Page 58 of Tell Me You Love Me

He’s not here.

And though I’m pretty sure I’m ninety-eight percent deceased, I find some of thatMommy MagicI 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 erasewhatwe 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. Theanimals 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 untilBitsydeems 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 isnotwhat 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.

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