That’s as good as an invitation.
I cross the threshold, closing the door behind me.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the interior gloom. I stand still until they do, so I don’t trip over the piles of pizza boxes, empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, discarded clothing, scattered shoes, stacks of old magazines, junk mail, and moldering paper plates still marked with the remains of meals long past.
“Sit anywhere,” my mother says, flopping down on a pile of blankets on the ratty sofa—clearly the same place she was sleeping moments before.
I have to move a pile of old newspapers off the closest chair before I can likewise sit down. I recognize the paper on top: it’s the same one Arthur showed me during my last shift at Sweet Maple. The one that contains a picture of me in the arts section.
A tiny smirk plays over my mother’s lips as I set the papers aside.
She sparks up a cigarette, holding it in her usual way, pinched between thumb and index finger like it’s a joint.
I know her habits so well. Their familiarity repulses me, like an old journal entry that makes you cringe.
“Do you have a bottle opener?” I ask.
Of course she has a bottle opener. I might as well ask if she has toilet paper. It’s probably even more of a necessity in her eyes.
“In the kitchen,” she says, making no move to stand and retrieve it.
This is a power play—making me fetch the corkscrew and the glasses, waiting on her like I used to.
I anticipated this, and it suits me just fine.
I carry the wine into the kitchen, which is even filthier than the living room. The stovetop is piled with so much clutter that I doubt she’s ever laid eyes on the burners, let alone used them to cook. When I snap on the overhead light, several roaches dive down under the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
The cabinets are empty. I find the glasses in the dishwasher, amongst a pile of plates speckled with green mold. Swallowing back bile, and avoiding the roaches as best I can, I wash the cups in the sink. I have to swish a little water in the Dawn bottle to get the last dregs of soap out of it.
My mother doesn’t call out to see what’s taking so long. I hear the faint crackle as she sucks on her cigarette, followed by an exhale and a wracking cough that rattles in her chest.
The glasses are wet, with no paper towel to dry them. I shake them off, then search for the bottle opener. Unsurprisingly, it’s out in the open on the kitchen counter, next to my mother’s keys, an open tube of lipstick, and a handful of loose change. Next to that, a dozen prescription bottles, some with her name on them, and some bought or stolen. Most of the bottles are already empty.
I bring the glasses out filled to the brim, and pass one to my mother.
She takes it, saying, “Where’s the bottle?”
I retrieve it from the kitchen, setting it on the coffee table between us, atop a stack of old Vogues. I’m not the first person to do this—Anne Hathaway’s face is already distorted by several wet rings.
Girl With One Eye – Florence + The Machine
Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple
My mother takes three swallows of the wine, gulping it like cool water after a long race. Sighing in satisfaction, she leans back against the threadbare cushions of the sofa. Now she’s smiling, smoke drifting up from her cigarette, hanging over her head like her own personal storm cloud.
“Come back to brag?” she says.
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?” she snaps. “What do you want?”
She can’t imagine anyone visiting her on purpose, for the pleasure of her company.
In this case, she’s right.
“I saw you gave another interview about me,” I say.
She lets out a snort of air, the closest thing to a laugh.
“Don’t like me spilling all your secrets?” she sneers.
My mother still has the mannerisms of a beautiful woman—she arches her eyebrow in the same haughty way, holding her cigarette with theatrical flair. Men used to fall at her feet. She had this dark confidence that sucked them in until they realized that everything about her is an act. She’s allergic to the truth, she won’t tell it even when it would benefit her to do so.
Which is why it will be difficult to get what I want from her.
“I don’t care what you say to reporters,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing you do can tear me down now.”
“ ‘Cause you’re fucking some artist?” she scoffs. “I know how that works. You’re nothing without him. When he’s tired of you, he’ll toss you aside and you’ll be right back where you started.”
She takes another gulp of wine, the glass more than half gone.
She really believes what she’s saying. The world is so ugly to her. People’s motivations so cruel.
I could almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
“You’re telling your story, not mine,” I say.
She sets her glass down hard, a little wine sloshing over the rim.
“You think you’re better than me because you stroll in here in your fancy new clothes, ‘cause you got your name in the paper? I know who you really are. I fucking birthed you. You’re weak, you’re stupid, you’re lazy, and you’re nothing but a filthy little whore. You can paint a billion paintings and not one of them will change what you are inside.”
Triumphantly, she picks the glass up again, downing whatever remains inside.
I watch her swallow it all, my own wine sitting untouched next to me.
“Good,” I say, softly. “Now that you’ve finished, we can address what I actually came here to discuss.”
She frowns, her forehead furrowing.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I reach in the pocket of my suede jacket, pulling out a small bottle of liquid pseudoephedrine.
“I put these drops in your drink. Colorless, tasteless. You might have noticed a little bitterness, but it obviously didn’t stop you drinking it down.”
“You spiked my drink?”
Color rises up her neck, from the collar of my stolen sweatshirt.
“Poisoned it, actually.”
She makes a move to get up from the couch, but she’s already unsteady. Her elbow buckles under her.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll be dead before the ambulance arrives.”
“You sneaky little bitch! You filthy nasty—”
“I wouldn’t do that either,” I snap.
She stops talking, her mouth closing like a trap. Her eyes water until the pupils swim, and I can see the shallow hitches of her chest. Some of this is fear, but the rest is the drug taking effect.
“That’s better,” I say, as she sinks back down.
“What the fuck do you want?” she hisses, panting fast.
“I have the antidote. I’ll give it you. I just want to know one thing.”
“What?”
She’s writhing against the cushions, the pseudoephedrine taking hold.
I stare at her, face still as stone, not a hint of sympathy.
“I want to know my father’s name.”
She lets out several irritated hissing sounds, squirming on the cushions. Her face is deeply flushed now, her skin sweating. Her breath grows more and more shallow.