S E V E N
LOS ANGELES, CA
Rebecca. Rebecca. Rebecca.
No one has called me that in years.
I'm not sure how to feel about this or whether I can even allow myself to feel anything. It's my dad, the most important person in my life bar none, so I suppose he's the only person in this entire city—in this entire state, really—I should be giving the time of day and an opportunity to see and talk to me, but I'm surrounded by sharks who have made it clear are out for my blood. There's no way I can cross the room and run to him without being stopped after just a few steps, and I know I won't be able to handle anyone's filthy hands on me.
Realistically, I can probably take my mother on a one-to-one brawl. However, I also know she doesn't fight fair and, on the rare times she doesn't get anyone else unnecessarily involved in a conflict that doesn't involve them, she'll surely resort to dirty tactics like good, old gaslighting and manipulation. That, I can handle.
I have enough confidence in my feelings and my reality to be able to tell when she's trying to take advantage of a possible moment of fragility, thankfully, but things haven't always been that way. If I dared to show my face in this city a few years ago, when I didn't have an ounce of self-confidence and the intensive care provided by a therapist, I would've fallen right into her trap, a little fly stuck in a spider web.
If anything, the thing that pisses me off the most about my mother is her hypocrisy, how she devotes so much time and effort into making herself look like the pinnacle of goodness and holiness when she's not even religious and has been the catalyst for most of the family's scandals.
The main reason my parents ever got divorced was because she had an affair—at least that we know of—and decided to tear the entire family apart because she wanted to have fun and feel young again, but then blames it all on me like I've had anything to do with any of it. It was me, my need for attention, my need to be the only girl my father cares about; I made her feel unloved in her own house and got her addicted to pool boys, yo-yo dieting, and pills. I ruined their marriage, her life, Michelle's life. What's not to hate about Miss Harley Kane?
Sorry. Rebecca Harley Kane.
Getting rid of that horrid, vile first name was the driving force behind every change that followed—moving away, chopping off my hair, dyeing it from blonde to brown, changing my style of clothing, losing my tan. I'm sure she has taken all of it to heart, having chosen my name herself—my father chose Michelle's—and being the source of half of my genetic material, including the natural shade of my hair, but I couldn't care less. I did what I had to do to distance myself from her and everything that reminds me of her, so, if my mere presence in the house that she kept after the divorce is so offensive, she should have thought about it before forcing both my hand and my presence.
Sadie turns to me, nostrils flaring, and my alcohol-induced lightheadedness begins to settle in. Now that I'm free from her grip, I'm also free to stumble to the side in front of my entire family and their guests.
"I hate you," she hisses. "There are so many things you could do to make my job easier, but you actively choose to do those that make it harder."
"Well, we didn't have to come here," I point out. "No one's forcing you to stay. Haven't you been complaining about how quaint Los Angeles is in comparison to New York?"
Antagonizing Sadie when everyone's emotions are heightened is far from being one of my smartest or most adequate decisions, but it's not like things can get any worse. Michelle and the literal devil—who does have a name but, like with my first name, I don't want to acknowledge it—have backed away as she presses an ice packet to his cheek, like I could've possibly hurt him that much, but I want to believe I did. I want to believe that, at least, I could hurt him.
If my relationship with Sadie ever reaches a boiling, breaking point and we decide it's best if both of us go our separate ways, it will be far easier for her to leave and be seen as the good guy than the opposite. I'm already plagued by a reputation of being difficult and unapproachable, as carefully fabricated by her, and word would quickly get out about how not even a tough-as-nails publicist wants to work with me. My ego would survive a brutal break-up and I'd lick my wounds in private with a large carton of ice cream, no problem, but my career would be over before it properly began.
I've already had to dust off my past life. I don't think I have it in me to reinvent myself, not to mention I'm down to my middle and last name, and I'm not powerful enough to exist on a single name basis like Prince or Madonna. Nick's presence in my life isn't as steady as Sadie's—and I realize, with my stomach sinking hard thanks to the heavy rock weighing it down, that I have yet to talk to him after unceremoniously leaving him alone in my apartment—and I won't have anyone else in New York. The city is big and bright enough for Sadie and I to avoid running into each other and she's smart enough to know where I spend my free time, but those places are covered in memories of us.
I've already been Dead Girl Walking once. I don't want to put myself through that again.
"Let's go," Sadie insists. Her face is flushed crimson from the strain and all the effort she's putting into not slamming me against a marble pillar, face first, but I can't bear to look at her when my father is in the room. Whereas my mother sucks out all the air in the room, he attracts the light, and I can't help but feel drawn to him, even when all my instincts urge me to stay away. "We're going home."
"But there's still so much to do here," I insist, pouting and stomping my feet like the child that I am, throwing a tantrum in public and all. My mother uses this opportunity to flag security, while my father hesitates between getting involved and leaving, aware both choices can either ease the tension or turn her into a ticking time bomb. "I feel like I have another slap left in me." I look at Michelle, stepping aside. "Once more, with feeling?"
"I think you should take your friend and go, Rebecca," my mother intervenes, pushing Sadie to the side. Sadie jumps back, scowling like she can't believe silly divorcée Mother Kane has just dared to lay a hand on her. "You've caused enough harm already. It's just like you, flying across the country to ruin the night for everybody—"
"I did tell you to not push her," my father points out, voice booming around the room, "just like I told you this isn't a cocktail party or a high school reunion for you to relive your glory days. This is supposed to be a wake, for Christ's sake."
My mother has always wanted to be Medusa, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of letting her paralyze me just because I'm the one person in this city who has ever looked her in the eye and stood up to her. Even my father had to bend to her will, letting her keep the house and the Benz after the divorce, and part of me has resented him this whole time for being so meek. Tonight, however, he's proving he's grown somewhat of a spine, but I also have to remember his mother has just died.
I stop to think about whether not caring about a death in the family makes me a bad person. I'd never been close to my grandmother and she was never that big of a fan of my existence and life choices either, so I suppose I'm only here thanks to family ties. After cutting those ties years ago, even with my father, I shouldn't have come back here. They don't want me here either way, so no matter what I do, no matter what I say, no matter how I act, this won't be a pleasant experience for anyone involved.
"Don't go," my father asks. The pleading tone in his voice doesn't go by unnoticed and slices right through my chest, splattering blood all over the marble pieces in the room, but I can't let it win. I've let it win before, with disastrous consequences. "You were invited."
"Clearly not," I retort, stealing another champagne flute from a tray nearby. This really does look more like a cocktail party than a wake, and it makes me sick to my stomach that my mother's pathological need for praise and attention has brought all of us to this point. Somewhere in this manor, where people are actively getting drunk or worse, lies a coffin with my grandmother's body; though I can't say I'll miss her and am suffering through the worst heartache of my life, even I can admit this feels disrespectful. "I really am sorry that my presence here is such an inconvenience for everyone. See you at the funeral, unless you get me kicked out of that, too."
I don't let him answer. I should, but I don't; instead, I let Sadie and security escort me outside, turning my back on my father for the second time in my life. Somehow, this feels more definite than the first one.
⊹˚. ♡
Sadie and I don't exchange a word on the drive back to the AirBnb.
I know she's expecting an apology for my terrible behavior or an explanation about everything that has brought us to this very moment, staring out of our Uber's windows in two different directions, but I don't have it in me right now. My explosive migraine has been worsened by all the drinks I've had tonight and the conflicting feelings and emotions in my brain are ready to battle, so I know I'd just end up screaming at her and saying things I don't necessarily feel and will regret later.
She has done nothing wrong—even if not enabling toxic behavior feels like a personal attack—and doesn't need to be dragged to the center of the battlefield; after all, this is a clash me and my mother have been postponing for way too long. Sadie is too young to be my mother and I don't think she'd appreciate being put in that position—she's not my friend, either, regardless of how harsh it is to remember that fact—so I can't use her as a proxy.
The streets all blur together into one, with the ocean in the background serving little comfort. When I was young, I'd spend every car trip attempting to follow the ocean with my eyes, sulking in disappointment the minute it vanished out of sight, then proceeded to move to a city where I don't get to do that. There are, obviously, certain parts of New York City where I can see the ocean, if I choose to do that, but I've been avoiding it like the plague. It's not even the same ocean I see on this side of the country, the eternal war between the East and the West coasts, and it's just not the same thing. It's blue and gray, my past and present life, Rebecca and Harley.
Abandoning Rebecca in sunny California to fully embrace Harley in lonely New York came with its perks and this is the first time I've ever looked back. It's the first time part of me regretted doing that, especially because of my father, but everyone else has made it clear that, although they resent me from tossing them aside like trash, they don't want Rebecca. They don't want Harley, either.
I, however, got everything I wanted. Though it's not perfect, though it's not what I expected of my future, it's what I have.
I decide to head down to the beach once we exit the Uber, even though it's dark out and I can barely see a thing ahead of me. I can, however, hear the crashing of the waves against the shore, rumbling in the distance like a thunderstorm, and I even take off my shoes to make walking on sand a bit easier. It makes breathing easier, too, although I've felt better than I currently do. There's still something clogging my throat, begging me to let it out and let tears freely flow down my cheeks, but I've already shed far too many of those in this city. I can't do that anymore. I'm not that girl anymore—isn't she dead? Haven't I drowned her enough times?
I'm exhausted when I sit down, unable to bother with thinking about what the scratchy sand will do to the delicate fabric of my dress. My chest could very well explode with how tightly it's denting inward, and I wouldn't be surprised to be left sliced open like a shrimp, bare and exposed to the world. No one would care if that happened, anyway; Nick is too far away to even think about me, and Sadie is in the house pouring herself a drink to diffuse her fury. She could drown me herself if she puts her mind to it.
Being back in Los Angeles hasn't been nearly as cathartic as part of me hoped it would be. I can't even be mad at myself for believing that, but I do feel stupid and naive for even considering such a possibility; what did I seriously think would happen here? Did I expect to get closure, to hear an apology, to see justice be served? If it didn't happen when I was nineteen, why would it happen now? Why would it happen when the victim of all those heinous acts isn't even real anymore?
The ruin I promised myself I'd bring to Los Angeles has backfired. I'm the one who's been destroyed all over again, but what's yet another broken promise? Haven't I gotten used to that?
When I dare to go back inside, makeup ruined and smeared all over my face like a teenager getting drunk for the first time—minus the safe environment to return to at the end of the night and someone to tuck me into bed—Sadie is waiting for me in the kitchen. There's an empty glass next to her and she stares right back at me, arms firmly crossed in front of her chest, but her facial expression is blank, all emotion having been flushed down the drain.
"We need to talk, Harley," she says, quietly. She could have called me Rebecca, but she didn't. I don't know what to think about that. "I think something bad happened to you in this place. We need to talk about it."
⊹˚. ♡
hi. daily reminder that harley is harley's middle name. officially. her full name is rebecca harley kane. the existence of one of those names doesn't invalidate that of the other, but she still goes by harley exclusively. she doesn't go by rebecca for a reason, so i truly do appreciate that she doesn't get called that in my comments section. thank you.
on a side note: the girlies are talking. are we excited? are we HAPPY that i can write faster now, both for this book AND for gaslighter now that final room is completed? we cheered. i know i did.