Where Kathryn’s drawl is comforting, my mother’s inflections wring my insides like dishrags. I hate the sound of her voice. I hate her calculating eyes. I hate that I came from her, that she tried to make me into her likeness and in many ways succeeded. I hate that I can’t escape this connection, no matter what I do.
I fix her with a polished stare of my own. ‘Yes. I’m here to inform you of a decision I’ve made that will affect you, though probably not much.’
Her mask drops for a moment and curiosity peeks through. ‘Oh?’
I take a breath through my nose and just blurt it out. ‘I’ve applied for custody of my son.’
‘I’m sorry, what?’ Her pencilled-on eyebrows would no doubt arch if they could.
‘He was taken from his adoptive mother because of extreme neglect, and he’s currently a ward of the state. I’ve applied to adopt him.’
I wait while she processes what I’ve just told her, wondering if I’ll have to repeat it with smaller words.
‘What the hell are you saying, Brooke? Did CPS come after you to take –?’
‘No. This was my choice.’
She blinks, her mouth going slack. ‘You mean to tell me … you are – on purpose – taking back that brat you gave away five years ago?’
Oh, hell no. I breathe through my nose one more time. ‘Do not ever call him that again.’
‘Don’t call him a brat? People will call him worse. After all, he is a bastard –’
The slap shocks us both. I stand, shaking. My hand stings and the pink print of it is visible on her cheek until she covers it with her palm. Her eyes are radiating indignation, gears spinning behind them, and every defensive instinct I have is on red alert.
‘A caseworker is going to call you. Tell them whatever you’d like about me – I’m sure you will anyway. Just make sure whatever you tell them is the truth. If you lie, and I find out about it, I will go straight to a reporter I know at People, and she’ll happily whip up a sweet little story about my relationship with you that will make Joan Crawford look like Mother Mary.’ The false threat rolls off my tongue, but I calculate that I can make it true if I have to. ‘I’ve turned into the famous little actress daughter you wanted. Now, you can return the favour by staying the hell out of my life. Feel free to claim me in your laughable circle of expendable acquaintances. But f**k with me or my son and I will make you wish I was never born.’
‘Oh, don’t worry – I’m way ahead of you there.’ Her snarling face resembles that of her overbred, ankle-snapping dog. ‘You always were a selfish little bitch.’
Her words render me breathless for a moment, and bring back all of those backhanded slaps from my childhood and adolescence. The hair-pulling. The cruel verbal jabs about any imperfection.
‘Well. I learned from an expert.’ I smile, as if nothing she’s ever said has affected me, which feels like the biggest lie I’ve ever told. ‘Have a nice life, Sharla.’ Marching to the door without a backward glance, I bite my tongue until I taste blood. I will not cry in front of her. That’s what therapists are for, goddammit, and I’m getting one as soon as I get back to LA.
I slam her door behind me, and dial my father’s number once I get to the pick-up truck I borrowed from Glenn. I might as well get all the hell over with in one day.
‘Daddy?’ I say when he answers. ‘I have something to tell you. Do you have a minute?’
REID
In view of what I’m about to tell Dori, and what I’m about to ask of her, I feel like a two-faced ass**le when I pick her up the Friday evening before her birthday. All she knows is that I’m taking her across the bay into San Fran for the weekend. I promised her she’d have time to study for a major exam scheduled for Monday – which would be humorous if I wasn’t so preoccupied with the coming conversation.
I’ve decided not to tell her until Sunday. I want to give her the best weekend of her life before I disclose this sort of news. If there was any way around it, I would put it off longer. I hate that I have to tell her at all, ever.
On a bookcase shelf in her library alcove, my mother has a small wood-carved quotation by Robert Frost that says, ‘The best way out is always through.’ I’ve never fully understood that line until now.
The solitary drive on the 5 from LA to Berkeley is even more monotonous than I remember from the road trip John and I took a couple of years ago. I want my own wheels this weekend, though, so we won’t have to rely on chauffeured transportation. When I pull on to the side street next to her dorm, almost everyone ogles the car. It’s not my yellow Lotus (I think Dori would have appreciated Dad’s mocking douche taxi title, had she been around at the time), but the feline body shape and headlights and the Ferrari marque are conspicuous, even in a staid grey.
At the corner just ahead, Dori spots me, ducks her chin and hurries to the passenger side. Her hair is swept into a giant clip at the back of her head, and she’s wearing jeans, dark green Chucks and a Cal sweatshirt. She’s using her backpack as an overnight bag, which makes me wonder if she has any decent luggage. Something else I need to remedy, soon.
My heart rate jams into high gear as she slips inside and shuts the door.
‘Happy birthday,’ I say, taking her face in my hands and kissing her.
She braces one hand against my chest, twisting it into my shirt and leaning closer as her mouth opens under mine. It’s been twenty-six days since I’ve seen her, and that interval somehow feels like hours one moment and years the next. There’s a sense of desperation to this kiss that scares me, because it’s not just coming from me.