The De Loughrey's

It felt incredibly nostalgic, watching the snow fall outside from the stone sill where I used to sit when I was younger, my favorite spot in my parents’ cottage. It sat right at the heart of the Catskills, a three-tiered castle with gabled roofs and mullioned windows, with curling ivy clinging to the stone walls like veins. My eyes fluttered closed, and for a second I swore I could hear the piano keys being pressed by my father’s fingers, the sound echoing throughout the endless halls. He’d been classically trained at a fairly young age—said his father would chain him to the seat during his lessons so he wouldn’t run away.

Now the piano seemed off to me somehow, nothing more than a tumultuous black object in the middle of the front hall. Eye candy. Nothing more now that my father was gone. I felt something within me alter for a second—a soft wobble of my chin, a slight shiver at my nape. But then I heard the front door and regained my composure. I stepped down from the stone sill, pulled down my sweater, and was soon greeted by the presence of my younger brother, Louis. I found it in me to swallow the desire to roll my eyes.

“Sister,” was all he chose to mumble at the sight of me, one of his hands hidden in his pocket. It’s like he actively chose not to call me by my name, for some reason.

“Funny seeing you here,” is all I chose to mumble back. His eyebrows rose in response as his teeth chewed the inside of his mouth, probably his own way of swallowing whatever he wanted to say. Not that he was very good at that anyway. Louis was twenty-five, the youngest of all four of us, and most importantly, the only one who I had not seen once beside my father’s hospital bed.

“How was your... five-star soul-searching vacation?” I asked, walking over to the hearth room, where a fire already rumbled across the stone fireplace, wafting an air of warmth the atmosphere desperately needed. I knew he detected the sarcasm in my voice; there’s a reason I hadn’t made much of an effort to hide it in the first place.

“It was not a vacation, dipshit. It was a spiritually guided residency. There’s a difference.”

“Oh,” I answered nonchalantly, my mouth downturning for a second. “Of course. A glorified spiritually guided residency at a beachfront five-star hotel in Bali,” I added, biting my bottom lip and serving myself a tall glass of whisky. I felt his penetrative stare going through my skull, his stance defensive. Guess he hadn’t absorbed much in Bali besides a shit ton of sun, judging by his ridiculous tan lines.

And I, for one, wouldn’t have cared or given him shit if it hadn’t been for the way he’d clearly prioritized this ridiculous vacation he liked to rename as a spiritual getaway over my father’s last days—claiming he couldn’t cut the program short.

The very same program funded by my father’s credit card, of course.

“So?” I asked.

“So what?”

“Did you find yourself?”

“Fuck off, Margaret.”

Before I could answer, my older brother, George, appeared with Camilla, his eighteen-year-old girlfriend grasping his arm like a teething baby. Clasped onto his other arm, was my mother, wearing a tweed Chanel set and glasses so big you could hardly see her puffy face.

“Hi dear,” she mumbled when she got close to me, patting my back a single time before snatching the glass in my hand. She took a sip while eyeing me, her arm bent, her Chanel tote hanging from her elbow. “Let’s lay off the sweets a bit, dear, yes?” she said, pinching my cheek for a millisecond before turning to regard Louis.

Her remark stung me, but I didn’t let it show. I had actually lost eight pounds since Dad passed away—not that I actually needed to. But then again, my mother’s been obsessed with her daughters looking as close to a skeleton as possible.

“Oh, my dear baby,” she told Louis, embracing him and weeping softly against his chest. “How was Bali, my love?” She drank from the whisky glass I’d served myself and listened attentively to whatever bullshit he fed her as an answer.

I retreated elsewhere after hearing detox, holistic, and enlightenment.

“I love your dress,” I suddenly heard Camilla say beside me, which she quickly followed with, “Such a tragedy, your father... he was such a sweetheart.”

I stared at her, trying to keep my demeanor as polite as possible. She had absolutely nothing to be doing here. This was a family’s estate meeting, not Thanksgiving dinner. She wasn’t even my brother’s wife. She knew absolutely nothing about my father, because if she did, she wouldn’t have chosen such a trivial adjective to describe him. Sweetheart couldn’t have been further away from what my father was. He was a lot of things. A sweetheart never seemed to make it onto that list.

You don’t build a multi-million-dollar tire business by being a sweetheart.

I would’ve answered that she had good taste, but given the fact that she’d chosen George as her boyfriend, I knew better than to lie.

“Of course you do, it’s Dior,” was all I answered instead, chugging the whiskey I’d just poured before my mother could come and snatch it away again. She had actually bought the dress for me as a Christmas gift last year, and I had, for some strange reason, thought about wearing it today so that she’d notice.

She, of course, didn’t.

She did notice I had skin left on my cheeks though.

“Did you say something to Camilla?” George asked ten minutes later, adjusting the cuff of his shirt.

“I had a brief conversation, yes—if you could even call that what it was,” I answered, not really meeting his eye.

“Yes, but what did you say to her?”

My mouth parted for a brief second before closing, my head angling in confusion, only now grasping the direction George was attempting to take with this pathetic line of questioning.

“Is there a problem? I told her my dress was Dior, what is—”

“But how did you say it? You do have a—should I say...” He made circular motions with his palm in the air, as if this would help him come up with the word he was looking for, “—particular way of saying things. She seems to think you’re upset with her. Can you apologize?”

“Excuse me?” I stuttered, half-spitting the sip of whiskey I’d just attempted to swallow. I met Camilla’s eye briefly—she was standing by the window, speaking to my mother.

“Look, don’t be a bitch, just—”

“Get out of my face, George.”

He took a hold of my upper arm rather firmly to stop me from moving past him.

“Margaret, apologize—it’s not that deep—”

“Do you want me to throw a fit right now?” I whirled around, my cheeks red as I snatched his hand off my arm. “Is that what it is?”

Muffled footsteps on the carpet suggested someone’s arrival and stopped George from answering. He glanced over my shoulder idly before walking past me.

Ruby, my elder sister, had just arrived—late as usual—with Mia and Philip, her three- and five-year-old shyly trailing behind her. Ruby was the one person in my family I could always count on, the only one I could actually have a sane conversation with. It had always been like that between us.

Her presence suddenly felt like a breath of fresh air, even when the next thing she said was:

“Harry and I are getting a divorce.”

From my peripheral vision, I saw Louis almost spit his drink. This wasn’t exactly news to me—I’d been hearing about how things in their marriage had shifted to irreparable degrees. Still, it hurt hearing her say it, especially considering they had two kids together—my nephews, whom I cared deeply for.

“What?” My mother slurred from the divan, her fingers nervously twisting and turning a button of her tweed jacket. Ruby ushered Mia and Philip to go play elsewhere.

“Things weren’t working out,” was all Ruby cared to explain before walking towards me and greeting me with a small peck on the cheek. She then sat down on the divan opposite Mom without giving much regard to Louis, George, or Camilla.

“Ah,” Mom grumbled, her hand swatting at the air as though it had become an inconvenience. “You kids nowadays don’t know a thing about sacrifice.” She stood and regarded Ruby, her posture already degrading from the alcohol mixing with her benzodiazepines.

“We do. We saw you and Dad every day,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. She turned to me with predatorial eyes—not that I could really see them with those ridiculous sunglasses she was wearing.

“But what about the kids?” she then asked, walking over to Ruby to sit down beside her. She began patting her thigh like you would a wild animal you knew might strike if stroked the wrong way.

“I’ll handle the kids, Mom,” was all she answered, rubbing her temples and looking away at George and Camilla, who were half-sitting at a cushioned stone sill.

“Harry was a stud. I always liked him,” Louis muttered, to everyone and no one at the same time.

“Shut up, Louis,” I interjected, elbowing him as hard as I could. He proceeded to wail out like a wounded animal.

“I don’t know if this is a good time to say this, but fuck it—Camilla’s pregnant.”

The room fell silent.

The only crisp enough sounds the snow falling outside, which by the looks of it, had clearly made a case to let itself be known.

My mother now wailed, as if mimicking Louis’s sound from a minute ago. So much for it not being a good time. I don’t know at which part of estate meeting my brothers thought it ideal to spill their pivotal life choices.

Now was as good a time to remember I belonged to a family of lunatics. And now was also as good a time to remember why we only saw each other two times a year—Thanksgiving and Christmas.

This would mark the third time in a year, which I was not happy about.

In fact, the only reason for my being here was this very cottage. I didn’t care about the yachts, the townhouses in New York and San Francisco, the investments, the tire business. I couldn’t care less about any of that; I never really had—even when I know how privileged that might sound.

This cottage was where I made my first snowman, where Mom told me—for the only time in our lives—that she loved me, where I had my first kiss, where I lost my virginity, where Dad told me snippets of his childhood when he was tipsy and in a good mood, where I learned that Mom was pregnant with Louis.

To Mom, George, Ruby, Louis, it was just another property they’d sell at some point for vacation money. They didn’t care for it. It didn’t mean to them what it meant to me, and I’d talked to Dad about it. He knew.

“What do you mean, she’s pregnant?” Mom shrieked, eyeing Camilla from the distance as she swerved across the room toward them.

“He means he stuck his penis inside her and—”

Mom wailed again, pressing a shaky palm against her chest.

“Jesus, shut the fuck up Louis,” George grumbled, rolling his eyes and starting to explain just how much he loved her and how ecstatic they were to start a family together.

I didn’t know Camilla that personally—aside from the fact that she wanted me to apologize for not kissing her ass earlier. I just knew tidbits here and there and could assess, with the utmost certainty, the reason for her being here. My brother had little to do with it.

“You kids are going to give me a heart attack these days,” Mom whispered, starting to rummage through her bag for her next Valium.

We all proceeded to congratulate them; in whichever dry way we knew how.

Two seconds later, two men wafted into the room with leather briefcases and faces that spoke of better days. The executor and estate attorney. It seemed like they would’ve preferred to be anywhere else, judging by the reproving look spread across their bloated eyes. My father had never been one particularly fond of washing his dirty laundry at home. These two men probably knew what they were getting into the second they’d been appointed. Sometimes, no amount of money is worth a few hours alongside the De Loughreys.

“I would greatly appreciate it if you could all join me in the gallery at this moment,” the suited man on the left barked, extending his arm toward the gallery, as if we needed any guidance.

The men sat at the oak desk at the back of the room while we made ourselves comfortable. Mom couldn’t stop looking at Camilla, as did George, who couldn’t help but rub her nonexistent belly every two seconds. Louis was sprawled across the chaise lounge by the corner; one arm tucked behind his head while he scrolled his phone aimlessly.

Ruby kept dissociating as Mia and Phillip completely dismantled the bottom half of one of the bookshelves lining the walls. They tugged out books and threw them over their heads, catching the attention of one of the suited men, who eyed them contemptuously from above his spectacles, his thick, eyebrows raised.

“Right... well.” He sighed after about a minute of no one saying anything about it and continued, “Thank you all for being punctual and present. Now, let me introduce myself briefly. I’m Theodore Cavendish, your father’s attorney for the last eighteen years.”

Mom coughed and inspected her lipstick with the help of a compact mirror she’d just extracted from her purse. My leg jittered as my arms crossed against my chest. Maybe it was the cold, maybe a certain defensiveness—nervousness, uneasiness. Maybe all of the above.

“This process is difficult and tedious for some families, although it’s important to note that it doesn’t have to be,” Theodore let us know.

Ha.

“Does anyone have the time?” George suddenly chimed from where he sat with Camilla, the indifference in his voice making my jaw harden. “Camilla and I have somewhere to be.”

“Oh, I’m sure you both do,” Louis jibed, turning to them for a second and winking before returning to his phone.

“Why don’t you go back to that yoga retreat, huh?” George barked back. “I’m sure you came back knowing quite the array of... positions.”

Ruby snorted, swirling the wine in her glass.

“It’s not a goddamned yoga retreat, you prick!” Louis answered bitingly, finally leaving his phone on the chaise as he sat up and regarded him. George laughed alongside Camilla, while my mother played with a fluff on her tweed skirt and savored the Valium she’d just plopped into her mouth.

“Can we let Theodore continue so that this can all be over with?” I said, grunting. “For the love of God.”

Theodore thanked me dryly and immediately began the boring introductions and formalities involved in the process. He managed to get through all of it without being interrupted by a single member of my family, which should have come with a medal.

But the time finally came.

The reading of the will.

We should’ve all known by the look on Theodor’s face when he opened the folder that there was something off. But I never could’ve imagined the extent of it.

“What?” Mom was the first to exclaim when he was done, standing from the divan as if a spring within had plopped her upwards.

“George... what does that mean?” I heard Camilla ask my brother cautiously, shifting in her seat.

“Wait... we’re not rich?” Louis mouthed, more to himself than to anyone else, a newly found thinness to the quality of his voice.

I couldn’t add anything to the conversation, for I had suddenly become enthralled with Mia and Phillip’s every move—my own way of dissociating, I guess. My heart tugged at the thought that we’d all been incredibly clueless to what my father had been possibly going through. All too engrossed in our own shit and too narcissistic and unempathetic to reflect on his restless nights and constant opening of whisky bottles at the crack of dawn.

“Well, that’s it then?” I heard Ruby mutter, slamming her palms against her thighs.

“Your father was under an immense amount of pressure,” The executor chimed in now. “He wanted you all to know he loves you dearly and—”

“He loves us?” George mocked, his neck stiff. “Who leaves their family drowning in debt?”

“George, we’ll manage,” my mother decided to interject now, the tone of her voice a tad harsher, even when her whole demeanor reeked of a quiet dispiritedness.

“How, Mother?” he snapped back, standing from the sill he’d been sitting on and taking a step forward. “You never taught us how to fucking manage without it.”

“So, he left us nothing?” Louis asked softly, as if he couldn’t believe it, his eyes glued to the floor.

“He actually did,” Theodore stated, opening a single sepia folder.

“W—what? What did he—”

“You’re all standing on it.”

The ringing in my ears suddenly stopped.

“He left us this?” George exclaimed, the muscles in his face contorting with disgust as he motioned at everything surrounded us. “Of all the things he could’ve left us, he left us this fucking shithole?”

“Why?” Ruby asked, looking as confused as they did. Except me.

I felt my heart suddenly migrate to my throat.

My mouth twitched upwards.

My eyes watered.

“And what is wrong with you?” George asked, turning towards me with a grimace. “Why do you look so goddamned happy?”

Oh, George, if you only knew.