Page 90 of Devil's Iris
Then her head lolls to the side and she sees me. “Leni!” she calls out, arms lifting in slow motion towards me. “Baby, look! I came home!”
Baby.Her use of that old nickname softens me the slightest bit. I know it’s the drugs talking, but it transports me back to my childhood, back when she was still herself.
“Jesus, Mom.” I shrug out of my jacket as I rush towards her, my muscles finally remembering how to work. “You can’t be out here in your underwear.” I try to drape the jacket over her exposed body, but she swats my hands away.
“Don’t be such a prude. I thought I raised you better than that.” She narrows her glassy eyes on me before letting them drift shut. “I’m basking.”
“No, you’re burning.” I correct, mouth twisting bitterly as I notice the angry red splotches already blooming across her skin. “And the entire block is watching.”
“Let them watch.” She cracks her eyes open, rolling over to prop herself up on one elbow like this is a goddamn photoshoot. “I used to be a real knockout, you know. These legs paid rent more than once after your useless father died.”
Humiliation scorches my cheeks, every nerve screaming with the knowledge that Dean is standing right there, close enough to hear every mortifying detail. “Please. Stop talking,” I grit out.
The man chooses that moment to step forward, pushing his sleeves up. “Do you want me to—” He makes a lifting gesture.
“Yes, please.” I step aside, catching the quiet apology he mutters before lifting her up.
What follows is an absolute nightmare. Mom kicks and fights the whole time Dean tries to get her into the car, screaming obscenities that would make a sailor blush and hurling accusations that make no sense. At one point, she tries to bite him, and I have to intervene, pleading with her over the volume of her increasingly creative curses and threats.
Finally, we get her into the back seat of the Maybach, and I slip in after her, immediately locking the doors as she lunges for the opposite door handle.
She whips around to glare at me with wild eyes. “I’m your mother, Charlene, and I demand you let me out right this instant!”
I sigh heavily. “I’ll let you out… in a couple of minutes.”
Dean starts the car, and I glance out the window, catching sight of several curtains falling back into place as we pull away from the curb. Congratulations to us—we just provided premium entertainment for the whole block. Hope they fucking enjoyed the show.
My insides ice out as I level an angry look at Mom, ready to unleash all my frustration and embarrassment. But she’s leaning her head against the window now, her expression crumpling into something that looks like confusion and heartbreak.
The anger drains out of me, replaced by a familiar ache of helplessness as I wonder what’s going on in her head.
Why is she like this?
I don’t know which version of her I hate more—this wild-eyed addict who fights and curses anyone trying to help her, who only cares about getting her next fix. Or the woman she used to be, the one who used to braid my hair and read bedtime stories to Ethan and me.
The one I still stupidly search for every time I see her.
I thought I saw a glimpse of her on my wedding day. That’s why I let myself hope again, let myself believe that maybe this time would be different. But maybe that version of my mother is gone forever.
I don’t say a word during the drive, just stare out the window while she eventually passes out against the glass.
Thank God Ethan’s away at school. At least he doesn't have to see this.
She wakes up as we pull up in front of the house Romero bought for them in my name and immediately declares she’s not going inside.
When Dean tries to carry her again, she screams bloody murder, so I wave the poor man off with an apologetic look. I’m sure he didn’t expect this level of drama when he got assigned to be my driver. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I half-drag, half-guide her inside myself.
The house is pretty. Fresh paint, carefully chosen furniture, everything clean and bright and hopeful. But as we stumble through the living room, I immediately notice several missing pieces of art and decorative items that were here the last time I visited.
She’s been selling things. Of course she has…
I shake my head, suddenly feeling exhausted down to my bones as I drop her onto the couch. She collapses dramatically, kicking over a nearby vase in what looks like pure spite. Itcrashes to the floor in an explosion of ceramic and water, and she mutters something nasty under her breath.
I stare down at her, throat and chest tight, eyes stinging with tears.
This is where I come from. This chaos, this dysfunction, this endless cycle of disappointment and pain.
Is it any wonder Romero pulled away from me?
