Page 84 of Tell Me You Love Me

My worst fears. The very thoughts that keep me awake at night.

“I told her to mind her own damn business. Then we went out anyway when we could have stayed home and eaten with her.”

“You didn’t know.” I tilt her head back and force her to look into my eyes. “Baby, you didn’t know.”

“It’s like she brought us home just to torment me one last time,” she whimpers. “We’re not here because she wanted to spend time with us. She did it so she could hurt me again.”

“Did she treat Franky badly? Did she hurt him?”

“No, she?—”

“Maybe she realized her mistakes as a mom. She knows where she went wrong, and she wishes she could change it. So she called you back and gave Franky what she couldn’t give you.”

“She hated me because I reminded her of the man who left. Because he got to travel and do whatever he wanted, while she was stuck here in Plainview with an ungrateful daughter and no way to escape.”

“Lana…”

“I hate her.” She crushes her eyes closed and weeps. “Because it wasn’t my fault he left. It wasn’t my fault he didn’t want us. And most of all, I hate her because she couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive me for the things thatwere never my fault.”

I rest my lips on her forehead. Kissing. Feeling. Comforting, maybe. And when her cries grow louder, I rock us back and forth. “You deserved better, Lana. You always did.”

ROUND TWENTY-FIVE

TOMMY

Beatrice ‘Bitsy’ Page woke only once more after she landed in the hospital. She slept for seventy-two hours straight, clinging to life and drawing Alana to the very ends of her sanity.

It was a long, drawn-out torture for the girl who only ever wanted her mother’s approval. Three days of vigil. Watching. Waiting. Chris came and went, dedicating his time to Franky. And Caroline came, too, to sit with her friend and lend a little strength in the quiet. Ollie visited. Eliza visited. Half the town came by to say their piece and ensure they caught the latest gossip.

And then, in the early hours of Wednesday morning, while Franky slept on a cot the hospital provided, and Chris sat on the floor beside it, while Alana curled into my chest, and I did what I do… I held her while she needed me… Bitsy woke.

She looked across in the shadows and observed her daughter’s trance-like state. Saying nothing while Alana was oblivious. Smiling when she knew I wasn’t.

Gray in the face and too sick to do anything else, she moved her hand and drew Alana’s attention. Then she shed a tear for the baby she had birthed and gave Alana the only gift she could.

She told her she loved her.

Which sounds nice and all. But fuck, the bitch could’ve shared those words a million times over the last twenty-eight years. She could have toldher daughter that she was perfect the way she was. She could have smiled more and criticized less. Accepted more and judged less.

But those are my thoughts. My unhealed, child-of-trauma, abusive daddy to the nth degree, feelings, all of which I intend to take to the grave rather than risk the serenity Alana has walked around with since.

“It’s almost time to go, Franky.” In a beautiful black dress with sleeves that go to her elbows and a skirt that drapes elegantly around her knees, Alana crosses her mother’s kitchen in bare feet and crouches by the dining chair her son perches on.

She pastes on a sweet smile—I get a perfect view from my place by the counter—and when Franky’s Gameboy makes that dun-dun-dun sound that declares his game is over, she carefully takes the device and places it on the table. “It’s time, baby.”

“To go to the funeral…”

I don’t think he’s asking a question. Or even inviting a response.

He’s just processing as best an almost-ten-year-old can. Kind of how I’ve been silently processing my thoughts on Franky’s parentage.

I’ve found dissociation works best, especially when he and my brother are in the same room, and their glaring similarities threaten to shatter my heart.

But that’s a trauma for another day.

“To Grandma’s funeral,” Alana confirms. “I’m going to put my shoes on, okay? So I’d like for you to go to the bathroom while I do, then we can leave.”

“Who else will be there?” He pushes to his feet, slowly circling the chair and sliding it into place under the table. “Chris?”

---