Chapter 5 - The Cold Arrogance of a Narcissist’s Taunt
On Saturday afternoon, twenty-four hours before the scheduled gathering, my phone rang again.
I was sitting in Lily’s room, watching her carefully arrange a set of new watercolor paints that Mrs. Gable had bought for her. Lily was smiling again, though every time she walked past the full-length mirror, she averted her eyes from her shaved reflection.
I stepped into the hallway and answered the call.
"Arthur, darling!" Beatrice’s voice was buzzing with manic energy and loud background noise—the clinking of wine glasses and the rustle of party decorations. "I'm at the party supply warehouse right now. Did you pick out Lily's outfit yet? Make sure she wears that little navy dress with the high collar. It covers up the neck area, so people won't ask awkward questions about her skin."
"The navy dress. Right," I said evenly.
"Oh, and I wanted to remind you: don't bring any of your veteran friends from the legion hall," Beatrice continued, her tone dropping into a condescending, sing-song lilt. "You know how they can be. So loud, drinking cheap beer, talking about the war... This is a high-class event, Arthur. The vice president of my firm is coming, along with several members of the country club. I don't want anyone feeling uncomfortable because of your... you know, issues."
"My issues?"
Beatrice let out an exaggerated, theatrical sigh. "Oh, Arthur, don't play dumb. We all know you're not completely right in the head since you came back from the sandbox. All that brooding, that quiet, weird stare you give people... It makes everyone nervous. Honestly, you should be thanking me. If I hadn't taken control of that disaster with Lily’s hair, you probably would have had another one of your little PTSD meltdowns and done something crazy."
I leaned against the wall, listening to every syllable, feeling the cold calculation inside me solidify into absolute stone.
"You really think I'm broken, don't you, Beatrice?"
She laughed—a sharp, cackling sound that echoed through the receiver. "You're soft, Arthur. You always have been. You let our father push you around, you let the army break your body, and you've spent the last three years paying for my house because you don't have the guts to stand up for yourself. You need me to keep this family together. Without me, you're just a washed-up soldier sitting alone in an empty house."
"Is that why you called CPS on me yesterday morning?" I asked quietly.
There was a brief, half-second pause on the line—a tiny flicker of hesitation—before Beatrice recovered with a smooth, mocking sneer.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Arthur. But if someone did call them, maybe you should take a good look in the mirror and ask why people think you're an unfit father. Just make sure you're at my party tomorrow at two o'clock. And bring your checkbook. The catering bill came out a little higher than expected, and since I let you bring Lily, you can cover the difference."
Click.
She hung up, confident that she had delivered the final blow, utterly convinced that her dominance was absolute.
I lowered the phone and looked down at my hands. They were completely steady.
A narcissist’s greatest weakness is their unshakeable belief in their own intellectual superiority. They are so blinded by their vanity that they never see the trap closing around their neck until the jaws snap shut.
I walked back into Lily's room. She looked up from her watercolor painting, holding up a sheet of paper. On it was a painting of a large, golden oak tree, with deep green leaves and roots that dug deep into rich soil. Underneath it, in her neat, seven-year-old handwriting, she had written: Daddy's Tree.
"Do you like it, Daddy?" she asked softly.
May you like
I sat down on the carpet beside her, pulled her into my arms, and kissed the soft cotton of her beanie.
"It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Lily-bug," I said. "And tomorrow, we are going to plant that tree where nobody can ever cut it down again."
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