“Don’t worry, Auntie! I’ll protect you,” he giggles, pulling away and puffing out his chest.
“I’m counting on it, buddy,” I tell him. “Hi, Jeff,” I say as he gives Henri’s black mop a ruffle on his way past.
“Sorry we left without you,” he says, and unlike Mallory, there’s no accusation in his tone. “The boys were chomping at the bit.”
Henri drops to the floor and dumps the contents of his pillowcase onto the carpet while Max climbs onto the couch between his parents and opens his.
“Anything good in there?” I ask, coming over and peeking in.
“You want a Charleston Chew?” he asks, pulling one out.
“Sure,” I say, taking it from his hand. “What’s your costume?”
“A Creeper,” he answers, digging in his bag again.
The doorbell rings and Mallory goes to get it. I look the question at Jeff.
“From Minecraft,” he clarifies. “Creepers are one of the monsters in the game.”
“They’re made out of TNT! They hiss and explode!” Henri volunteers through a mouthful of something blue.
Max hands Jeff a fun-sized Snickers, which he tears open as Mallory comes back into the family room. “Hilary was late because she was out with someone,” she tells Jeff, “from before.” The way she says the word leaves no doubt what “before” she’s referring to. Her lips purse and her eyes tighten a little when Jeff doesn’t respond by dragging me off to the bedroom and lecturing me. “I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea,” she presses.
Jeff splits a glance between us. “She’s all grown up, Mallory. I don’t think we have any say in who she sees.”
I totally love Jeff. If he wasn’t already married to my sister, I might actually consider marrying him.
Henri hops up and climbs into Mallory’s lap with a candy necklace in his hand. He loops it over her head and I can tell he’s already been sucking on it by the way it sticks to her hair. “You look pretty, Mommy,” he tells her, admiring the necklace.
She pulls him close and kisses his forehead. “Thank you, baby.” He squirms, trying to get back to his stash on the carpet, but she doesn’t let him go right away. “I don’t like it,” she says, her eyes locked on me. And I know this isn’t the end of the discussion.
Chapter Eight
IT’S THE FIRST of the month. I go on the first of every month like clockwork so she knows what to expect. Mom doesn’t do great with surprises.
As I climb onto the 9:48 train at Grand Central for the long trek to Bedford Hills, I’m still thinking about what there is in New York City that’s worth seeing. When the train surfaces at Ninety-seventh, I lean my forehead into the window and watch as the city rolls by, hoping that something will catch my eye . . . maybe there’ll be a big flashing sign that says, “You’ve got to see this thing right here that no one else knows about because it’s really cool.”
I don’t see any signs like that, and then we’re in the country: rolling hills and leafless brown trees for as far as the eye can see. I sink deeper into my seat and close my eyes. I have to get up early for these trips. It takes forever to get there and back, and if I’m going to bother at all, it feels like I need to spend at least an hour there, so it’s an all-day thing, for the most part. And I need to be back for work at five.
An hour later I stumble off the train in Bedford Hills. It’s about a mile from the station to the correctional facility and I could catch a cab if I could find one, but, unless the weather’s totally nasty, I usually walk. It takes about a half hour and helps me clear my head before Mom clogs it up again.
When I get to the visitor entrance I tell them, “Hilary McIntyre, here to see Roseanne McIntyre.”
I jump through all the hoops: store my bag in the lockers, walk through the metal detector, sign in, show my ID, sign the paper that says I don’t have any contraband on me and I agree to be searched, then wait.
Mom has to agree to see me.
Ten minutes later they tell me I’m good to go and let me into the visitor room. I take one of the dollars I kept in my pocket to the vending machine and buy an Oh Henry! then find a spot at an empty table near the back of the room.
When she comes through the door, she shuffles over to my table in an orange jumpsuit that hangs off her. She literally drops into the chair across from me, like the act of sitting down takes too much effort. Her cheeks are hollow caves, her skin is patchy and dry, and her long red hair is in a messy, low ponytail with stringy strands hanging loose into her sunken, dull green eyes. I swear every time I see her, she looks five years older. She’s not even fifty yet, but she could pass for one hundred.
Or maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s because, in my head, I always see her how she was before she killed that guy and got sent here.
She reaches for the Oh Henry! and peels back the wrapper, biting off a hunk and glancing deliberately at the caged clock on the wall. “You made it,” she rasps in her smoker’s voice.
It’s always the first thing she says, like I’ve kept her waiting.
“Yep.”
She swallows and bites another hunk off the candy bar. A little piece of chocolate sticks to the corner of her mouth and starts to melt. “So how’s McDermott’s?”
Always the second thing she asks. I think maybe she used to go there.
“Good. Jerry is behaving himself for now.”
She crams the last bite in her mouth. “Tips good?”
Always the third thing.
I shrug. “Up and down. Seems like people are getting cheaper. Weekends are usually decent.”
“How is that sister of yours?”
And, always number four.
“She’s good.”
“Still married?”
I slouch deeper into my chair. “She hasn’t gotten divorced in the month since I saw you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And Harry and Max?”
Every.
Freaking.
Time.
Considering her favorite candy bar is Oh Henry! you’d think she’d be able to remember her grandson’s name. “Henri, not Harry, and they’re good too. Getting big. Halloween was last night. They were adorable.”
She frowns, which really isn’t all that different from her usual expression. “I’d know that if I ever saw them.”
“Yeah, well . . .” It’s the same guilt trip I get every time I come, like it’s somehow my fault Mallory’s never comes to see Mom. I don’t tell Mallory when I’m coming because she forbade me to see Mom when I was living with her. I doubt she’d feel different now. She told me a long time ago to forget about Mom. Mallory blames Mom for everything that happened to me at the group home and after. So do I, I guess, but there’s no changing it, so I don’t see the point in holding a grudge.
The truth is, I know it’s probably a waste of time coming here. I know I shouldn’t bother. I mean, it’s not like Mom ever really bothered with me. I was just an inconvenience most of the time. I don’t know if she wanted me or not, but once she got me, she didn’t really seem to care one way or the other. Indifference smarts, coming from the one person who’s supposed to love you unconditionally.
But for better or for worse, she’s my mom—the only parent I’ve ever had. So even though a big part of me is screaming that I should forget about her, there’s a smaller voice that comes from somewhere in my DNA compelling me to keep digging for something deeper—like if I try hard enough, maybe she’ll love me despite herself.
Mom leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, and splays both hands across her face to hold her head up, like it suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. “You should make like your sister and steer clear of me. I was never any good for you girls.”