimmer lights her eyes.
“No, I’m not.”
She frowns, anger showing through the cracks in her composure. She’s probably upset I’m not just going to go along anymore. Then she catches herself and tempers the irritation with disappointment. She knows disappointment is a more versatile tool. “But you should, Harcourt. You must.”
“Why do you care?” She never did. As a matter of fact, she’s the one who encouraged me get my master’s in gender studies, despite the palpable disapproval from Dad over the years.
“If you please your father, he’ll listen to you. I know you can fix this mess.”
Suddenly exhausted, I run a hand down my face and swallow a sigh. Mom’s refrain is always the same.
Fix it, fix it, fix it.
She cannot—will not—accept that her marriage is over. Dad’s not going to forgive her. Hell, I’m not sure if I can. “I don’t have that kind of influence over Dad.”
“Yes, you do! All you have to do is convince him to give us another chance.”
“Whatever mercy you showed Tony is what you’re getting from Dad.”
She stares at me as though I’ve spat in her face. Then finally she says, her tone defiant and proud, “Lane’s love for me isn’t dead. Not over what happened to those two. I did nothing wrong. Nothing illegal.”
It kills me to see her in denial over how she almost ruined the lives of Tony and Ivy. They lost nine years because of Mom.
“What you did was morally wrong!” I say through a tangle of disgust, guilt and the need to get the hell away from her crazy obsession to regain her former glory as Mrs. Tulane Blackwood. It’s lodged so tightly in my chest that it’s hard to breathe.
Just what the hell am I doing here, anyway? I’m indulging her, which encourages her. She only turns to me because I’m the one stupid enough to run to her, talk to her, text her back.
“You will not talk to me that way, Harcourt Roderick Blackwood!”
That would’ve cowed me when I was a child. But she lost her moral authority when all the petty and selfish evil she’s done came out. “I’m going back to L.A. Don’t expect me to fix it, and don’t think Dad’s going to forgive you just because you pulled this…this hospitalization stunt.”