Page 37

ALANA

Whoever said nothing bad ever happened when tequila was involved is a liar. A thief. A regular scoundrel intent on making a woman’s stomach ache and her eyes feel as though they roll around in sand.

Nausea pulses with every beat of my heart, my constant companion I neither invited into my home nor do I wish for it to stay. But I am at home; of that, I’m sure. In my own bed. My face, mercifully crushed against my own pillow.

Which is good, I guess.

Life could be so much worse.

Whacky II cock-a-doodle-doos on the front fence.

His scream, more of a sickly yelp. His announcement that a new day has begun, as welcome as my nausea.

I carefully peel my eyes open, a soft whimper disappearing into my pillow as I turn my face and search desperately for…

anything. Water and Advil, hopefully. A hammer, if the first is too difficult to come by.

But I find neither.

Instead, I’m met with the ferocious glare of the morning sun pelting through my bedroom window. My phone and lipstick are dropped haphazardly on the bedside table, and beside those, Franky’s Murdle book with a pen stuck in the middle to act as a bookmark.

I draw a long breath and groan when it smells of liquor and barf, then I swallow the taste of bad choices, wetting my throat and praying I don’t puke .

Because I don’t want to revisit that flavor ever again.

“Franky?” I try to turn over. I swear, I do. But my body doesn’t move. So I use my arm instead, blindly patting the mattress in search of my son.

He’s not here.

And though I’m pretty sure I’m ninety-eight percent deceased, I find some of that Mommy Magic I drone on about and push up to my elbows so I can look. Because being dead won’t stop me from seeking my baby out. Violent illness won’t keep me from being his mom.

I blink once. Twice. Again and again and again until my blurry vision makes way for something a little less…

looking through muddy water . But when I find his side of the bed empty, but hear his sweet laughter from somewhere downstairs, I flop back to the mattress in relief, only to regret my actions because my stomach swirls and bile tickles the base of my throat.

I’ve gotta get up. Get dressed. Pack the car and run back to New York where everything is safe and Tommy Watkins can’t destroy my heart every single day.

Unfortunately for me, though tequila seems to have deleted the sections of my memory that include how the hell I got home and whether I puked in an alleyway last night, it wasn’t so thoughtful as to erase what we did together.

Nor the bits about love.

Worst of all, it left the part where he begged me to lie and, with his whole heart and soul, showed me his pain.

No, tequila wouldn’t be that kind.

“You’re not still in bed, are you?”

I startle at my mother’s droning judgment and turn my face just far enough to spy her too-thin body at my door.

Her shrewd stare and sneering expression.

I think she wakes up each day with a plan to be a decent human being, but just as soon as she looks at me, her real self springs to the surface, and her top lip curls back in disdain.

“You’re wasting your day lying about. If I thought inviting you to stay here meant you’d abandon your child to party all night and sleep all day, then I might’ve reconsidered my generosity.”

“Ugh.” I drop my face back into the pillow and wish for death. Because it’s better than listening to Beatrice Page’s self-righteous lectures. “I was out till… like… ten.” I think. I seem to recall checking the time when I set my phone down. Maybe. “And now it’s barely seven.”

“You were out till ten-thirty,” she counters. “And it’s nearly eight. The animals still need to be fed, eggs need to be collected, there’s poop on the lawn, and your son hasn’t had breakfast yet.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

“My son can pour his own cereal, Mother. He does it, literally, every other day. And I can hear him laughing, so clearly, he’s okay and happy.” But I toss my blankets off, knowing I won’t get a single moment of rest now until Bitsy deems me worthy.

I look down at my body and find pyjamas… not my dress from last night. “How’d I get home?” I cover my mouth and contain the bubbles of air strolling leisurely along my throat. “And how’d I get changed?”

Please don’t say, Tommy. Please don’t say, Tommy. Please don’t say, Tommy.

When she says nothing at all, I push off the bed and stand on shaking legs. “Mom?”

“Caroline brought you in. I suggested you sleep on the couch downstairs instead of interrupting Franky’s rest, but she insisted on bringing you up and changing your clothes.” She turns her nose up at me. “You were a mess, Alana. Humiliating yourself, just like you did when you were a child.”

Yeah, but we both know that’s not true.

Before last night, I’d never once stumbled home drunk in my entire life.

When I was younger, it seemed ironically safer to wander to Tommy’s home.

To sleep in the house of horrors and cuddle into my boyfriend’s arms, hoping the cockroaches wouldn’t scare me awake and that his father would fall asleep in his own drunken stupor instead of being awake enough to pick a fight with the boys.

It was always a gamble, and it didn’t always pay off.

“I don’t feel humiliated.” I mean, I do.

But only an idiot would admit such a thing in front of this woman, so I step around my bed on aching feet and knees that consider going on strike, and grabbing a short, silky robe to wrap myself up just long enough to pour cereal for my son, I walk straight past my mother and into the bathroom.

I need to pee, and I intend to ignore what is surely a ghastly reflection in the mirror. Messy hair. Red eyes and swollen bags take up residence beneath.

I squeeze toothpaste onto my brush and shove it in my mouth, then I wander to the toilet and drop my shorts, pouting because I know, I know, I’m probably destined for a UTI .

Unsafe sex, and you didn’t pee before bed? Rookie move, Alana Page. You know better .

I allow my eyes to close, since I have the time, and my brain to shut off. And for just a moment, I luxuriate in a micro nap.

But it’s short-lived.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” My mother startles me awake. “You’re an embarrassment. This is not what I was expecting when you said you would come back to Plainview, Alana.”

“You act like I go out every single night.” I finish on the toilet and fix my clothes, fastening my robe and the sash that sits annoyingly on my stomach, then I go to the mirror and brush my teeth properly, scraping away last night’s poor decisions and buying back even a modicum of dignity.

Though I’m not sure if I can go into town again. Like, ever. I certainly can’t look Ollie or Chris or Tommy in the eyes for the rest of my life. Or Caroline. Or really, any person who lives in this godforsaken town.

“You infuriate me, Alana. Motherhood has done nothing to mature you.” Folding her arms, Bitsy leans against the doorframe and huffs.

“Always sneaking around. Drinking. Going out till God knows what time. You think I didn’t already get a call from Barbara this morning?

She said that Bill said you were arguing with Tommy Watkins at Darlene’s last night. Have you no shame?”

Arguing with Tommy Watkins? Ha! My shame is too busy worrying about other, worse things.

“You are not a teenager anymore! You’re a grown woman who should be able to?—”

“Oh, shut up, Mother.” I spit into the sink and run water right after it to wash the white foam down, then I cup a little more and drink straight from my palms, chugging the clear liquid like I haven’t had any in days. Weeks, even.

“Excuse you!” My mother bursts, exactly how I knew she would. “You do not speak to me like that in my own?—”

“You insist on hating me.” I flip the tap off and wipe my face on the towel hung on the wall.

“For reasons I’ll never relate to, you seem to enjoy building yourself up by tearing me down.

And you know what?” I don’t even care if she cares.

I simply push past her and into the hall.

“I’m not who I was ten years ago, Mom. I was a child back then, constantly squished beneath the weight of your impossible demands, begging for your approval and lashing out when I couldn’t get it.

It’s apparent you believe you’ve birthed the worst daughter in the history of the world. ”

I move onto the stairs and make my way down.

Though I hold the banister because I’m not sure I won’t tumble to my death if I rely on my legs to do all the work.

“Maybe I really am the worst. Maybe you got really unlucky. Or maybe you’re a miserable cow who can’t see how much I truly wanted to please you back then. ”

I reach the bottom stair and glance back to find her still at the top, holding the rail and glowing an ugly, angry red.

“I tried so hard, Mom. Every single day of my childhood, I tried to make you happy. But there are only so many times you can tell me how horrible I am before I stop giving a shit.”

“Watch your potty mouth in my home!”

“So maybe you got the worst daughter in the world. Or maybe I got the worst mother in the world. Or maybe we just weren’t a good fit for each other.

But either way, I no longer care. Because I see now, as a mother myself, that a child should never beg for love.

It’s not a privilege. It’s not something that should be given with conditions or taken away because they didn’t act how you wanted them to act.

Love is forever, and it’s unconditional.

It’s tragic you never learned that. But that’s on you.

Not me. Because my son knows he’s safe with me, he knows my feelings will never go away. ”

I turn and wave her off so I don’t have to listen to her argue back, and then I push through the kitchen door with the best smile I can muster on a hungover Sunday morning, only to skid to a stop.