I thought you were my friend.”
The buzzer is startling enough—no one comes here besides food-delivery guys—but what stands before me induces astonishment in the purest form. Annalise Hoff, face without makeup, looking like a devastated twelve-year-old girl.
“What have I done to you, exactly?” she spits. “To bring on such blatant, horrific disregard for me?”
The fury is an illusion. Playacting. Beneath the layers, I see her truth: someone has ripped her heart from her chest, gutting her from the inside out.
And while the timing is a surprise, the arrival was destined.
No one saves us but ourselves, according to Buddha. We ourselves must walk the path.
I have paved this one myself, waiting patiently for the ground to dry. Trudged the miles, no end in sight. And now that I have finally reached the end, all I can say?
“Um . . . are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” she hisses, then storms right past me.
“Who lives like this?” she shrieks, pacing the wood floor of my bare living room. “You do not have a thing.”
“I don’t need anything.” Or didn’t, I think.
“That’s just naïve.”
“That’s just the truth. Look at Gandhi, look at Buddha. The greatness was not in what they carried, but what they carried inside—”
“I am sick as fuck of your new age bullshit!” she yells, her tiny figure suddenly much bigger than the room itself.
Behind her, through the curtainless floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan spreads out, a glimmering universe of steel and chrome. “Everyone needs things, Phillip,” she says. “You’re an imbecile to think otherwise.”
“They need people, too,” I say calmly. “Isn’t that why you came here?”
“Do not flatter yourself. I certainly do not need people like you.”
“Don’t say that, Annalise. I’m your friend. I really am.”
“You knew.” She takes a few steps toward me. “You knew he was cheating on me. Admit it!”
I should have been more prepared, foresaw this encounter when Miller texted the link this morning. Can U fuckin believe this shit? he had written.
This shit was destined, I had longed to write back.
Instead, I wrote Wow.
“I admit it. He was cheating. In your own bed, in fact.”
She opens her lips to speak, but nothing comes out. She just stands there, mouth hanging open and tangled in her own web of fear.
“Beamer—the doorman—told me. He saw Miller himself. Says he comes when you are away for the weekend. You gave him a key?”
I see the answer on her face.
“He doesn’t bring Desy here. At least Beamer doesn’t remember someone like her. Just random hookups, I guess. But lots of them.”
I do not want to cause her pain, I want her to hurt less. Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.
When she finally speaks, her voice is a whisper. “Why didn’t you . . . tell me?”
“I just found out. Besides, you would have discovered soon enough on your own. You’re smarter than him, Annalise. You know that. And since we’re being honest: he doesn’t matter. And we both know that.”
She stares at me, the sunbeams making a halo in her hair.
“He is . . . was . . . my boyfriend!
“He was a prop. Like the expensive flowers at your party, the ones they shoot with chemicals to keep so perfect. Like those silly drinks on those fake-silver trays. Pretty, I guess, but also pretty much worthless.”
“Those trays were sterling, you asshole!” Then she narrows her eyes. She laughs to herself, like someone just told the least funny joke in the world. One about mass suicide or nuclear holocaust or something. “Oh. Now I understand. You’re in love with me. That’s it, I suppose. Well, Phillip, let me just set you straight: I will never, ever, fuck you. The very thought of it makes me want to vomit all over the floor.”
“Thank Christ for that!”
But instead of relief, she hears something else. Repulsion, I suppose, for her very existence.
In that moment, the spark hisses to a flame. I put up my hands as if to say Wait, but I am too late.
She is coming at me. Screaming. “I’m not good enough for you, you lying bastard?”
Then she’s pummeling me with her little fists, trying to scratch the truth right off my face with her perfectly manicured nails.
Within seconds, I have her restrained, an arm pinned to each side. A variation of the kung fu choke hold taught to me by a former monk/hippie wanderer on a Moroccan ashram. Only this one is less choke hold and more backward hug.
I know I am not hurting her, so the struggling is okay. I’m still strong, I think, a little cockily, even though I haven’t surfed in forever.
“You are a fucking moron,” she yells. “I hate you and Miller!”
After thirty seconds, I start to get uneasy. “Please stop,” I plead. “It won’t do any good, don’t you see?”
She finally gives up, her body going limp. Now she just cries.
This time, it’s my heart being ripped out. My insides gutted.
I lower her to the floor. Sit beside her and let her sob it out. A tentative arm around her shoulder, and within moments it’s my shirt that is wet.
“Why is everyone such a fake?” she bawls into my shoulder. “Why even try? They just disappoint you in the end.” An awkward hug, but only awkward for me. She just kind of collapses against me, sobbing on my chest.
“‘Pain is inevitable,’” I say, stroking the back of her head like I do for Ye-Nay when she bumps her head or loses her stuffed unicorn. “‘Suffering is optional.’”
“And you are the worst fake of all,” she says, the words muffled on my chest.
“That’s true.”
“You make no sense.” She pulls away. She stares at me, not unkindly, through the tear puddles in her eyes. “Who are you, Phillip Atwater?”
I sigh. “Your half brother.”
I know the stages of grief. Add a few lines of coke and some barbed wire, and you’ve got the Stages of Annalise.
First, there’s Disbelief:
How do I know this is a real DNA test? Which testing facility? Is that even certified, or some place you heard about during, like, a Judge Judy commercial break?
You bet I will call that doctor. You can count on it.
And where would you get my DNA in the first place? The Hamptons? Which glass? A champagne one? Highball? . . . Okay, which drink then? The one with the edible pansy garnish? . . . A purple flower, you imbecile.
And if you cannot remember which one, why should I believe you in the first place?
Then, Anger:
You are obviously a compulsive liar. A deluded pothead. Is this some sort of acid flashback? Besides, it makes no sense. Utterly irrational. What year was that again?
When she worked at William Morris? No. Not possible. My father was already big-time, why would he lower himself for some development girl on some B-list films?
Besides, your mother is a dyke. What are you, a nutcase?
Bargaining:
Okay, it was the nineties, I will give you that. And, yes, maybe Daddy was having his crazy years. Masters of the Universe stuff, probably doing everything in sight. Even lesbos. And maybe they were partying and—yuck—had sex. But let’s keep our heads about us, Phillip. The odds are highly unlikely.
After all, he would have told me.
Depression:
You mean, he just signed it? Just gave away all his rights? So your mother really is as convincing as they say. Well. Isn’t that just the sweetest story I ever heard! Knock up some lesbian and let her bully you into walking. Just fills you with hope for humanity.
So Daddy is a liar, too. Everyone in the entire world is a liar, and I swear to God, I hate every single moron who ever existed.
A psycho mother was not enough, I suppose. Now I have father who’s been keeping a second family secret for—what?—my entire fucking life? And—added bonus!—some pothead pseudohippie kid shows up out of nowhere, waltzes right in, and says, “Oh, hi, nice to meet you. I live next door. And PS . . .”
And finally, Acceptance:
You are my half brother. Phillip Atwater is my half brother.
Hours later, and we lay in the darkened room, our backs on the bare, polished wood. In front of us, the New York sky is growing darker.
“What are we? Some twisted second-tier Gossip Girl episode?”
“Never seen it.”
“God, Phillip.” She reaches for the whiskey. “You really need to get out more. See the real world. And I am not talking about the third kind. Places with news coverage, cable access. What is this stuff by the way? Really excellent.”
“Wild Turkey,” I say, laughing. “Maybe you’re the one who needs a dose of real life.”
“Shut up. Look at the sunset.”
Above us, the skyline is dripping orange and red.
“Beautiful,” I say.
“Perhaps a little gaudy for my taste, but nice, I suppose.”
We do not bother to toast, just as we haven’t with all the other shots. Besides, you can’t click rinsed-out McDonald’s soda cups.
Maybe she’s right. I really should buy some stuff.
“So you came here for me,” she says for the fifth time.
“Yes,” I answer for the fifth time.
“And your mother? She just approved that?”
“Approved? Blackmailed is a better word.” I sigh, remembering her anger, then her stunned silence. “She sent a PI to come get me, even froze my bank account, but I refused to come home. Until she told me the truth. I never bought that whole sperm-bank thing, not for a second. She’s way too picky for that. If she was going to have a baby daddy, he would have to be top tier. I’m talking high-quality jizz here. Genius stuff. I’m talking—”
“Daddy.”
“Exactly.” I sigh. “I mean, she may be one of the best liars in Hollywood—she’s a producer, after all—but I know the way she thinks.” The whiskey is making the words come faster and more honest. Or maybe it isn’t the Wild Turkey at all. Maybe it’s just Annalise. “Don’t get me wrong, she loves my sisters and brother, but I’ve got something she loves even more. Her own genes.”
“You have siblings?”
“Adopted. Dahnay is the oldest, he’s from Ethiopia.”
“An ethnic baby, how very hip. It is all the rage on the Upper East Side, you know, though Asian girls are the offspring of choice. Six Asian-Jewish fusions in my class alone! Jing Yi Wasserman ran against me for class prefect.” She giggles. “She lost, of course.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Have you not heard? Everything I do is perfect, Phillip. I am utterly flawless.”
“No shit. That must be exhausting.”
“Amen to that.” She reaches for the bottle. “But, if we must engage in this abhorrent bonding ritual; I will tell you this: I was always a tad jealous of those girls. My mother could barely stand the sight of me, and theirs wanted them more than anything. Same reason your mother wanted you back.”
“She wanted to own me. There’s a difference.”
“No,” she says with a sigh. “There really isn’t.”
Outside, the sun has officially set, replaced by the gray dusk.
“So how did you blackmail her?”
“I said, ‘If you don’t tell me who he is, I’ll never come back.’ And losing me? That would have been worse than losing a movie property to Harvey Weinstein. Like, a potential Oscar sweeper.”
“So she told you about Daddy.”
“Yes. And I about shit my pants. So I said, ‘Okay, I’ll come back’—this was later, of course, after I’d done some research on you—‘but only to New York. The Trump Tower.’ And it just so happened, an apartment was open on your floor. I mean, I came for you. But getting on your floor was a nice surprise.”
“Why would she say yes to that? It isn’t a cheap place to just hole up.”
“I threatened to go to the press.”
A pause.
“You know what I just realized?” she says. “We are a great deal alike.”
“Do you think we look it?”
“Maybe. Except I wash my hair.”
“Dreads aren’t dirty.”
“Maybe not, but they are a debacle nonetheless. And no brother of mine—” She stops suddenly, the word just hanging there.
I am drunk, I think. I am drunk with my sister.
Then one more word. This one just as powerful.
“Why?”
I know what she is asking. Why I came here in the first place. I just don’t know the answer to that one.
“A crisis of faith? A search for self?” I say, pouring two more shots. “Maybe I just wanted a dad.”
Like mirror reflections, we lift our heads, down the shots, and go back to our positions on the floor. “Will he like me?”
“Well, he will certainly be surprised.” Then: “Yes, I think he will. He might even love you.” We smile at each other in the dark. “You, Phillip Atwater Hoff, will be everything Todd Evergreen was not.”
And then she tells me the rest.
What do you say when your long-lost half sister, the one you just met but feel like you’ve known for a lifetime, begs for your help?
You say yes.
You say it despite the sketchy motives, the nonsensical reasoning. You say it even though you know it probably won’t work. She’s manipulating you, playing on your affection, and you both know it. But still, you say it.
Yes.
In the end, it is the clichés that get you.
For the family name. For me. For your sister.
It goes against everything Buddha ever said, pretty much shits on all four of the Noble Truths. And forget not straying from the Path of Righteousness; this route is bad karma just waiting to happen.
The thing is, Buddha is great and all. But blood? That’s even more powerful.
Yes. That’s what you say. Yes, I’ll help.
“What I need is information,” she tells me, now so drunk the words are slurred. “Dirt. Daddy can’t find a thing, and his people are the best. Todd Evergreen must be hiding something, I know it. But how can we find out?”
“We can’t. But I might know someone who can.”
“When can we meet him? Does he take checks?”
“Cash only.” I pull myself to my feet and offer her a hand. “And just follow me.”