“I don’t understand. Did something happen?”
“No, not really. This is reality. This is us. The magical Mercer family in all its glory. Now you know why I married and took my husband’s name. That, and I bucked the trend of those wretched M names for good. No one, and I mean no one, wants that reminder. That’s why I insist on Nic,” she supplies,her brevity welcomed. “That, and that it pisses off every sexist asshole here.” This time, she hides her smile behind her wine glass.
My fingers play with the cuff. I rotate it and then bring it back to where it was before. I want to pinch myself and see if I wake up from this nightmare. When Thanksgiving was listed as one of Mason’s five mandatory required days, I thought that it underscored the importance of connection and family. These people clearly despise each other. Some parts of the family may be in alliances against others, but that would take closer inspection, and I’m not sure I have the fortitude. Slowly, snippets of Trystan’s words come back to me with hazy edges. A memory of Alice sporting an impressive hair clip for the Christmas shoot. “So beautiful,” I’d said, admiring how effortlessly radiant and put-together she was.
“The clip, yes, the wearer, well, let Mason introduce you. Then you can make up your mind.”
He wasn’t joking. Watching her snap at a stylist, Alice Mercer resembles a gargoyle or one of those permanently miserable hairless cats, sans wrinkles and folds. This gargoyle looks like it has been ironed within an inch of her life. That facial skin could be stretched over a drum and beaten in time with a cymbal.
The spread of traditional dishes is precisely arranged on the elaborate table. Magnus Mercer stands at the head of the table, a carving knife and fork poised in his hands. I’m not sure he might use either implement on his family members. Marin sits to his left in fuchsia cashmere, with Mason on her other side. Opposite are Michael, Alice, and Mitchel. Monica and Frazer are invited to join the table only after a series of preliminary photos are taken, and the children remain in the comfort of nannies. No invitation is extended to me to join the table. Not even for one photograph. I remain in the corner nextto the childcare. Just one of the workers, I guess. This isn’t family; it’s a tragedy playing out in real time.
As soon as the quantity and quality of photographs are deemed acceptable, Alice rings a tiny crystal bell nestled next to her gimlet. Kitchen staff explode through the double doors to collect the trays of food until nothing remains. All evidence of the turkey, vegetables, and side dishes gone in the blink of an eye. What the actual fuck is going on here? Mason waves me over to sit by his side as Nic configures a highchair into place for her little one. The kitchen doors open again; this time the staff brought alternate plates of food. Poached chicken, or is it turkey, with a dusting of uninspiring herbs, broccoli, and half a cup of rice. Side salads accompany each plate.
“It’s nutrient-dense and all organic,” Nic says, noticing my frown. I’m crushed that the platters of food have disappeared, only to be replaced with prison food.
“It’s nutrient-dense and horrific,” Frazer adds from his place between his children. “Only eat it if you’re starving. Nic and I always get food on the way home. This crap is a hate crime.”
“Something not to your liking, Frazer?” Alice glowers, finishing her fourth, maybe fifth gimlet.
“No, not really. This is fine for low-calorie, post-surgical patients, not for a family celebration.”
“If Monica paid more attention to her food and drink intake, perhaps you might have avoided all that mess with Ava. I blame the cola consumption from college.”
“Did you seriously just blame our daughter’s leukemia on me? You did! You fucking bitch. Juvenile myelomonocytic leukemiaisn’t caused by a mother’s soda intake. Lucky considering the amount of gin you pour down your own gullet.”
“Enough!” Marin bellows, and the room quiets. The poached meat solidifies on my tongue like a boulder. I can’t spitit out, can’t bear to swallow among such hostile, weaponized hatred. Alice pushes her plate aside and scoops up her gimlet glass, loping from the room like a gazelle. If the gazelle had gargoyle DNA.
“Wasit everything you hoped and dreamed?” Mason asks once the car has exited the wrought-iron gates. As if the house has some kind of hold on our conversations about the inhabitants.
“It wassomething,” I acquiesced. “Not sure about hopes and dreams. That was more horror and nightmares.” His wan smile dissolves, with only the corners of his mouth turned up. How on earth did he spend his formative years in that place with those people? The family is portrayed as close-knit. A wealthy, generous, caring, close-knit family.
“Now you know why I insist on company when I set foot back in that house. Being on my own in there reiterates that I am on my own, in every sense of the word.”
“That’s not entirely true,” I supply, noting that Nic, Frazer, and the kids seem well-adjusted. And Marin takes no shit from anyone.
“I thought it was kind of funny that everyone had a name beginning with M except for your mother.”
“Oh, no, she has the M too. It’s silent. Malice fits her like a fucking glove.”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat before I realize he’s serious. “You two don’t get along?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But you don’t get along with Michael, Mitchel, or Magnus either. At least you have Nic, Frazer, and the kids.” His nod is solemn and economical. The bare minimum from a man whosefamily drips with excess. Excess money and food, but void of emotion.
“Can I ask what happened with Ava?”
He lets out a long breath and taps the steering wheel poignantly. “She was diagnosed with a form of leukemia when she was two, nearly three. It was a type that responded well to bone marrow donations, so we were all tested. None of us were a suitable match. When Ava became sicker, Nic and Fraze discovered they were pregnant with Ramsey. It was a blessing among the burden, you know. Ava’s oncologist suggested using cord blood, which they were keen to do. She was really bad for a while, and we were all holding our breath. Well, those of us in possession of some form of stone heart, rather than the chest void most of them carry.” His words are as clipped as the rose bushes in the courtyard.
“Is she okay now? Nic mentioned something to me at the Christmas shoot. She’s cured, or in remission at least?”
“She is actually. We journeyed from the devastation of the bone marrow testing results to the joy of a new life, and Ava coming through the other side.”
“That’s such a momentous, life-changing thing, isn’t it?”
“Life-changing is correct,” he says curtly, making me think the topic is closed.
“How is your sister? The one that is sick?”
