I wonder what he’ll think of my body after laying Mom all these years. Maybe he’ll think I’m too fat, but the minute he touches my boobs, his you-know-what becomes ramrod-straight. I let him bury his head in my chest, kiss my nipples. I give him a line of coke, then I take another snort. My face is always hidden.
I ask him what kinds of things he wants to do, and he says everything. I say it will cost him a hundred and fifty, and he gets suddenly outraged. A real bad acting job. I know what he makes, and he could buy all of Hollywood if he wanted to. Anyway, by now he’s too excited to argue, and three fifty-dollar bills are slapped into my wet hand. I do whatever he wants as long as he can’t see my face.
When it’s over, I tell him I have a surprise for him. He’s lying in bed now, smoking a joint. Still naked, I saunter over to the light switch, then suddenly flip it on. The cheesy room is flooded with bright yellow light. We both squint, then he sees me. It takes him a moment, then I see his tanned, tight face drain of all its color. His eyes pop out and he begins to pant. His skin takes on a greenish hue and he runs for the toilet. I hear him throw up.
Afterward he cries in my arms. But we both know it’s not over.
Dad came home at eleven tonight. Mom and he start fighting. They always fight, did I tell you that? Probably why Dad started staying away. Anyway, it’s the first time I ever remember Dad coming home in like twenty years or something. I’m no dummy. I know what the sucker has in mind, and that’s okay by me. After all, I’m not really his daughter by blood, you know.
He comes into my room at around two o’clock. I make him pay, and no shit, he agrees. Man, I know you’re gonna think I’m sick, but I gotta tell you. My dad’s all right in the sack.
This goes on for the next month. If Mom suspects anything, she doesn’t say a word. Then a strange thing happens. Life is weird — very weird. A real strange thing happens.
We fall in love.
Or something like it.
We consider all the options. The first is running away and giving me a new identity so that we can marry. The idea is discussed, then tossed in the circular file. Dad makes a couple a million buckeroos as a TV producer, and no way he could make that kind of money outside of L.A. Neither of us likes poverty.
We consider having Dad and Mom divorce and I’d live with Dad. That’s out. California has stiff community-property laws, and the bitch would get half of everything!
There’s only one option left.
First off, I gotta tell you that neither one of us really feel guilty about our decision ’cause: A, I’m not my dad’s real daughter; and B, Mom has had this coming for a long time.
Way overdue.
We plan to do it next Saturday right after she comes home from one of her parties. She’s usually pretty sauced and hyped and has to pop some downers to get to sleep. We figure we’ll help her along.
She comes in at two A.M., surprised that I’m still up. I say I was having trouble sleeping and offer to make her some hot coffee. She nods and dismisses me with a wave of her hand. Like I’m a servant, instead of her daughter doing her a favor. I lace the java with Seconal. Halfway through the drink, her lids begin to close. But she knows something is wrong. She tells me she’s having trouble breathing and asks me to call the doctor. I act like I’m real worried and place the phony call. By the time I hang up, she’s out.
Both Dad and I are worried. She only drank half a cup, and we wonder if it’s enough dope to do her in. Dad feels her pulse. It’s weak but steady. A half hour later her heartbeat is even stronger. Dad says, “What the hell do we do now?” I think and think and think, then come up with a really rad brainstorm.
I get ten tablets full of Seconal, crush them in water, and suck the mixture into my old syringe. Did I tell you I shoot up occasionally? When the boredom is just too much. I haven’t done it for a while, but I keep the syringe — you know, just in case the mood hits me. I shoot the dope under her tongue. It’s absorbed fast that way and doesn’t leave any marks. A friend of mine told me that.
Dad feels her pulse for a third time. Squeezes her wrist hard. Nothing. Nada! We celebrate with a big hug and a wet kiss, then wash the cup and wipe the place clean of fingerprints.
A half hour later Dad places a panic call to the paramedics.
God, I’m a great actress, carrying on like Mom and I were like bosom buddies.
“Mommmeeeee,” I wail at the funeral.
Everyone feels sorry for me, but I don’t accept their comfort.
My dad has his arm around me. He pulls me aside later on.
“You’re overdoing it,” he tells me.
“Hell, Paul.” I call him Paul now. “I lost my fucking mother. I’m supposed to be upset.”
“Just cool it a little, Kristie,” Paul says. “Act withdrawn. Like someone took away your Black Sabbath records.”
I sulk for a moment, then say what the hell. He’s older. Maybe he knows best. I crawl into this shell and don’t answer people when they talk to me. They give me pitying looks.
The detective shows up at our door unannounced. He’s a big guy with black hair, old-fashioned sideburns, and acne scars. My heart begins to take off, and I say I don’t answer any questions without my dad around.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I respond. Then I ask him if he has a warrant.
He laughs and says no.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t help you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” he asks.
“God, are you crazy?” I say. “I mean, with all that happened? I can’t concentrate on school right now. I mean, I lost my mother!”
“You two were pretty close, then.”
“Real close.”
“You don’t look much like her,” he remarks.
I feel my face changing its expression and get mad at myself. I say, “I’m adopted.”
“Oh,” the detective says. His face is all red now. “That would explain it.”
Then he says, “I’m sorry to get personal.”
“That’s okay,” I say, real generous.
There’s a pause. Then the detective says, “You know we got the official autopsy report back for your mother.”
I feel short of breath. I try to keep the crack out of my voice. “What’s it say?” I ask.
“Your mother died of acute toxicity,” he says. “Drug OD.”
“Figures,” I say calmly. “She had lots of problems and was on and off all sorts of drugs.”
He nods, then asks, “What kind of drugs did she take?”
Then all of a sudden I realize I’m talking too much. I tell him I don’t know.
“I thought you two were close.”
I feel my face go hot again.
“We were,” I say. “I mean, I knew she took prescribed drugs to help her cope, but I don’t know which drugs. Our relationship wasn’t like that, you know.”
“Why don’t we just peek inside the medicine cabinet of your house?” he says.
I shake my head slowly, then say, “Come back tonight, when my dad is home. Around eight, okay?”
He agrees.
Paul has a shit-fit, but I assure him I handled it well. By the time the detective shows up, we’re both pretty calm. I mean, all the drugs found in her stomach came from her own pills. And then there was the party she went to. I’m sure at least a half dozen people remember her guzzling a bottle or two of white wine. She loved white wine — Riesling or Chardonnay.