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We stared at one another while the clerk behind the counter tried to act nonchalant. Then Sadie leafed frantically through the tabloid, searching for the story. There, in the middle of the Rite Aid, she read it out to me.
"Selene Dare, 56 and mother of the recently exposed Felicia Waters, has been attending a court-ordered twelve-step program for narcotics abuse, the Examiner has learned. While billionaire mogul Anton Waters and his newly wedded wife, Felicia Waters, swan about town shopping for their upcoming wedding celebration, Selene sneaks off to daily meetings to maintain her sobriety. The wife of millionaire businessman Jonathan Dare, Mrs. Dare lives in California, where she was recently arrested for driving under the influence of illegally obtained Xanax."
My mouth was dry. "Is that it?" I said.
Ashen-faced, Sadie nodded.
"Nothing about... about cancer treatment?"
She shook her head. "It's just a little bit of gossip," she said. "You should ask your mom."
But I didn't need to. In my chest, my heart crumpled.
My father tricked me, I thought. And, under it, a terrible thought I could barely face.
Did Anton know?
*
I found my father in the room he shared with my mother in my house, reading The Wall Street Journal. My whole body was numb. I shook with years of pent-up rage.
"I want you out of this house," I said. I didn't tell him why. He only had to look at my face, and he knew that I knew.
Curiously, he seemed almost relieved. The stress he had been living under hadn't been my mother's fake illness, but his own terrible lie. He had coerced me and sold me, all to save his shitty business from his own incompetence.
I hated him so much in that moment, more than I had ever hated him in my entire life. If Anton had kept a gun in the house, I don't know what I would have done.
But he didn't, and I watched, trembling, as he packed up his things—not many—and prepared to leave. It didn't take long. When he was done at last, he stood before me.
"Felicia..." he said.
"Don't ever talk to me again," I told him. "I never want to see your face ever again. Get the fuck out of here."
He swallowed and nodded. I stepped aside to let him pass by, the very thought of touching him making my stomach churn. Nauseated, I followed him to the staircase.
His stooped back was to me, his thinning hair sticking out at angles. He'd lost more weight.
It would be easy, a little voice whispered in my head, and for a hot, dizzy moment I contemplated reaching out and giving him a push.
Then he moved beyond my reach, heading down the steps, and the moment passed, leaving me afraid of my own anger.
I could have shoved him down the stairs, I thought. And I wouldn't have felt sorry about it at all.
I followed him down to the foyer. He didn't look at me as he left, and when the door closed behind him, I locked it.
I didn't know what to do. I floated from room to room, feeling useless. I had been such a sucker, such an idiot. I should have talked to my mom. I should have done something—anything—other than trust my father. But who would have thought he would lie about such a thing? Who does that?
This place wasn't my home. Every room was cold and devoid of my own touches. I sold myself for my father, and this is what it had bought me.
I looked down at my clothes. I wore a long heavy skirt and high-heeled boots. No underwear. My ass was cold.
I went up to my room. All my things were still there, neatly packed in boxes by hands that weren't mine. I dug through them until I found an old hoodie and a pair of jeans. I put them on, then hunted through my shoes until I found my working sneakers. The chime of the downstairs door told me someone was home, and I went down to greet whoever it was.
My mother stood in the foyer, divesting herself of her coat.
"Felicia," she said, looking at me with surprise. "What's wrong?"
Wordlessly I picked up the tabloid from the entryway table and handed it to her. She took one look at it.
