Page 34 of Play Nice

Hannah’s baby hates me, which is fine, because it’s mutual.

Morpheus cries whenever I go near him. He screams now as I push his stroller up a hill in Green-Wood Cemetery.

“Shh,” Hannah tells him. “The dead are sleeping.”

“Yeah, but they’ll sleep through anything,” I say.

“I envy them for that. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in eighteen months. Here. I’ll carry him for a while.”

We pause, and Hannah gets Morpheus out of the stroller and attaches him to her chest with some kind of wrap thing. They’re both in all black, a little skull adorning the kid’s onesie. Hannah covers his head with a black bucket hat.

“Where does one buy goth baby clothes?” I ask.

“There are places,” she says. “You’d be surprised.”

We pause for a brief photo shoot near some mausoleums. Content creation among the bones. It’s more her aesthetic than mine, but I participate because I need something to post, to make my life appear haunted in a glamorous, aspirational way instead of a depressing, tortured, terrifying way.

I’ve been staying with Hannah for the last two nights.

Before that, Veronica. But her boyfriend and I used to hook up before they got together, and she doesn’t know, and he’s not subtle, so it’s complicated.

And they only have a pull-out couch, which is not ideal.

Hannah has a guest room and a partner I’ve never touched. But she has this asshole baby.

He side-eyes me now from her chest, curling his tiny baby lips into a punk rock snarl.

“You’re meeting your sisters tomorrow?” Hannah asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” she says, but I know she doesn’t mean it.

After being freshly traumatized by the exorcism chapter of Demon of Edgewood Drive and my little chitchats with Aunt Helen, I redirected my energy to looking at apartments online and scheduling viewings.

I’ve been back in the city working and checking out new places all week.

My friends have been willing to put me up because they feel sorry for me, which I’ve reluctantly accepted.

I decided to stay in New York through the weekend, for the big lunch with my sisters.

Avoidance has been an effective strategy for the house, the book, the demon.

The same can’t be said for Austin. I miss him.

But I don’t want to see him or talk to him because I’m afraid I’ll open up, be honest with him about what’s been happening, and if I do that, I can’t undo it.

There’s no putting the toothpaste back in the tube.

“You all right, dollface?” Hannah asks me.

“I’m heartbroken. The boy I love doesn’t love me.” I lean in to kiss the baby’s cheek and he squawks. “See?”

“He’s just fussy,” she says. “Don’t take it personally.”

“What if Morph grows up and decides he likes to dress in beige? What if he joins a fraternity. Listens to country music and wears boat shoes?”

“I’ll love him just the same,” she says, booping his nose. “But he won’t, because he’s mine.”

—

The restaurant Daphne picked is in Hell’s Kitchen. I’ve never been before because I avoid Midtown, as a rule.

It’s a sunny summer day, and I wear my Dolce & Gabbana strapless charmeuse dress with the bluebell print, my black Chanel sunglasses, label-less beaded gold clutch from a stoop sale, and patent leather platform heels with an open toe and ankle straps from some slutty discount store in the mall near Dad’s house.

Amy picked out these shoes, and I figured, why not? Touch of tacky never hurt anyone.

I got a blowout this morning, a manicure and pedicure. I feel like myself. Composed and confident. In my element.

But it’s still there, under the surface.

The nag of everything that’s happened over these last few months.

Mom’s death, her funeral, her book, Dad’s burning of that book.

The new book. The happenings at Edgewood.

Austin. My sisters. The fire at my apartment.

Ugly truths. Ugly fiction. Ugly words. Ugly house. Ugly feelings.

There’s no room in my beautiful life for all this ugliness.

And yet, here it is.

I push open the door to the restaurant. It’s an upscale gastropub. Dark wood, polished concrete floors, exposed brick, dimly lit. It’s busy.

Daphne and Leda wait for me in a corner booth.

I’m not surprised they’re already here—Leda is always early, Daphne on time, and I’m always late—but I am surprised to find them sitting on the same side of the booth.

Usually, Daffy will sit next to me. It feels like a strategic move. Like I’m walking into an ambush.

“Hey,” I say, sliding onto the empty bench. I pick up the cocktail menu. “Twenty dollars for a drink. Intriguing.”

“Are you complaining?” Daphne asks.

“No. I love a craft cocktail. I was just expecting beer and burgers.”

“You can get a beer,” Daffy says. “And they’re known for their burgers.”

Leda sighs, impatient.

“Leeds,” I say. “Let’s enjoy ourselves now. While we can. Before the talk .”

“I took the six a.m. Acela,” she says.

“Then let’s hope for all our sakes that the drinks are strong and the food is good,” I say, kicking her restless leg under the table.

“Ow!”

“Please,” Daphne says.

Our waiter arrives. Exquisite timing.

Everyone calms down after ordering drinks and starters—truffle fries and spicy shrimp. Then Daphne tells us about a date she went on earlier in the week with a pastry chef named Daisy.

“Daphne and Daisy,” I say. “I don’t see it going anywhere.”

“Stop,” Leda says. “I think it’s sweet. Do you like her?”

“I do,” Daphne says. “She has cats, though. She adopted them.”

“?‘Them’? How many?” I ask.

“Two. Betty and Ophelia.”

“Two is too many,” I say, taking a sip of my twenty-dollar cocktail. It’s not strong enough. I flag down the waiter and order a different one.

“Don’t listen to Clio,” Leda says. “It’s good she has pets. Shows she’s compassionate and responsible. Tom grew up with dogs. He wants one now, but we’re too busy. Never home. Maybe down the road.”

“I’m fine with her having cats, but I’m allergic. Remember?”

“Like I said, I don’t see it going anywhere.” I reach for another fry as Leda scowls at me.

“You hate love,” she says, which makes both me and Daphne laugh.

“I don’t hate love,” I say. “Just seems like more trouble than it’s worth. It’s fun until it isn’t, and once the fun part’s over, why bother?”

“Companionship. Partnership,” Leda says. “Tax benefits.”

“How romantic!” I say, swooning.

“All right, all right,” Daphne says. She sips her cocktail, a mezcal Paloma.

“I have companionship when I want,” I say. “Austin.”

“Who’s that?” Daphne asks.

“The neighbor.”

“That’s still going on?”

“When I feel like it.”

“That’s not a relationship,” Leda says.

“It could be.”

She and Daphne both stare at me.

“What?”

“Do you want it to be?” Daffy asks.

I almost say yes, but I don’t like how the word feels in my mouth, so I swallow it down.

Leda shakes her head. She turns to Daphne. “See?”

“What?” I ask again.

“You’re not normal,” Leda says. “This is not normal human behavior.”

“Plenty of people choose to be single, Leeds.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s—”

“Don’t,” Daphne says. She takes another sip of her drink.

The waiter drops off my second cocktail and takes our lunch order. I get a lobster roll, Daphne a burger, Leda a salad.

“If we’re going to get into it, we might as well get into it,” I say. The second cocktail is better. Worth what it costs.

“Look, I’m glad we’re all sitting down. But let’s not have it be…” Daffy trails off. “It’s been tough since Alexandra…”

“Died,” I say. “The audacity of that woman.”

“Dude, come on,” Daffy says. “Don’t be difficult.”

“She can’t help herself,” Leda says.

“You’re upset that I read the book. You’re upset that I went to Mom’s funeral. You’re upset that I’m taking care of the house. Those things have nothing to do with you. They’re my decisions.”

“They affect us. You must understand that on some level,” Daphne says, chewing on her cocktail straw.

I shrug.

“She doesn’t. You know what I think, Clio?

” Leda asks, leaning forward. “I think you don’t care about anyone but yourself.

I think you’re incapable of empathy. And either what happened in our childhood affected you so deeply that it made you this way, or it’s something you can’t help.

Honestly, I think you might have antisocial personality disorder. ”

I’ve never taken an arrow to the chest, but I imagine it feels something like this.

Daphne closes her eyes and exhales.

“You think I’m a sociopath?”

“Tom has a minor in psychology,” Leda says. “And I’ve done some reading.”

“You’ve talked to Tommy about this?” I’m hurt, and I have nothing to disguise my hurt. Nothing to hide behind. I can’t force a laugh or a smile. I have no wisecrack. No comeback. I’m empty.

“Leda,” Daphne says. “Both of you. Just…stop. Take a breath. Clio, she didn’t mean it.”

“I do mean it. I know you want to be mediator, Daffy, but you don’t get to make me bad cop. We’ve talked about this, too.”

“You talked. I listened. I’m always listening. Always in the fucking middle.”

“You two said you saw Mom burn me,” I say. “Is that true?”

They look at each other.

“You really don’t remember?” Daphne asks.

“No. There…it was a pink lighter, right?”

“Being in that house, in that environment, it was bad for you,” Leda says. “You were acting out. And she was encouraging it. You did it because of her.”

“Wait, what? What are you saying?”

“Leda,” Daphne says.

“You were sleeping in our room. Mom and Roy wouldn’t let you in yours after the exorcism.

We weren’t even allowed downstairs. Daffy and I woke up in the middle of the night and you were gone.

We found you at the table talking to yourself.

Giggling. Messing with the lighter. Burning yourself.

You said it felt like nothing. Just like it said it would.

It being an imaginary demon. It being Mom. ”

I look to Daphne, but she won’t look back at me. “Daffy?”

“That’s what I remember,” she says. “You said you were playing with it. With the demon.”

“It was her fault. You were clearly in distress. Confused. She was brainwashing you. And when we told Dad, he had to explain to us how important it was that we help him get you out of there. Get us all out of there and away from her,” Leda says.

“So she didn’t do it,” I say. I sound the same, which is strange because everything is different. The world just changed color. “You knew, Dad knew—this whole time—that she didn’t do it, and you just let me believe it? You lied.”

“We didn’t lie, Clio. She was responsible,” Daphne says. “You don’t remember this stuff because you were fucking traumatized. She convinced you, a seven-year-old girl, that there was a demon living in her house. She made us afraid all the time. It was the right thing, and you know it.”

“Do I? I spent my whole life thinking my own mother burned me.”

“Dad did what he had to do to keep us safe. We did what we had to do. We couldn’t be there anymore,” Leda says. “And I’m not sorry. I don’t regret it. We saved you. It was only going to get worse. More dangerous. She was hosting exorcisms.”

“What do you remember about the exorcism?” I ask. “Jed? Ruth?”

“Who?”

“Do you remember a guy with bleeding ears? A lady with blue hair clawing her eyes out? Ambulances?”

“What? No,” Daphne says, shaking her head. “I remember a lady with blue hair, but the exorcism was just a bunch of yelling and Alexandra throwing herself down the stairs. She limped around after, but there was no ambulance.”

“It was all dramatics,” Leda says. “Whatever you read in the book, I promise you that is not how it happened. Would you please just trust us? The people who are here and love you.”

“You just admitted you’ve both been lying to me. And you just called me a sociopath.”

“Because you might be one! I’m trying to help you.”

“Enough with the armchair diagnosing, Leeds,” Daphne says. She downs the rest of her drink. “Maybe we should go to family therapy. With Dad and Amy. Get back to a healthy place.”

“Were we ever in a healthy place?” I ask, twisting my napkin for something to do with my hands. “Or is everything just a big lie?”

I wait for them to say something, to argue with me. But they don’t. Maybe that’s my answer.

“I’ll tell you something true. Something real,” I say, tossing my napkin aside and grabbing my purse. I get out my wallet, finger for some twenties, drop the cash on the table anticipating what’s coming next. “The house is haunted.”

Daphne closes her eyes again. “Clio. Come on.”

“You don’t believe that,” Leda says.

“I do. It is haunted. There’s something there. It’s always been there. The demon or whatever it is. It’s real.”

“What are you talking about?” Daphne asks, her face going pale.

“It communicates with me. I’ve heard it. And it draws. Leaves me messages. I have another copy of Mom’s book. It’s written inside it.”

“Oh my God,” Daphne says, holding her head in her hands. “Oh my fucking God. Not this again. Not this…”

“Ignore her. She’s just saying this to spite us,” Leda says. “To make us upset. To make us worry about her. She just wants the attention.”

“I don’t need it from you,” I say, sliding out of the booth.

“She’s just like her,” Leda mutters to herself. “She’s just like her.”

“Where are you going?” Daphne calls after me.

“Home.”