Chapter 4: Origin
"I don't want Hilary," Neil said, staring in Devon's face without flinching.
"Are you sure?" Devon asked.
Devon wasn't perceptible to persuasion. Something wasn't right with his father. He could sense a complex mental anxiety propelling harder perceptual critique. Perhaps breaking up with Leslie provoked inner calm rationale to snap like a vulnerable twig. The space between them on the couch seemed miles instead of familial closeness. Metaphorical imbalance screamed out error in Neil's behavior pattern. This strange, out of place Los Angeles trip meant to slice into Devon's intimate plans, sever more than what appeared to be an innocent business gig.
On top of that, Neil trying to set him up with Gwen incited Devon's fury. It was quite outrageous to scheme another relationship. Hours earlier, Devon had just mentioned a steadfast commitment, sharing marriage proposal plans and newly acquired ring.
What the hell?!
"I feel sorry for Hilary mostly," Neil explained further, stroking thick beard. "I feel empathy. I know I am partly to blame for her behavior, for her spiking my drink. Remember that, Son? She spiked my drink."
"I remember."
"It took me days to get over that taste. That delicious, familiar taste of-"
"I get it. I understand. But you forgave her. You're the reason Jack hired her."
Guilt and compassion took over annoyance.
Devon felt sorry for Neil and hated those moments of temporary disregard. Of course, his forgiving father wanted the best for Hilary, hoping to smother the selfish, conniving side of her for good. Devon had buried her past underneath the brewing aroma of love. She was his sweet caffeinated coffee, getting him through days and nights, sometimes with a smile, a caress. He hadn't forgotten that he once believed her to be a sick toxin. Perhaps that had been reason. Something inside feared drinking in the drugging comforts beautiful women could bring. Hilary wasn't just insanely beautiful.
"Je t'aime plus que tout sur cette terre," she whispered against his firm naked chest, purring slightly like the most content of spoiled felines.
"Hmmmm?" He asked, sitting up and looking down on her, mesmerized by tempestuous accent. She rolled "r's" perfectly.
She smiled and repeated, louder with free spirited passion.
"Je t'aime plus que tout sur cette terre!"
"That sounds so sexy when you say it. What does it mean?"
"I love you more than anything on this earth, Devon."
"Hilary..."
He felt lost, surrendered in her, almost proposing among crumpled sheets and luscious nude skin, but fighting himself. No. It would be far more romantic. Better planned. He sure didn't want to wait to make her his wife. Of that he was certain. They wasted enough time.
Although it simple to initiate making love, to feel their bodies intersect, sweat, and breathe in thunderstruck unison, her softly articulated words struck an inner cord. He would never believe that a woman could feel so strong about him. To be a woman's whole world meant being the reason for being in the universe, for living, for being. She had traveled all over the globe, met men in those journeys. Yet here, right now, in Genoa City, she found yin to her yang in him.
He vowed to spend the rest of his life worthy of her devotion.
"Did you want to hear that in Chinese?" She asked, tickled by his silence.
"I'd rather hear you say, no rather, utter things," he teased, brushing her shoulder, unable to stop grinning.
"You're so devilish!" Hilary laughed, swatting his anxious fingertips.
"What do you expect at one o'clock in the morning?" He pounced on her neck, churlish giggles filling his ears.
Devon swallowed and concentrated on his father. He couldn't baby the older man, but wouldn't desert him. Obviously something bothered Neil.
"Son?" Neil asked.
"Yes?" Devon waffled out of love cloud and focused.
"Where were you?"
"Just thinking. You were saying? About Hilary?"
"Yes, I know I recommended Hilary for Jabot," Neil continued. "For my own redemption. It's selfish, but to me Hilary is a case. A special case. She lost her mother because of me."
Devon's brow rose. Skepticism refused to wither.
"So this L.A. Trip is just a way for you to continue petting her?"
"Simple as that."
Time was escaping him. Hilary and Peanut were likely starving. He didn't want to keep them waiting for him any longer.
"Well, I have to go," Devon said, getting up. "I will see you later okay?"
"Wait," Neil commanded.
Devon turned.
"Why are you so gung ho about Hilary?" Neil's eyes darkened, as though possessed by something unnatural. It quickly evaporated.
"I just... I'm worried about you, Dad," Devon replied, immediately shaken by what he witnessed, what he glimpsed.
He could feel truth suspending in his breath, the secret longing for exposure to the air of his father's luxurious apartment surroundings. But he heard Hilary again. She overpowered him, told him to wait and be patient. They would tell his family together.
"I can take care of myself," Neil sighed.
"I can take care of myself too."
"Yes. I know."
"No more setting me up with other women. Especially Gwen. Okay?"
"Son, again I'm sorry. I just thought that she was good fit for you. That's all. I am not trying to overstep."
His father rose and came close, touching Devon's shoulders with parental sincerity.
"Be careful on this friendship path with Hilary, Son."
"She is not the woman you think she is," Devon declared, passionately revealing emotional sleeves.
"I could say the same to you," Neil warned.
/
May, 2005
Surreal darkness. Complete pitch black darkness shadowed Ann's return home. Lights were off. She turned on red lamp. Warm tumescent cast soft emergence on clean nails tearing open fresh mail.
Small gasp turned into mild shriek.
She read missive on repeat, gushing excitedly over inner chanted words mushing and blurring together.
"Dear Ms. Ann Turner, your exceptional talents and intelligence have immensely impressed the faculty so much that we are pleased to offer you a full scholarship..."
It was her fourth acceptance letter. Yale wanted her. Harvard wanted her. Sarah Lawrence wanted her. But this was the one she wanted more. The one.
Sixteen and a prodigy.
She touched British postmark on thin white envelope, fingered her black lettered name. Earlier doubt drifted away, turning into butterflies fluttering like that of a first crush. She wanted to share the joy with her parents.
Upstairs of their modest house, she crept, hoping to spring on surprise.
Just when she was about to knock on the door,
"Bryan," a women moaned. "Bryan."
"Bryan?" Ann whispered, stopping and backtracking, almost crashing down the steps.
Front door slammed.
In the room, voices shuffled, bodies moved fast.
Ann ran and revealed to her shocked father, tears raining, precipitation weathering happiness. Rose, her good, sweet mother, a woman Ann adored and loved above the world was upstairs embarking in an affair.
Douglas stole something from a drawer and took steps, two at a time, running like a wild beast.
Ann crying and covering face barely registered him, so distraught and torn apart by grand illusion.
A loud cry. Two shots fired. More cries. Silence.
Ann stood, shaking, shivering. She stopped, stilling from abrupt violent sounds. Her heartbeat quickened.
Moments later, front door opened and her mother came in, smiling, holding a vase of flowers.
"Mom?" Ann's eyes widened, horrified by the sight.
Everything sank in.
"Yes, what's wrong, Ann?"
Douglas came down the stairs in a slow motion, walking, coming, blood on his huge hands. Hands that had hugged Ann in times of good times and sorrow. Hands that had pushed her on playground swings. Hands that had held hers on school walks.
So much blood.
Vase crashed to the floor. Shards seeming to crash into pieces before hitting carpet.
"What have you done?" Rose asked looking from husband to daughter.
Like a flurried flash passing by stilted Ann, her mother fled past, her light brown coat flapping out underneath floral skirt like bird wings.
"Mom..." Ann's face fell, shocked and bereft. She had never seen her mother's face so twisted, so contorted. All of its soft, feminine beauty turned to contempt and disappointment.
Lights came on. Bloodcurdling scream, a sonic boom, echoed throughout the house.
Rose dragged Ann into the room.
She saw her sister lying there, brown eyes gazing out at nothing. Dead. Strangled. The man named Bryan beside her still bleeding out, staining their parents beige colored sheets.
Ann shook and shook and shook some more. With at last, clutched envelope feel from fingertips, falling in a feather dance.
Why hadn't they turned on the lights?
/
Payback.
She got even by having sex in their parents bed. That was all.
How could she assume revenge would result in horrific death?
Lydia Amelia Turner always refused to be good. Refused to cooperate. Although smart and talented with Julliard promised future, Lyd cherished rebellious existence more. She had nose pierced at fifteen. Dyed short bobbed hair jet black with blue lightning streaks. Smoked pot and cigarettes early on. Frequented bars and parties. Ran away countless times.
Douglas gave her the ultimatum- them or the streets.
She chose to throw the key and left.
But she looked back.
Ann did not play piano. Douglas and Rose did not dispose the pricey black Bechstein. It was as though they sensed Lyd's natural inclination creep through unlocked windows, breaking in to play in concertos not typically orchestrated at a friend's house. On a random evening to attend a benefit, parents gone. Kicked out Lyd snuck back inside and played, thinking herself alone.
From shadows Ann watched, riveted.
Lyd's black nailed fingers hit keys blindly yet with purposeful instinctual intuitiveness. Grungy head would tilt and long lashed lids fell to closed surrender, seduced by created rhymes.
To anyone else, she seemed out of place- a rock and roll influenced black girl challenging Tchaikovsky.
"You're a genius," Ann sighed, showing herself, clapping her hands and shouting, "bravo!" Precocious eleven-year-old swooned over her older sister's piano solo.
Lyd jumped, scared out of her wits. That fear transformed into sour bitterness.
"This is easy shit," she said, belittling enthusiastic worship, removing herself from bench, retaining usual hard outer shell. "I'd rather be doing something else."
She ran up the carpeted stairs and Ann followed.
"Like what?" Ann cherished Lyd's dreams, so unlike whimsical fairy tale stories. They were much more real and should have been attainable.
"I wanna start up a band, play guitar, become a rock star. Be on the cover of Rolling Stone."
Lyd opened bedroom door. Still the same. She probably thought their parents would rip apart taped Nirvana posters and remove painted black wooden dresser drawer, and paint her eggplant walls the softest feminine shade of pink.
It was then, Lyd opened and pulled out a purple guitar from underneath dirty cluttered clothes in her closet.
"See this? Mom and Dad would hate it."
"It's so cool!" Ann reached, but Lyd pushed small hands away.
"Nope. I saved up three paychecks for this."
"Why didn't you just ask-"
"No. When you want something, Ann, you work for it. Don't ask for a handout. Especially from those two."
She didn't understand Lyd's dislike. Figured it must a teenager thing.
"They want me to be a pianist," she snorted. "They want you to be something else. You know you wanna dance."
"Yes."
"So why not?"
Ann looked at the guitar, concentrating, hypnotized by symbolization. Refusal of being unfulfilled parental illusions, of being something more than two pairs of genes flowing between veins. The guitar was Lydia's truest desire.
And their parents would hate this route. Like they hated many of Lyd's other hotheaded pursuits.
"How did you learn to play it?"
"Practice."
/
After Lyd's death, her mother succumbed to alcohol.
As for her father- he lost everything. His influence, his job, his money.
/
"You do understand that our school is clean, untainted by such high profile scandal."
"I understand. That's why I called."
"You understand that we cannot accept you?"
"You can and you will."
"Ms. Turner, you neglect to understand that we know about your father, about your family."
"I'm not Ann Turner any longer. I'm Hilary Curtis and I will be attending full scholarship intact by any means necessary."
Hilary snapped cellphone closed, standing in sight of London's pristine college campus, one suitcase in hand.
/
July 2012
"You knew your father had a jealousy streak, a temper," Rose sighed, twirling clear glass of iced water. "Ann that could have been me."
"I know," Hilary said, staring at her mother's drink, hoping it would help relieve alcoholism. Rose looked as though she wanted it to be vodka, wished for it to be vodka. "I'm so sorry about that night if I had known..."
"It's not your fault."
"Yes it is, Mom. I am to blame. I knew Dad loved you, loved you so much, blinded so much by that love, he would do anything to protect it."
They hadn't seen each other in years. She knew from Rose's friend, Valerie that Rose entered rehab facilities and attended AA meetings on the regular, trying to kick harmful alcohol habit. It was then Hilary realized that before Lyd's death, Rose had been struggling for years. Under the facade of the proud lawyer's wife, she seemed too happy, too eager to please Douglas's friends. Lyd and Hilary would sit on the stairs watching lavish dinner parties, in flannel pajamas, watching their mother. Always drinking sparkling apple juice, dodging pregnancy questions, staring not at expectant faces, but their crystal glass flutes of endless supplied champagne.
"She wants it so bad," Lyd had muttered once.
"What?" Hilary asked, her loud whisper almost giving them away.
"Nothing. You'll see when you're older."
Hilary regretted not being a smart enough child to see her mom's internal struggle or her father's demeaning tactics. At thirteen, Lyd already knew.
"That is not love, Honey," Rose admitted, looking away from dreaming about vodka to her daughter's array of library books.
Her mother was in ageless limbo. Smooth, unwrinkled skin, lively vivacious cheeks, full raisin lips and long black hair gave off mysterious youthfulness. Suppressed in a black drab coat negated to remove since entering Hilary's small London flat and downcast sienna eyes rendered a tragic figure suspended in melancholy existence. She had the legs and calves of a teenage girl, brown and limber, low black heels supporting facts.
Hilary hoped she planned to stay in London for long.
"What is it then?" Hilary asked, growing curious about her father, the man she thought he was. So dutiful, so eager to charm Hilary- no Ann if she aced tests. She would be spoiled with the sweetest plump green grapes or imported Trinidad chocolate (her favorite treat), past curfew tire swing pushes, a new stuffed animal with a pink or purple bow around fluffy neck, infinite hugs and cheek kisses...
"Insanity." Rose stuck a pin in Hilary's treasured childhood.
"Mom... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry... About Bryan."
She couldn't bring herself to think about her older sister. The girl she had wanted to best. Hilary saw now that she became more and more poised and dutiful as Lyd continued breaking rules and punching docile behavior to the teeth. She loved Lyd so much, but wanted her parents' respect and honor more. Straight after Lyd's death, regret used to be constant fixture, a constant friend to solace. She should have been a better sister, should have realized that a sister's loyalty was a loyalty above anything, even a parent's misplaced affection.
"There's something I have to tell you." Rose licked her lips and her aged eyes grew somber. "A reason for your father's anger, his possessiveness, his constant punishment."
"What?" Hilary asked, realizing that those hosted dinner parties were just a small part of her father's malice.
Drum beats played.
Rose grabbed Hilary's hands, eyes filling with sadness that seemed to touch Hilary's breaking heart.
Hilary knew it would be detrimental, change the course of her life forever.
"Lydia wasn't his biological daughter."
Hilary almost spat out her tea. Eyes raised and stared at her mother, betrayed, outraged.
Her father had been right to be mistrustful all this time...
"Lydia lashed out because she found out. She hated me for lying and your father well... she always knew he didn't truly love her. Like he did you."
"Mom..." Hilary's eyes watered, mourning again for her lost sister, her death reopening and being reprocessed into something more than what had been presented. The bow had seemed too neat, too tied together.
Maybe Douglas Turner had meant to murder Lyd after all and that had been perfect opportunity.
Yet why would he risk it all? Why not hire someone? He could have afforded it then.
Hilary wrested from her mother and rose out of her velvet chair.
"How could you do this to Dad? How could you cheat on him?"
Rose sank back as though struck by Hilary's raised anger.
"Gus is a good man. You would like him."
"Better than Dad?"
"He doesn't get jealous or possessive."
"Where is he? Where is this Gus?"
"In prison."
Hilary turned away, disgusted, unable to look at her mother again.
"For what?"
"See, he was wrongfully accused, unlike your father."
"For what?"
"For apparently killing his wife in cold blood."
/
Present
Lyd had influenced Hilary. Her sister's insubordinate streak came bubbling through the surface, birthing out of mourning tragedy. She came to Genoa City with guns blazing, armed and aimed at the Winters, ready to deliver endless supply of hell and mayhem.
Oh how quick things changed. Anger softened to unexpected love. With a baby on the way.
She looked at the desecrated shell of her father who lost so much. Despite neat, clean cut exterior, she knew his insides were rotten to the core.
"I never did get to thank you for helping me escape," Douglas said, putting photograph back on the mantle.
"You blackmailed me," Hilary recalled.
"I couldn't survive in jail. You know that." He stood near, accessing her."How's Mason doing these days? Your helper in crime."
"As you can see Mason and I are no longer involved."
"Seriously? I liked him. He had spunk."
"Why are you here? You promised no lies."
"Did you tell your boyfriend about her?" He asked, dodging her question with a daring one of his own. "About your jealousy issues? About how those jealousy issues led to her murder?"
"Stop it!" Hilary yelled, holding head in hands. Massages to temple and stray hairs did little to remove sudden hurting. "Just stop!"
"No. I won't stop. You are responsible for me losing everything, Ann. Everything."
Red and green sirens flashed and flashed. The cops had arrested him that night. They slapped silver cuffs on his wrists, reading him Miranda rights she only heard partly on television. Paramedics flooded downstairs in slow motion, body bags on stretchers, blood on their gloves, on their clothes. Rose started babbling nonsense, pouring scotch, pleading to them not to take Lyd away, that she belonged with them. That she was alive. Not gone. Not gone.
"Not gone," Rose sobbed onto the carpet, repeating herself over and over between scotch gulps.
She had black-outed that memory, shunned its shame and horror.
"I am not Ann," she spoke softly, retreating to the now.
"Yes, you are," her father said, sounding so mocking, so belittling. "You will always be Ann Turner. The girl who killed her sister, killed her mother."
She slapped his face. Hard.
Anger and scorn came burning and sizzling. That memory of last conversation in the cafe, the dying agony her mother faced trying to be clean, trying to be sober, the abandoned promise to be in the audience at Hilary's MFA graduation and not being able to attend because she was already dead. Dead. Dead and buried way before time allowed Rose and Hilary true mend.
Douglas held cheek, knitting brows and twisting lips. He looked rather terrifying.
"You were supposed to be the good one!" he snapped.
"You pulled the trigger!" Hilary yelled. "Not me."
"You might as well have."
"Mom never loved you. She despised you."
His lips snarled further, making him uglier. Fists balled at his sides.
"If you weren't my daughter..."
"But that's right, Douglas. You're not my father. Not anymore. Get the hell out of my house."
"This isn't over."
"It is over."
She collapsed on the sofa, clutched teal pillow to her chest, letting sobs take over. Recollections continued suffocating her mind, taking advantage of vulnerability.
Devon came in, dropped grocery bags to the floor, and just held her. Held her until sobs subsided into sleep.