Her Hollywood Matriarch Grandmother Humiliated Her at Christmas, But the 7-Year-Old Had a Key to Secrets That Silenced the Whole Room
The glitzy facade of Eleanor’s charity gala had only deepened Brandon’s resolve, yet it also stirred up old, uncomfortable memories. His mother’s casual dismissal of Vivian Vance, calling her “difficult,” echoed other instances where Eleanor had subtly manipulated his perceptions, especially about people who had disappeared from their lives.
A few days after the gala, Brandon found Eleanor in her opulent sunroom, casually sipping tea. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, a stark contrast to the brewing storm between them. He walked in, his heart thumping against his ribs.
“Mother,” he began, his voice firm, though he felt a tremor of old apprehension. “I want to talk about Vivian Vance.”
Eleanor slowly lowered her teacup, her gaze sharpening instantly. Her composed expression barely flickered.
“Vivian?” she asked, her voice cool, almost bored. “Good heavens, Brandon, why are we dredging up old history? She was a minor client, years ago.”
“Sarah mentioned her,” Brandon pressed, watching his mother’s face for any tell. “And I… I remember something.”
Eleanor raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Oh? Your memory seems to be improving with age. Do tell.”
Brandon took a breath. “I remember the day she disappeared. You were… unusually agitated. Pacing the house, on the phone constantly. You snapped at me when I asked for a snack.”
He remembered it vividly: a rare crack in Eleanor’s perfect veneer, a moment of raw, uncharacteristic stress. He had been a small boy, barely ten, and his mother’s unusual behavior had stuck with him. She had brushed off his question about a snack with a harshness that had surprised him, which was unlike her usual composed manner.
Eleanor let out a delicate, dismissive laugh, a light, tinkling sound that grated on Brandon’s nerves.
“Brandon, darling,” she said, her tone dripping with condescension, “you’re letting your imagination run wild. You were a child. Children have overactive imaginations. Every minor inconvenience becomes a ‘dramatic event’ in their little minds.”
She then subtly changed her posture, turning her body slightly away from him, a physical manifestation of her disinterest and dismissal.
“I was probably dealing with a difficult client, as I often did,” Eleanor continued, her voice dismissive, as if she were explaining basic arithmetic to a slow student. “Vivian was a flight risk, constantly late, notoriously unreliable. I was likely frustrated by her lack of professionalism, trying to salvage her career before she completely ruined it for herself.”
“But Sarah said Vivian was always professional,” Brandon countered, trying to hold onto his memory.
Eleanor rolled her eyes, a small, subtle gesture of impatience.
“Sarah,” she scoffed. “Dear Sarah. Such a naive creature. Always saw the best in everyone, even when it wasn’t there. She wouldn’t have understood the pressures of the industry, the compromises sometimes required.”
She leaned forward slightly, a knowing look in her eyes, trying to draw him into her version of reality.
“Vivian simply ‘retired gracefully,’ Brandon. That’s the truth of it. She wasn’t cut out for the cutthroat world of Hollywood. She made her own choices.”
“But what about her contracts being terminated?” Brandon pressed. “And her agent dropping her?”
Eleanor sighed dramatically, as if dealing with a particularly tiresome child.
“Talent agents drop clients all the time, Brandon,” she said, her voice laced with an exaggerated patience. “Especially when they prove to be more trouble than they’re worth. I did what was best for my roster, and what was best for the agency. I protected my reputation.”
She picked up her teacup again, taking a deliberate sip, her gaze unwavering as she watched him over the rim. It was a challenge, a subtle assertion of power, daring him to push further.
“You’re allowing Arthur to fill your head with nonsense, Brandon,” Eleanor stated, her voice now firm. “He’s a bitter, desperate man, looking for someone to blame for his own failures. Don’t let him poison your memories with these fanciful stories.”
Brandon felt a familiar seed of doubt begin to sprout. His mother was an expert at this, at twisting facts, reinterpreting events, making him question his own recollections. She had done it countless times throughout his life, eroding his confidence in his own judgment. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Arthur was indeed simply a disgruntled former associate, if his own memories were just the embellished fantasies of a child. It was a powerful, disorienting sensation, designed to make him feel lost and uncertain.
He shook his head, pushing back against the familiar fog of her gaslighting. No. He had seen the evidence Arthur had gathered. He had heard Sarah’s fearful voice. This was Eleanor trying to manipulate him again, to pull him back into her orbit of control. His anger resurfaced, a burning ember against the chilling doubt.
“My memories aren’t poisoned, Mother,” Brandon said, his voice quiet but firm. “They’re just clearer now.”
Eleanor’s smile remained fixed, but her eyes narrowed, a flash of cold fury replacing the practiced indifference. The mask was cracking, just barely. He knew he hadn’t convinced her, but he had at least planted a seed of discomfort. And that, for now, was enough.
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