Page 23 of Pieces of Ash

As the train pulls away from the station, I wave to Father Joseph one final time, watching as he turns away from the platform and walks back to the parking lot. When I can’t see him anymore, I face front, wondering about his meeting with Mosier.

He promised not to call Mosier or set up the meeting until I had left town, more out of consideration for my feelings, I believe, than because he believes my stepfather capable of nefarious action. Even today, on the way to the train station, Father Joseph reaffirmed his belief that once Mosier understood the circumstances of my birth, he would withdraw his offer of marriage.

I wish I had Father Joseph’s faith in Mosier, but I don’t.

I have far more faith in Mosier’s hair-trigger temper and ruthless will to get what he wants. I think the revelation of my parentage will throw my stepfather into a fury, but I do not believe it will deter him from his plan to have me.

It’s a little after five o’clock, and this train will reach the station in Westport, New York, a little after nine, which leaves me several hours for reading. I take a deep breath. It’s time to face my demons again.

Leaning down, I tug my bag out from under the seat in front of me, unzip it, and find Tig’s journal.

Day #8 of THE NEW YOU!

Dear Diary,

Big day.

BIG FUCKING DAY TODAY.

I took the kid shopping on Rodeo for shits and giggles and because FUCK MY LIFE I needed a break from feeling like shit. So I put on this ridiculous Zimmermann romper from last season that practically showed off my cooch, and I told the kid she could borrow whatever she wanted from THE closet. Of course she chooses my 24” Alexander Wang jeans because she’s a skinny little cunt, and she knows I can’t fit into them.

Cue mother-daughter magical bullshit, strutting our stuff on the Drive, when this dickhead in a limo pulls over and rolls down his window.

Kid is licking an ice cream and staring at headphones in the B&O window, so I step over to the car and lower my Gucci aviators. WELL?

Fucking asks me, HOW MUCH? like I’m a pro.

What a douche.

HOW MUCH? I ask him back, HMM. FIVE MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS AND A MANSION IN THE COUNTRY.

DONE, says the fucker, looking at the kid, then back at me. I’LL BE IN TOUCH.

Smiles at me, rolls up the fucking window, and drives away.

Okaaaaaaaaay. Weirdo.

I turn around and see this little rich bitch walking toward the kid. Zero style, fat as fuck, but she’s got a light pink Fendi bag on her shoulder and fuck if my kid doesn’t deserve a Fendi bag too.

I grab her arm, and we go to Fendi, but FUCK ME my cards don’t work, and they get out the goddamn scissors to cut them up. I pitch a fucking fit because WHY YOU GOTTA BE A BITCH, MARY? They obviously know who I am because they ask security to escort “Ms. Tig” from the store.

The kid gets all nervous, pulling my arm and saying she doesn’t want the bag anyway. So I throw that shit right at the cash register lady and tell her what I think of her. The kiddrags me out the door, gets us a cab, and gives the driver our address before the cops can come.

I DON’T NEED A FENDI BAG, she says, like I’m a useless piece of shit, and it takes everything inside me not to smack that self-righteous tone out of her voice.

I call Gus to see where we’re going tonight, but he doesn’t answer. Fucker’s probably getting it hard from some homicidal thick-dick with daddy issues. He needs to be more fucking careful.

When we get home, the light on the answering machine is blinking.

Fuck my life, please let it be work.

And it IS.

Well, sort of.

It’s a different kind of job altogether.

Get this…