Roman jokes they should get a family discount. Except that's not how it works. This isn't family therapy—well, not yet. They aren't ready for that. Maybe down the line, but there are too many things below the surface that need to be addressed before they all sit in a room together and talk.
"We have a lot of things on our, our icebergs that we don't show. That other people don't see."
"Icebergs, what the fuck is that?"
"You know, dude, our iceberg. There's the shit above the water we show. To each other. Whatever. And there's stuff under the water. A whole lot of it."
"And where did you hear that hippy-dippy nonsense?"
"Um, I think Iverson's therapist talked about it once. Doesn't matter."
"An iceberg took down the fucking Titanic."
"We aren't on the Titanic," Shiv quips.
None of them want to sit with strangers and be vulnerable. When they've been vulnerable, they've been burned. Their hearts have been ripped out and stomped on. They aren't taking the idea of therapy seriously. It's a joke they throw at each other when they see tears in eyes or quivers on lips.
After everything they've been through, why subject themselves to it now?
"Because Dad is fucking dead," Kendall says. It's monotone and clipped, his expression sour as if he might vomit.
"Hear, hear," Roman tries, but he can't swallow the lump growing in his throat.
Shiv says she can't do it. She has nothing to discuss.
Roman agrees. He's made peace with his life.
Connor wavers. He's considering. "Might be fun," he adds.
Kendall is quiet. He's been in treatment for years, off and on. Some of the counselors he'd seen in recovery were bullshit. They walked around him as if on eggshells, as if the rich Daddy's boy would fire them with a snap of his fingers.
"Yeah, I. I'm in it. Now. For a few weeks," he says.
His siblings stare at him. When was he going to tell them, they ask. Kendall shrugs and rubs at his forehead. "It's helpful."
"A few weeks?" Shiv asks, not making eye contact. She's curious. "Before or after Dad," she stops. She can't finish.
"After," Kendall says. "I just think that it would help all of us."
They sit, sip wine (Kendall grips his glass of water), and don't talk.
What they don't tell Kendall, though, is that they've each been in treatment for weeks, too.
Shiv gravitated toward a woman her age, gentle, warm, and cautious.
Roman settled on a man fresh out of graduate school, a little squirmy, like he had been at that age.
Connor somehow found the most dry and bland older man he could.
They talk about their childhoods, what they remember of it. There is frustration when recollections are shaky, when they doubt their own memories.
Abuse, they're told, especially chronic abuse, can do that to a person. It rewires the brain. Complex trauma impacts every area of a person's life.
"Trauma," Roman laughs. "You putting that big boy diagnosis on me, doc?"
We keep an open mind here, they're told. Labels can be helpful, but they aren't everything.
"Tell me what you've considered," Shiv says.
"I'm curious why you're interested," she's told.
"I want to see how badly Dad fucked me up," sighs Shiv, adding a laugh.
There's the complex trauma. Likely personality disorders.
For Kendall, there is also the historical substance dependency. Potential bipolar disorder. The suicide attempt. He wants to say that he had just fallen off a fucking pool float. He doesn't because it wasn't just that.
"You have children," his therapist says. She is a stern older woman who reminds him of his mother. He doesn't think too much about that. He's sure if he brings that up, she'd have a field day. Might ring up Freud from beyond the grave.
Kendall nods. "Yes."
"Have there been any observations of mental health concerns in them?"
"They're young," he says, as if that would save them. He shakes his head and closes his eyes. "My son, um, has autism. Is on the spectrum, I mean. I think they changed the terminology."
She nods, makes a note on her clipboard. "That's usually genetic."
Kendall squeezes the pillow in his hands. "Yeah, I, I… that's what we were told when we assessed him."
More notes. The pen scratches send shivers down his spine.
"I don't wanna know," Connor says. "What good can it do, eh? I'm just here to talk some things out."
His therapist smiles. He likes easy clients.
In many of their memories, their older (eldest) brother Connor replaces Dad. Camping trips, fishing, late night talks, and jokes. There had been care, love.
"I think they took it for granted." Connor shakes his head.
Did they see love in their brother's actions? Sure, sure, they appreciate Connor's efforts. But he's a dolt, naive. There's a reason why he didn't get involved in the family business.
Shiv folds her arms over her chest. "It's weakness. All of it. We couldn't be soft. We couldn't show we cared. We… couldn't."
"Do we really have to talk about all these fucking feelings? This fucking nonsense?" Roman puffs out his cheeks, blowing a loud stream of air. "It's all," he stops and mimes projectile vomiting.
Let's talk about something else, their therapists redirect. Your other siblings, relationships—what's your support system currently? They're cautious, tapping pens against clipboards and glancing at their clients out of the corner of their eyes. They watch the news and see the tabloids.
Connor smiles, perhaps a bit earnestly, and holds a hand to his chest. "We're all good over at Camp Connor. I feel very steady. My wife is my rock."
Shiv presses her lips together in a tight smile. "I'm fine."
Roman squirms, makes a face, and waves a hand. "Bleh. You know. They're there supporting and systeming."
Kendall picks at the arm of the chair. The material is fraying. "I still talk to my siblings. And my ex-wife and kids. Sometimes."
They receive silence in response. Simple stares and delicate smiles.
And then, she asks Shiv, "How are you and your husband? You mentioned being married in your intake and haven't talked about him a lot."
"I'd think that suggests I have no complaints." Shiv raises her brows and smiles. Her cheeks are pink. She tucks her hands into her lap to stop them from shaking. "We're good."
She doesn't talk about how she and Tom sleep in separate rooms or how they didn't go forward with freezing embryos. When she thinks about their DNA colliding to form a life, she is sick. Tom can't touch her anymore without leaving behind singed skin.
Sometimes they still fuck. Most of the time they can't look at each other.
"I'm fine," Shiv repeats. "A lot of support here."
Roman has proposed to two people that he can remember, but they weren't serious, or were they. No, they weren't. Or maybe, yes, actually, fuck you.
"How about recently?" his therapist tries, swallowing roughly as he attempts to scribble down the list of exploits Roman has given him. "Anything stable, perhaps?"
Roman blows a raspberry and taps his thighs. "You fucking hitting me up? Not that I'm not interested, but I'm pretty sure that crosses a line. Oh, huh, well—"
He clears his throat and gives Roman a look. Roman can't quite understand it, but it makes him shrink in his chair. This twerp is younger than him. How does he do that?
"Uh, yeah, sure." Roman clears his own throat, pushing his hair back. "Kinda, who knows, yeah, I'm talking to this dude. He's great. But don't fucking tell anyone."
"This is a safe place."
"Oh sure, a girl's heard that before." Roman bats his eyelashes. The therapist scribbles again.
Kendall opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He shakes his head, staring at the patterned rug between them. "No, not anyone… recently. I had someone years ago. I saw her a couple months ago to catch up. I've seen her here and there since then, but. Yeah. Nothing consistent." He clears his throat and lifts a hand to rub his nose.
She watches him, head tilted. "What happened?"
He loosely shrugs and fixes the sleeve of his jacket. "I prefer solitude right now," he says, but it sounds far away, not like himself. Kendall shuts his eyes and sharply breathes in, recalling a sunny afternoon, dust, salt, a heavy weight in his chest. It's fucking lonely. I'm all apart.
It's important to be honest, they're told.
"I am," they say, perhaps a bit quicker than they'd liked.
It's still good to have a reminder, they're told, not missing a beat.
They talk more about their childhoods. It consumes the bulk of their sessions. It's the elephant in the room if they ignore it. Still, it takes several weeks before they are more comfortable openly discussing this.
They are the people that they are because of how they grew up, how they were raised and treated. Mom and Dad were distant; they kept to themselves. Surrounded by adults, they had to mature and mold themselves to fit with Dad's crowd.
There were expectations, rules. They could only be kids when they were with their siblings.
"That didn't last long, though," Connor says, grimacing. "Adolescence was a turning point for them. They started vying for Pop's attention."
"And you?"
"No, no. I wasn't into all that kill-or-be-killed cutthroat mentality." Connor is dismissive. He doesn't like to think about the in-fighting that was (is) frequent between the family.
Kendall leans back, starting to laugh. "Man, there was a time I fucking ratted on Roman. He was trying to make some kind of side deal with one of Dad's friends at work. Like trying to convince him to take Dad's side or something." He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead. "And I told Dad Roman was fucking things up because I was jealous. Why was I jealous of a fucking fourteen-year-old?"
His therapist crosses her legs. "Why would you be?"
Kendall drops his hand and huffs. "I, I don't know. Maybe I… in that moment, I remember the jealousy. And that I wanted Dad to notice me. That I could do what he did. Roman was so good at it already, though. The people stuff. Talking to them and bringing them around. It just came to him, and I had to work for it."
"It sounds like there were times you did get your father's attention, though."
"Well, yeah, I guess, yeah," Kendall says. "It usually bounces around." He pauses. "It bounced around."
Shiv is angry when she thinks about fighting up the ranks of her family. She has to fight harder than her brothers, because she isn't a brother. Dad had pulled her in, made promises and assurances. She should have known he never valued her as much as her brothers, all because she wasn't born with a cock between her legs.
"I tried to get away from it all," she says, hot tears clouding her vision. "I decided I didn't want anything to do with this shit. At all. But he wanted me to run the company. And when I threw myself into it, he didn't want me after all." She sighs, shaky. "I don't think he ever wanted me to run the company."
"That's what he does," Kendall snaps, sitting up in his seat. "He floats his attention around us and fucking torments us with his promises and then pulls the rug out from under us."
Roman leans forward, holding his hands to his eyes. "I don't like to fucking think about this shit. Dad… Dad." He blows out air, shaking his shoulders. There's no way he wants to put energy into processing that Dad thought there's something wrong with him. Can't fucking make him.
"I left my fucking job for him," Shiv says, hand to her chest. "And it was for fucking nothing."
"I was supposed to be the fucking heir," Kendall says, nose wrinkling at the floor. "We had it all set. And then he snatched it. And when I wanted out, fully fucking out, he wouldn't let me." He blinks rapidly, absently shaking his head. He's back at that table, listening to Dad tell him he wanted him close. "And then he cut us out anyway. Fucked us."
"He told us to make our own fucking pile," Shiv, Roman, and Kendall say, each robotic, distant. Shiv rubs her face. Roman squeezes his eyes closed. Kendall stares at the wall.
But Dad didn't really want them to make their own pile.
Roman, eyes still closed, settles back in his seat. He can't look at his therapist. He waves a hand, wiggling his fingers. "We were, uh, what is it, lab rats. Yeah, fucking lab rats to Dad. He taunted us with fucking tiny pieces of cheese and left them all over and made us search for them and fucking fight for them. But when we'd get close to them, he'd, like, fucking reach into the maze and move 'em further away. Or even remove them." Roman opens his eyes and nods, smacking his lips. "Yeah, Dad removed all the fucking cheese at the end there."
Have you ever thought, they're asked, about why Dad said that and made the decisions he did.
"No," Roman quickly says.
Shiv clenches her jaw. "He was an angry man," she says, calm, steady.
Kendall shakes his head, at first not willing to consider why Dad made the cruel moves he did—why he dangled opportunities and promises in their faces, yanked them away, and shamed them for expecting something at all. Kendall knots his fingers together. "I don't… I don't think he was very happy. Generally. Yeah. Maybe, maybe he didn't know how to—" He shuts his eyes and squeezes his knuckles just a bit harder. "Yeah, I don't know."
It's painful to think about Dad like this. It makes them realize that things are never straightforward and neat. They live in a house with layers upon layers of wallpaper, attempting to cover unpleasantries and vulgarity. The wallpaper is peeling. It didn't start when Dad had his stroke. They have all picked at it since, though. It's like removing bandages before a wound heals. It begs for an infection to set in.
"Fucking tragedy Dad never got to see his grand experiment finished," Roman says, sighing loudly and rolling his eyes.
Their family has festered for years.
"You know," Connor starts, "I was away from Dad for some years, but we came back around. I'm not sure of all what my siblings have been through. But I know it wasn't all good." He pauses, shaking his head. "That's fucking obvious. Then and now."
How have things been since his death, they're asked. Each therapist is hesitant to ask. They need to ask. It's the catalyst that drove their clients into therapy.
The Roys are reluctant to answer. If they respond too quickly, it'll be obvious they're lying. If they take too long to say something, they might get accused of being untruthful. Of hiding.
"Our family really died when Dad sold," Shiv says, glancing at her hands. "Things were shitty before then, but that was the nail in the coffin. Just shows how fucking incompetent he really thought we were." She curls her fingers, biting the inside of her cheek. There is a pang in her chest. She hates it. She hates feeling like this, the difficulty in steadying her breathing and smothering whatever down.
Once the Gojo acquisition was finalized, they took their money and left. Dad had fucked them, killed them, so they gathered the last of their shares and made a definitive exit. There would be no more business conducted with Logan Roy.
They tried to make their own ways (piles) in the world. Connor continued his presidential campaign. He dropped out after the Iowa caucus, receiving an embarrassing 2% of the vote. It's something they don't talk about anymore. Connor retreated to his ranch and financed Willa's plays full-time. She's thinking about branching into television.
Kendall, Roman, and Shiv are consultants. It's the best word to describe the amalgamation of services and advice they give to whoever approaches them. Or how they pitch themselves to any endeavors they want to pursue. It's fine. It's somewhat fulfilling.
None of them are struggling for money. Far from it. Objectively, they're set for life.
It took each of them time to come back around to Dad. Several years pass before they can gather together for holidays and birthdays. There is still tension in the air when they linger in the room for too long. They try not to linger.
Dad showed interest in their careers. He asked the right questions. He gave the right gestures and comments to show he was listening.
That night in Chiantishire isn't discussed. They believed it would be brought up at some point, perhaps as a way for Dad to wedge the knife just a bit further in their backs. It never was. It was like Dad to have them waiting, waiting, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"It was always like that," Kendall mutters.
"What was that?" his therapist asks, shifting to lean forward in her chair.
He shakes his head, tucking his hands into his lap. "Nothing. Passing thought."
How have things been since your dad's death, they're asked again.
Connor folds his arms over his chest. "It's been a bit lonely. Sometimes I wish I could talk to him." He laughs. "Probably just tell me to 'fuck off,' though."
"It hurts," Shiv says, not looking her therapist in the eye. "It fucking hurts. I'm angry at everything he's put me through. But there are—" She sighs. "There's good memories buried back there. I don't know why they're still there," she whispers.
Roman shrugs and scrunches his face. He sits in silence, and his therapist stares. Roman squirms in his seat and sniffs. "It's been… okay. I mean, it's fine—what the fuck, my dad is dead. How am I supposed to fucking feel?"
Kendall is quiet, absently picking at the pillow he has pulled into his lap again. There are a million things running through his mind right now. He can't pinpoint what he wants to say. He could answer the question, but he doesn't quite know how. Why was Dad like that? keeps circling. Reasons upon reasons of why Dad could have acted the way he did toward them creep in. Each one makes Kendall feel sicker.
His grip tightens on the pillow. Lips pressed together, Kendall looks at his therapist. She watches him with careful eyes, a hand poised under her chin. His mother is nowhere on this woman. "I think he meant it," Kendall says. "Fucking us up. He meant it."
She is unphased. She has heard worse things. "What would that mean for you? For your family?"
Kendall swallows roughly. He glances down at the floor, at the pillow, back at her. "I, I don't know. That… maybe, um." He shakes his head, now kneading the corner of the pillow. "He liked to win."
"And was this something else to win at? Beating you all down to submission?" It's a cruel question she's asked. Is that the impression he's given of Dad?
Kendall closes his eyes and wrinkles his nose at Dad's voice in his head. He's yelling, telling him that he's a fuck-up, that he's his favorite son, that he's not a killer, that he's the best one to take over the company. Kendall breathes in and opens his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "It's just another part of that." Grimacing, he waves a hand. "It all was."
Roman lets out a strangled sort of sound. His throat is tight, and his tongue won't cooperate. "I don't think there's something wrong with me," he mumbles.
"You don't," his therapist says. It's not a question or a challenge, but an acknowledgement of Roman's certainty.
"Yeah," Roman says. He's expecting laughter, a rebuke. Nothing comes. He sighs, "I don't."
"Where is this coming from?"
Roman shrugs and stares at the window. His lower eyelid twitches, and he breathes in, shaking his head. "I don't fucking know, man."
His therapist watches him and doesn't push.
You list your father's death as the reason you sought therapy, they're told. Some people find it helpful to talk about the event that led them to walk into our offices. Would you?
They've all read the news. They know how the old man died. They still ask.
Roman chews on his nails and shrugs, rolling his eyes.
Shiv smooths her hair behind her ears.
Connor scratches the back of his head.
Kendall frowns.
Not yet, they say.
It's been three months since they started. It can take time, they're told. How about with family? Have you talked about it with them?
"Talked is a strong word," Connor jokes.
Roman snorts and vaguely nods.
Shiv smiles. "We… shared space."
The irony isn't lost on them that Dad died on his birthday. A timer had started when he had his stroke on his eightieth. It ultimately stopped several years later.
They were all invited to dinner. It had almost felt like Before, but there were moments of silence where it hurt, where it felt as if their nerves were still exposed. The slight breeze burned like fire.
Connor was the first to leave. He said he'd be back over in the morning.
Kendall, Shiv, and Roman stayed with Dad in the sitting room, conversation an awkward mix of forced, stilted, and warm. Nearing ten o'clock, Dad bade them goodnight and went upstairs to his room. He went alone. Marcia had been with her son all day.
They remained downstairs, tension still heavy in the air. It must have been twenty, thirty, or even forty minutes later that they heard thumps from upstairs, as if someone was stumbling, knocking into furniture, and grabbing the wall for support.
Kendall swallowed the urge to rise from his chair. Shiv and Roman both looked as if they wanted to sprint upstairs, but they stayed rooted to their seats. The room was hot, making the skin on the backs of their necks prickle. They shifted, tugged on their clothes, and kept watching each other. After two minutes, there was an understanding. After ten, they moved.
They climbed the stairs to his room, Kendall in front, Shiv close by, and Roman trailing behind. Tears still broke through when they found Dad unresponsive in the middle of the room. Kendall cradled his head and Shiv pressed her phone to her ear, sounding distant as she demanded an ambulance come. Her hands shook as she searched for a pulse. Roman stood several feet away and watched, glassy-eyed, before calling Connor.
The doctors said it was another stroke. If they got there just minutes earlier, there might have been a chance to save him.
Kendall set a hand on Shiv's and Roman's shoulders. Squeezing tight, knuckles white, he nodded. "Might have been," he repeated.
"We got to him as soon as we could," Shiv said.
"Right when we heard him fall," Roman added, patting Kendall's hand and shoving it away.
Connor believed them. Why wouldn't he? "Oh, fuck, Pop," he said, staring into the morgue. "Maybe it was his time."
Kendall had wanted to laugh. Shiv and Roman, too. Instead, they grabbed hands, arms, and tried to hug, console, and comfort.
As he stares at his therapist, the frown on Kendall's face falters. It's replaced with a smile, the ghost of one. "Yeah," he says. "We talked."
"Um, actually," Roman starts, head tilted and face scrunched. "Me too. I'm in it too." He rubs his eyebrow and waves a hand. "Therapy, puke."
His siblings stare, eyes wide, surprised. If they had to guess which of them would admit to it first (aside from Kendall), Roman would be at the bottom of the list.
Kendall turns toward him. "That's great, man."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't get all mushy."
Connor clears his throat. "I am, too," he says.
Kendall straightens up in his seat and nods. Gradually, he, Roman, and Connor look at Shiv. She avoids their stares and drinks from her glass. Smacking her lips, she sets the glass down and nods firmly. "Mhm, yeah, me too."
"Since Dad?" asks Kendall, glancing at them.
They all nod. Shiv's shoulders are hunched, defensive. Roman absently runs his fingers through his hair. Connor is leaned forward, hands together.
Kendall wets his lips and nods. "I'm glad. Really."
They're curious. They sneak glances at each other. What have they shared? Did they hold back? Of course they held back. There's more. There's always more. It's only been a few months. Dad fucked them up for decades.
Roman pats a hand on the table. "Do we want to talk about it?" he asks, wrinkling his nose.
Seconds tick by. It's painful, grating. Then, it happens slowly, hesitantly, the fear of vulnerability and intimacy still hooked deep.
They sit, drink just a bit more wine (Kendall finds some grape juice), and talk.
