“I’ve
been
babysitting,” I say. “All fucking day. What about
me
? When’s it my time? When do I get to do something
for me?”
Her brow furrows, and suddenly, without makeup, in her
drab, terrycloth robe, she looks much older than her thirty-
four years. “When do I?”
I narrow my gaze at her, just enough so I know she’s listen-
ing, so I know what I’m about to say will sink in: “I think you
did a little something for yourself this afternoon.”
She swings an open hand at me, but I dodge it, and her
second attempt, too.
“Don’t you dare judge me for what I have to do.” Shaking,
she eases onto the nearly threadbare sofa and drops her head into
her hands. “After all I’ve done for you. Everyone told me to get
rid of you. I was too young, they said. But I loved you, I kept you.”
“I’m supposed to thank you for the fact that I exist.” I lean
against the wall opposite her. “For the fact that you got knocked
up at seventeen by a guy who didn’t give a shit about you.”
“I loved you before you were born.”
“If you really loved me,” I say, “you might’ve done what’s
best for me.” Translation: she would’ve given me to someone
who wouldn’t repeatedly put me in impossible situations.
Her lower lip quivers for a moment, then hardens into a
line. “Congratulations. Not only are you not going out tonight,
you’re not going out for two weeks.”
I shake my head, and can’t help smiling at the absurdity of
it all. “Great. That makes perfect sense.”
“Want to make it three?”
I chuckle again. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Do
you think I don’t remember the whole story? Do you think
I don’t remember what Damien’s capable of? That I should
18
