My own father thinks I ought to be in Hell.
Stranger yet, I suspect that Babette can see me. I’m certain she can.
Quickly, dryly, my dad adds, “I could imagine Madison getting into Harvard… but Heaven?”
“But she’s there now,” says Babette, even as she sees me here, trapped on Earth, hovering within an arm’s length of their adulterous postcoital dialogue. “Madison spoke to you from Heaven, didn’t she?”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” my dad says. “I loved Maddy as much as any parent ever loved a child.” His silent pause here is long and infuriating. “The truth is that my baby girl had her shortcomings.”
As if making a token effort to resolve the topic, Babette says, “This must be painful for you to admit.”
“The truth is,” says my dad, “my Maddy was a little coward.”
Babette gasps in theatrical shock. “Don’t say that!”
“But Madison was,” insists my dad, his voice exhausted, resigned. “Everyone saw it. She was a spineless, gutless, weak little coward.”
Babette smirks up at me, saying, “Not Maddy! Not spineless!”
“Those were the empirical findings of our entire team of behavioral experts,” my dad’s voice affirms dismally. Downhearted. “She hid behind a defensive mask of false superiority.”
The statement roils in the cramping bowels of my brain. My ears gag on the words team and findings.
“Those eyes of hers watched everything and they judged everything,” my father declares, “especially her mother and me. Madison decried every dream, but she never had the courage or strength of convictions to pursue any vision of her own.” As if laying down his sad trump card he adds, “Nothing led us to believe poor Maddy ever had a single friend….”
That, Gentle Tweeter, is an untruth. Babette was my friend. Not that she’s such a great endorsement of friendship.
Too quickly, too gently, Babette says, “We don’t have to discuss this, Tony.”
And too fervently, my dad responds, “But I do.” His voice simultaneously righteous and defeated, he says, “Leonard warned us. Decades ago. Long before she was born, Leonard said Maddy would be very difficult to love.”
Narrowing her eyes, grinning up at me, Babette prompts, “Leonard? The telemarketer?”
With an almost audible shaking of his head, my father says, “Okay, he was a telemarketer, but he made us rich. He warned us that Madison would pretend to have friends.” My dad laughs quietly. He sighs. “Over one winter break Madison spent the school holiday entirely alone….”
Oh, for the love of Susan Sarandon, I can’t be hearing this! My ghost brains bloat and ache, stretching, painfully, the swollen belly of my memory.
“She told her mother and me that she was spending the holidays with friends in Crete,” he continues. “And for the next three weeks, she did nothing but eat ice cream and read trashy novels.”
Gentle Tweeter, fie! Ye gods! Forever Amber is not a trashy novel. Neither am I weak and a coward.
Babette’s voice sounds syrupy as she coos, “A pretty girl like Madison… That’s impossible.” Her urine-hued eyes, however, guffaw heartily at my expense.
“It’s true,” says my dad. “We watched her over the entire holiday via the school’s security cameras. The poor, lonely, fat little thing.”
DECEMBER 21, 8:23 A.M. EST
A Former (?) Friend…
Gentle Tweeter,
Such a nature boy is my father that his copious grunting regales us. Volcanic blasts erupt, not muffled by modesty or any intervening closed and locked door. Having left the bed and padded across the room barefoot, he’s installed himself astride the commode in the en suite bathroom, from whence the tiled surfaces amplify a host of wet sounds.
In his absence Babette once more cranes her head to peer up into the lamp shade where I take refuge. “Madison, don’t be angry,” she whispers. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you.”
My father’s voice calls out, “Babs, you say something?”
Ignoring him, Babette whispers, “Don’t delude yourself. Do you think it was an accident when the autodialer connected you with your parents?” Whisper-yelling, she says, “Nothing that’s happened to you is an accident! Not The Voyage of the Beagle. Not EPCOT.” Exasperated, she says, “And the people you think are your dead friends… they’re not your friends. The nerd and the jock and the punk, they’re in Hell for very good reasons!”
If Babette is to be believed, you, HadesBrainiacLeonard, PattersonNumber54, and MohawkArcher666, you’re all miscreants. She claims you’re bent on subverting creation and imposing your own eternal plans. You befriended me in Hell. You put me to work on the phones. She says this is all part of a grand scheme that goes back for centuries.
“They call themselves ‘emancipated entities,’” Babette insists. “They refuse to take sides with either Satan or God.”
In the background a toilet flushes.
“Don’t let them fool you, Maddy.” Wagging a chocolate-smeared finger at me, she says, “Girlfriend, you wouldn’t believe the kinky shit your so-called friends planned for you….”
She hisses, “I’m still your best friend. That’s why I’m warning you.” As footsteps approach from the bathroom, she whispers, “You just watch, Maddy. Satan is going to win this thing! Satan is going to get all the marbles, and you need to get on his side while you still can.”
DECEMBER 21, 8:25 A.M. EST
The Tryst, Part Three
Gentle Tweeter,
Tinny music fills the hotel bedroom. It’s the Beastie Boys singing “Brass Monkey.” It’s the PDA on the bedside table announcing a new text message.
Restored to the bed, my dad explains, “We asked a panel of doctors to study the security videos.” His hairy hand reaches into view, patting the tabletop in search of the ringing phone.
Words Ctrl+Alt+Fail me. Not even emoticons can convey the horror I feel upon hearing this. Like the subject of some patronizing panocular coming-of-age saga in the dirt-eating hinterlands of New Guinea, my not-clothed childhood antics have been observed! My formerly faithful, formerly devoted father is blatantly cheating on my mother, yet he deems me flawed and not likable! Yes, Gentle Tweeter, I might be emotionally withheld and lacking in superfluous, superficial social bonds, but I am not unproud of the fact that I failed to self-stimulate my virginal hoo-hoo for the Peeping Tom anthropological kicks of some voyeuristic child psych consultants. It’s monstrous, the idea that strangers watched me. Even my parents. Especially my parents.
Babette asks, “Antonio?”
My father hums something in reply.
Simpering, she asks, “Why are we here?”
My father’s hairy suntanned hand, it retrieves the PDA, and his voice says, “We’re accompanying Camille’s ghost hunter in room sixty-three fourteen.” Encircling his finger, his gold wedding ring looks like a tiny dog collar. “You remember, the guy who Leonard told us to hire? From People magazine?” he says. “The one who takes boatloads of that animal tranquilizer?” The pace of his delivery slows, punctuated by the faint beeps of him pressing PDA buttons. My dad’s still talking, but he’s distracted, checking his messages. He proceeds to describe the out-of-body effects of tripping on some anesthetic, ketamine, what the counterculture hero Timothy Leary described as “experiments in voluntary death.” He explains how this freelance ghost hunter triggers at-will near-death experiences by ingesting intentional overdoses of it. My father, Gentle Tweeter, can talk any subject into the ground. He describes what scientists call “emergence phenomena,” wherein the ketamine abusers swear their souls take leave of their bodies and can commune in the afterlife.