Make Me Beg, Daddy

Chapter 7

The hallway is wall-to-wall Vivian. It’s her full highlight reel, from the cradle until now. A quick sweep across the left-hand wall reveals the pageant sash, the Berkeley graduation, the frilly pink tutu and a familiar smile beaming in the front row.

Vivian on a beach. Vivian at prom. Vivian on a boat, a goat, a box, a fox like she’s freaking Sam-I-Am.

Technically speaking, I’m in here somewhere. Last I counted, I made it into two shots total.

I’m there in the far corner of the Dorsey extended family cousins, half-hidden behind Uncle Bub’s shoulder. And then, wedged behind a replica of the fishnet leg lamp from A Christmas Story, is a framed newspaper cutout of me at my bakery opening.

This house has shrunk me my whole life. You walk in a person; by the time you hit the coat closet, you’re staff.

Today, I feel that familiar shrinking start.

But for the first time ever, it doesn’t quite work.

I feel it hit me like a bucketful of cold water splashed in my face, but instead of flinching and cowering, I laugh.

Go ahead, b***h. Take your best shot.

This house doesn’t know that I’m not the same old Delilah anymore.

There’s a hotel receipt folded into the wallet in my coat, dated the night of my father’s funeral, that’s forever changed me. Room service for two. They got ice cream after they were done desecrating my marriage.

I remember thanking Connor for taking Vivian home that night. I’m pretty sure I said, “Thank God she has you.”

As of last night, I know about the loan, too. All thanks to a scorched corner of paper shoveled out of my own kitchen sink, with my signature forged onto it, under the letterhead of a lender I have never heard of. V Haven Holdings. Whoever the hell that is, they seem to think I borrowed money from them, when in reality I did no such thing.

So it isn’t just the affair anymore. Things have changed. The white-hot anger isn’t so hot. It’s cold. Ice-cold.

I think I kinda like it better that way.

But only for a little while. It’s eleven o’clock right now, so in eight hours, give or take, I’m going to leave this behind. My nagging mother, my greedy sister, my backstabbing husband... I’m going to destroy them all and then leave them smoldering in the wreckage.

First, though, I need to put down this godforsaken projector.

I heave it into the living room, stopping along the way to fish a ratty old towel out from the linen closet, and make sure that no part of the old, greasy machinery is touching my mother’s precious dining room table before I set it down.

Mom has a system going at the other end—napkins folded in triangles, sorted into piles by some cryptic ranking of guests I will never be told.

“The screen’s going on the big wall in the living room,” I tell her when I’ve hauled the last of it in. “Dad always ran it in the den, but the den seats twelve and you invited fifty.”

“Whatever, dear. Mind the paint.” She doesn’t look up from her folding.

Fine by me. I take the rolled-up screen and the bag of extension cords into the living room and get set up.

The screen goes up first. I lock the legs and center it on the big wall. Dad’s projector goes on the side table—on a towel, of course, because God forbid that century-old hunk of wood gets one more nick on it.

Then I run the cable to my laptop, boot it up, and the whole rig sputters awake.

It takes a bit of adjusting the display settings, but eventually, there’s a nice, crisp picture being cast on the screen. It’s as high definition as it’s going to get.

Good. I want our entire family to see every last f*****g pixel.

“Is that silly machine going to bellow like that all night?” Mom calls from the table in the next room over.

“Only until I find the—” I stab two buttons. “There. Fixed.”

“Your father never had it humming.”

“Well, I guess the projector misses Dad,” I say. Under my breath, I add, “It and me might be the only ones who do.”

That’s a bit harsh. I’m sure my mother misses him. They were married for a long time, after all. They bought this house the year they got hitched and lived here ever since. But the cancer was a swift and brutal affair, and I think Mom decided that it’s best to just call that a closed chapter and move on.

As for Vivian... well, who knows what she thinks? I’ve stopped pretending I do. I think she likes that Dad’s trust-fund money will ensure she can do whatever she wants for the rest of her life.

That was her choice, though. I didn’t make the same one.

Dad begged me to take his money before he went, but I wanted to start the bakery on my own two feet. It didn’t feel right to launch my dream on a handout.

Did that make things harder? Uh, yeah. By a lot.

But I’ve found a way to persevere through the hard times. We’re a real business now, settling somewhere between “thriving” and “solvent.” All things considered, I’ll take it.

While the test screen glows, I walk the room and check all the sight lines. I’m no wedding planner, but I’ve catered enough weddings by now to know that it’s extremely important to ensure all your VIPs get a good look at what’s going on.

Mom will take the hardback chair against the back wall.

Connor’s father will stand at the back like the ex-military man he is, eternally at parade rest even though he’s been back from Operation Desert Storm for a long time now.

Viv will inevitably claim the overstuffed armchair that’s dead center, because it most resembles a throne.

Normally, Connor and I would go on the loveseat. But things are going to be a little different this year. I wonder where he’ll end up. Not that I really care, to be honest.

I keep backing up, mentally placing aunts and uncles and cousins and nephews and nieces, all the assorted Dorseys and plus-ones, until I reach the farthest possible vantage point, the door to the pantry.

Wow—I never realized how weirdly good the acoustics are from here. It’s kinda the best seat in the house. Not only can I see the entire living room, but every single sound in the house gets cast perfectly to this exact vantage point.

I catch Mom muttering vaguely rude napkin eugenics at the pile. “...the everyday ones are fine for the neighbors...”

Then she stops. “Delilah? Delilah Aileen, where on earth did you go wandering off to? I swear, you’ll take any excuse to duck chores…”

I grimace. Thirty seconds of not being immediately useful to her and suddenly, I’m “Delilah Aileen” and “ducking chores.”

That used to grate on me. Up until, oh, I dunno… a day ago?… it would’ve brought me running to her to be useful.

Now, I’m more tempted to take every last can of peeled tomatoes in here and hurl them at the wall, just to leave her with a mess that she can clean up for once.

But—no. I can’t. I have a few more hours of being the good daughter.

Then—and only then—I can tell my whole family to do like I once wrote on a cake for that nice lady at the bakery:

Eat s**t and Die.

So for the time being, I suck up this newfound fire in my belly.

“In here, Mom!” I call out.

She comes around the corner and squints at me. “For goodness’ sake, what are you doing in the pantry?” Mom calls.

“Checking whether you have a, uh…” I look around for something plausible. “Coaster. To balance the projector. It’s wobbly.”

“Third shelf,” she says, still giving me the What’s wrong with you side-eyes.

“Aha! Got it.”

I come out with a coaster I don’t need.

I take it to the living room and pretend to fiddle with the projector.

Then, once a non-suspicious amount of time has passed, I venture into the dining room where she’s started working the good napkins through her favorite silver napkin rings.

“Your sister called me yesterday,” Mom remarks without looking up. “She was in a state. Some mix-up with her photos—the cloud, the storage, I don’t know how any of it works. She was very upset.”

I take a careful seat next to her and join the assembly line.

“Yeah?” I say. “Poor Viv.”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely beside herself. She takes things so hard. She’s got a big heart, that one. An artist’s soul.”

I close my eyes so she can’t see me rolling them. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“It’s got me thinking. Phones, photos, all this modern nonsense… Maybe we retire the slideshow.” She stops what she’s doing and gazes into the distance. “It’s so much fuss, and everyone has seen those pictures a hundred times.”

The blood drains from my face. This is exactly what I came here to prevent, but I didn’t think it would be such a direct and devastating assault on my plans.

Immediately, I want to protest. What? Cancel? No! We can’t!

But I know my mother. That would just make her dig her heels in more.

With Leanne, you have to play the long game. The sneaky game. Plant seeds and let them grow.