Page 24

ALANA

A few days after my run-in at Books Books Books —new name, pending—I wander through the house with a stack of clean laundry to put away and a sheen of sweat settling on my brow, despite how early in the day it still is.

“I was thinking of taking Franky over to the lake today. Do you still have—” I push through my mother’s bedroom door and stop with a frown when I find her sitting on the side of her bed, her hands on her knees and her head dangling with exhaustion.

Franky and I have been in Plainview for a few weeks now, living with my mother and seeing her daily. Still, her vulnerability and frail thinness never cease to catch me by surprise.

The woman she is today, physically, is nothing like the vicious snake she was in my youth.

“Are you okay?” Changing tact, I set my laundry on the end of her bed and come around and crouch so I can look up and see her face. “You don’t look so well, Mom. Are you feeling sick?”

“I didn’t sleep very well.” She licks her lips. The crackle of a dry tongue over dry skin is like rubbing paper together. “It was hot last night, so I kept tossing and turning. You’re going to the lake?”

“Well… no.” I place my hand on her forehead and search for warmth. It’s the mom in me, I think. It’s the first thing I do whenever Franky is feeling off. “We can stay home and have a movie day, if you like.”

She pulls back, shaking her head and dragging her eyes up. Her face has aged a lot in the last ten years. What used to be smooth skin is now loose. Firm cheeks have become puffy and slack. Seductive bow lips are now flat and thin.

Worse, her skin has a gray tinge that makes my stomach do somersaults every time I look for more than a moment.

“I’m getting up now to make coffee and breakfast,” she murmurs.

“Then I intend to watch my shows all day. The inflatable tubes are still in the shed.” She places her hands on the mattress and moves to her feet.

She’s slow and in pain, but if nothing else, spite spurs her on.

“I’m not sure they’ve been moved since you last used them.

So as long as you stored them well, and they didn’t have holes back then… ”

“Mom! Argghhhhh!” Franky’s guttural scream brings me up in a flash, my legs powering me toward the window that overlooks the yard before my brain can process the fear coursing through my veins.

I tear the curtains aside and shove the glass up, risking shards raining on the carpet, and then I lean my head through the window in search.

“Franklin?! Where are you?”

“It’s trying to kill me!” He sprints across the lawn faster than I ever knew he could run, arms waving in the air and glasses bouncing on his nose.

But before I dive under my mother’s bed and find the shotgun she keeps there, Whacky II, that damn rooster, bolts in Franky’s wake, hunting my baby down and—no doubt—thrilling in his place of dominance. “Mom!”

“Stop running!” I press my hand to my chest and breathe through the panic.

It’s like lava in my veins. Like poison coursing through my system.

And then deliriousness takes over until laughter bubbles along my throat.

“Honey!” I clap my hand to my mouth when Franky trips on his own feet.

But damn, he rolls until he’s up again. “If you stop running, he’ll stop chasing. ”

“Save me, Mommy!” His voice breaks with genuine tears. Fear. Horror, as that friggin’ chook cuts through the yard and rounds my baby up. “Mommy!”

“Whacky!” I climb through the window and onto the roof of the house’s first story.

It’s odd how, now that I’m an adult, I’m not scared of letting my mother see the myriad ways I learned to sneak out of her prison.

Striding to the corner of the house, I turn and climb down the trellis she had installed somewhere around my eleventh birthday.

“Mommy!”

“Whacky! You dumb rooster. Stop it.” I descend in bare feet and shorts not at all appropriate for outsiders to see— lucky me, there are no Watkins boys lingering in the yard today —then dropping to the porch, I dash onto the grass to stand between my son and his villain.

“Hey!” I wave my arms and jump in his way when he tries to charge.

“I’m gonna cook you up and eat you for dinner if you don’t cut the shit. ”

“Get inside, Alana!” My mother stands at her window—her need to control me renewing her strength—and pursing her lips, she looks down her nose and judges me. “You look like a fool.”

“Impossible!” I back up, reaching behind me until I feel Franky’s hands take mine. Then, I meet Bitsy’s derision and beam. “I’m busy being my son’s hero.”

“You’re not even afraid,” Franky murmurs, plastering his cheek to my ribs, his chest to my back. “How come you’re not scared?”

Because I’ve faced bigger, meaner, scarier monsters all my life . But when Whacky turns, bored with the hunt, and wanders away, I draw my son around and swipe the tears from beneath his eyes. “He’s just a chicken, honey. He’s smaller than you by a hundred.”

“That’s not true.” He tilts to the side and studies the feathered demon. “Two or three times, maybe. Not a hundred.”

“You’re still bigger.” And I distracted you with data. Ha! “If you stand your ground, I bet he won’t even come near you.”

“But—”

“You run, so he chases. It’s a game. But I promise, if he ever caught you, he wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I hate him.” He reaches up and drags his glasses from his face. They’re fogged from his tears, so he hands them to me to clean. “I hate him so much, Mommy. I wish he never existed on this farm.”

“Well…” I use my shirt and wipe the lenses. “He’s so old now, honey, it would be impossible to re-home him. But if it makes you feel better, he’ll probably die soon.” I offer a wide smile, even if I feel like an idiot doing so. “He’s already long past his life expectancy. So now we just wait.”

“He’s healthy as a horse,” Bitsy declares from her window. Because, of course, she’s always enjoyed terrorizing children. “And all the extra exercise he gets now only helps.”

Horrified, Franky’s glittering eyes swing back to mine. “Mom?”

“He’ll leave you alone if you stand up to him.” I hand his glasses back and pull him closer. “Do you want to go on an adventure today? I have somewhere fun to take you. ”

“Really?” Sniffling, he pulls back and searches my face. “Where? How far is it? How long will we be in the car? And do I have to wear shoes?”

So perfect. So sweet. So incredibly desperate to control the world around him.

“It’s only a few minutes away. Ten minutes in the car, at most, and that includes stopping by the grocery store to buy snacks.

And no.” I lay a smiling kiss on his cheek.

“You don’t have to wear shoes if you don’t want to.

Come on.” I straighten my legs and take his hand in mine.

“You need to find shorts to swim in, though. And a hat, unless you want your nose to get a sunburn.”

“Swimming?” His lips wrinkle into displeased lines. “Do I have to wear my glasses?”

“Nope. You can leave them in our room. Did you have something to eat yet?”

He nods, glancing up at Bitsy’s bedroom window as we move toward the porch. We’ll use the door, of course. But my baby is observant. Inquisitive. “Why did you climb off the roof, Mommy? How did you do that?”

At least it’s not: how many times did you climb off the roof when you were seventeen because you were sneaking out to see a boy ?

“Mommy magic,” I explain, a concept he’s scoffed at since he was old enough to think logically. It’s a bit like Santa. He knows, rationally, that these things cannot exist. But behind the autism and the kid whose brain is entirely too gifted, is a little boy who wants to believe.

It creates a sliver of hope in a world he already knows is tough.

“Moms receive magic once they become moms, honey.” I lead him up the porch steps and tug the door open. “You were scared and in danger, so I was able to use my powers and practically jump out the window to save you.”

He walks ahead of me into the kitchen, glancing back with a gentle scowl. “Magic isn’t real.”

“It’s sad you think you need to say that.” I close the door and meet his disbelief with a grin. “But I know you believe. You know how I know?”

He folds his arms, challenging and proud.

“I know because you’re scared to sleep in the dark at night.

But you hold my hand, and suddenly, the dark doesn’t bother you anymore.

It’s not like I turned on a light. I didn’t open the door or change anything else.

The mere act of holding your hand makes everything better.

” I scrunch my nose playfully. “Mommy magic.”