Good Riddance(51)

“Nope. I wasn’t going there.” He then asked if I’d listened to the entire alleged-dad interview.

“I couldn’t.”

“Maybe you should.”

That caused a new shrinkage to the heart and stomach. I asked why; what was left?

“Because it’s so ridiculous that it’s nothing. I mean it’s terrible writing. Oh, and you’ll love this—I’m positive that the guy who played John Doe also played your dad.”

Did that count? Hadn’t she announced at the beginning that an actor would be portraying the men?

I had to ask, despite my revulsion, “What did she have the fake husband say?”

“Here’s the part you’ll love—the deal breaker: He talks about his three daughters.”

“Three?” I repeated. “You’re sure?”

“Three daughters,” said Jeremy. “It’s over. Good-bye, crappy podcast. Farewell, Gal Friday Films and heartbreaking wedding videos.”

“How do you know that? When I tell her there’s no Samantha, no such third sister, she’ll say ‘So what? It’s art. It’s the way Hollywood takes a real life and does whatever it wants with it! They make it up! And win Academy Awards!’ She’ll be proud of it. She’s impossible to humiliate.”



I called my sister—finally the time difference was on my side. Holly hadn’t known about the podcast but promised to get off the phone and find all four episodes. I said, “This has become my personal nightmare, so if you’re going to yell at me, please don’t.”

I waited in bed. I tried to read. On my new TV, I watched an episode of Law & Order I’d seen at least once before. When the phone rang, I’d dozed off. It was Holly, the logical, dry-eyed younger sister who’d done one year of law school before switching to motherhood. “I’m on it,” she said.

“You’re on the podcast? Where? I didn’t hear—”

“No, I meant I’m going to fix this.”

“How?”

“I’m suing on behalf of the family. Doug and I will take that on. He listened to the podcast with me. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this before!”

Too much Law & Order maybe, because what I was hearing, her “We’ll take care of it,” had a hit-man flavor to it. I said that sounded ominous.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I meant we’d hire and pay for a lawyer. And we know someone who won a libel case against the National Enquirer.”

“Is this thing libel? Because she’ll call it an adaptation. A work of fiction. Poetic license.”

“He’ll send a letter, that’s it, and believe me, she’ll recognize his name. It’ll threaten that we’re going to sue her for a couple of million if she doesn’t cease and desist. Doug?” she called. “You have the lawyer’s cell, right?”

Doug apparently said yes, he’d call him early tomorrow.

“But the damage is done. It’s been up for weeks. No lawyer can turn back the clock. Plus, it’ll only generate publicity for the podcast.”

“But someone in this family has to show some muscle.”

I pointed out that I’d been showing plenty of muscle. “I never cooperated with her. I never told her one word about Mom or Dad or the class of 1968—”

“You may not have told her things about Mom and Dad, but you effectively put the stupid yearbook in her hands. And I know from her blog—”

“Blog?” I coughed out.

“You didn’t know she had a companion blog to the podcast? She announces it at the end of every episode.”

I could’ve hung up and found the blog myself, but I didn’t have the stomach to read one word of it. “Does it mention me?”

“She said you took her to a reunion and you introduced her all around to members of the class, which was her way in.”

“Oh, shit.”

“You didn’t take her to Pickering?” Holly asked. “Did she make that all up? Because there were several selfies of her with mom’s ex-students. Maybe she photoshopped them.”

“I did go. She dragged me.” I couldn’t confess that at that point, in the earliest planning stages, after she’d thrown around the executive producer title but before I’d come face-to-face with Peter Armstrong, I might’ve considered myself to have been . . . on board.

Holly asked, “You don’t think there’s a chance that Dad really did have a third daughter with someone else? Is it possible that Geneva hired a private detective and found someone for real?”

I began uttering no, no, no as soon as I heard “third daughter.” At least that much I could take credit for, the big fib about Samantha the imaginary sister.

“One more thing,” Holly said. “Dad needs to know. Should I tell him or will you?”

Just like that: Dad needs to know. I stuttered, “I can’t. You do it. No, let me. No . . . he’s the last person I can discuss this with . . . It might do terrible damage to our relationship. He’ll withdraw. He might never speak to me again.”

She didn’t jump in to say anything to dispel that fear. It could have been a distraction at her end or the favorite-daughter contest—that she could live with my father’s alienation of affection as long as it was directed toward me.