(Three)
St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, hangs around my mother's neck. She's pacing the kitchen, rubbing the small charm and complaining about her fuck-up of a son. That's me, by the way, in case you thought she might have another one.
"I spoke to Father Thomas, and I think you should come to mass with me on Sunday. You haven't been to church in so long, since your dad's …" she mouths the word funeral as if saying it will summon his ghost, "and it's … well, it's embarrassing. Marjorie Reeves is always asking about your recovery." She air quotes "recovery" as if it's a joke. "She loves to rub my nose in it. Awful woman." Ruining her social life is the biggest travesty of this whole mess. That, and killing my own my father.
"I can't make it this week. Or next." Or ever.
She purses her lips like she's stepped in a pile of shit. "That's a shame, Edward. A damn shame."
When she wants to get across how disappointed she is with me, she repeats phrases my father would have used, and lowers her voice. It's comical, really, but I try not to laugh. The main reason for my visit is to find out what Ally has been up to, not to give her more ammo to shoot me with. "Sorry, Mom. Maybe another time."
She huffs and turns her attention back to the bread she was kneading before I turned up. She punches and slaps the hell out of the dough. I kinda feel sorry for it, getting beat up over me. "Have you seen Ally recently?"
"Yes. She takes time out of her busy life to come and see me." An uppercut to my jaw. I don't bother to explain the obvious, that I am here.
"Is she back in town this weekend?"
"Yes. She's coming over for dinner on Saturday with Jasper."
"Right," I say, waiting for the invite. It doesn't come.
I decide to get the hell out of dodge with at least some of my good mood intact. "I'd better get going." I lean down and kiss her cheek; she stops what she's doing and kisses the air around my right ear. "Take care of yourself."
She's always said that to me. At first it was affection. Now, she's talking as if I'm a stranger she'll probably never see again. I guess that's my fault.
The hall is already packed, and all there is to drink is coffee. I grab a cup, anyway, needing to do something with my hands. Smoking is not an option.
Maggie, an old-timer, holds out a plate of cookies. They make up for the shitty coffee. "Hey, stranger. What happened to you last week?"
"I couldn't make it," I lie. I'm not sure why, but I don't want her to know I messed up.
"Well, it's good to have you back." Her hands shake as she sets the plate back on the table. She catches me staring. "I offered to talk tonight. I don't know why, because I hate it. I've done it so many times, but it doesn't get any easier. You were meant to be talking last week, right?"
"Yeah."
She reaches up and picks lint off my shoulder, fussing. "Next time you do it, if it makes it any easier, just talk to me. Or Emmett. Ignore the rest of them."
"Right." I don't make promises.
"Good." She pats her hands on my chest. "Good."
I won't willingly talk to many people here, but Maggie's the exception. She reminds me of a bird. Round eyes, skin and bones inside baggy clothes, and a habit of taking newbies under her wing. She has a son, somewhere. She doesn't know where. Maybe some grandkids, too. She's never seen them. A crying shame, because she'd be the best kind of grandparent. When she's sober, at least.
Marcus, the group leader, joins us and puts his arm around Maggie, his hand on her other shoulder. He ignores me, then calls everyone to sit, reminding us of the rules. I hate this patronizing fucker most of all.
I switch off until Maggie stands up.
"Hello. I'm Maggie. You all know this, and you all know I'm still an alcoholic. No matter what I do, I can never escape that label. It's a fucking tattoo."
When the laughter dies down, she tells her stories. I always think I've heard the worst, but every time she's at that lectern, she gives us another snapshot into hell. Usually worse than the last. She doesn't make it pretty. In this one, she's beaten and bruised. Used for dollar bills by dirty fucks getting their rocks off. Used so she can buy food for her family. She's lived a trainwreck but can't get off the tracks.
"So you see, I rewrote some of my labels, or hid them where no one can see. But it didn't happen overnight, and it wasn't … isn't easy, because some of them have been there for a long time, and others … well, like I said … fucking tattoos."
The ridiculous thing is she seeks me out afterward to make sure I'm okay. I feel like a fraud as she sits on the steps beside me and we share a smoke. She asks me about my work, my friends, asks if there're any girls on the horizon, giving me that knowing smile I've never received from my own mom.
"Not right now," I say, enjoying these characters we play.
"I'm sure she's out there for you."
I can't say what I want to, that I've got a warning attached, so I just laugh.
She struggles to stand, so I give her a hand. "See you next week."
I say my goodbyes to Em, trading lies about where we're both going. He's going to sit outside his ex-wife's house, hoping she'll come out and speak to him—a Thursday night ritual he let slip. My Thursday nights have the potential to become a ritual, too. We're as fucked up as each other.
I sit back down, waiting for the last person to leave. Marcus locks the door and skirts around me. "Goodnight, Edward. I hope you found that helpful."
I have to knock this on the head before he thinks I'm open to talking. "As helpful as a bottle of Jack." I pull out my phone, dismissing any other attempts he might have. He hovers for a moment and sighs, leaving me alone.
It's colder tonight; without the rain, I can see clearly into the restaurant. Flashes of red as the other girls wait tables. But no flashes of her.
If I cared enough, I might feel like a dick, hanging around for a glimpse of her, but I stopped caring about things a long time ago. At least that's what people expect. I might as well deliver.
The bar is busy enough that I could slip in and no one would notice. I know exactly what I need to pull myself together, and it isn't cigarettes or soda. I look away, working out the number of days, hours, minutes since my last drink. The calculations keep my mind occupied for the few seconds it would take to ruin my life again.
A car door slams into my conscious, drawing my attention to the parking lot across the street. A black Tahoe idles restlessly, exhaust smoke wrapping its hands around the darkness. The driver is pissed, his fists clenched, his actions louder than the words I can't make out. I'm about to stand when I hear a female voice telling him to calm down.
All thoughts of leaving vanish. It's her, and she's just as pissed. She shoves against his chest, eyes wild, but he catches her wrists and holds her back. My blood roars. I'm relieved he's got enough sense not to strike back, because I'm not ready to be discovered yet. I've got enough shit going on without adding manslaughter to the list.
Whatever he says, it seems to calm her down, their voices almost disappearing. It dawns on me that this could be a boyfriend. Confirmed when he pushes her up against the car and bends down to kiss her. Everything shifts and spins, rearranging how I thought this would pan out. The ending never changes, though.
I don't know why I keep watching. It's fucked up, but I've never been good at making the right choices. I tell myself if they start fucking, I'll go. I'm saved from that decision when she pushes his hand out from her dress and escapes from underneath him. He tries to grab her back, but she skips out of his reach. He doesn't see her wiping him from her face as she heads into the restaurant.
It should be easy to get her out of my system after that, but she's still here like a bad hangover. The effects of watching him paw at her are here, too. I can't ignore them, so I call into Duke's on my way home: sticky floors, 24/7 sports, and a fiery redhead who doesn't ask questions.
AN: Thank you so much for reading and to those reviewing. I love hearing from you.
Kim, Choc and Cat are my diamonds.
See you soon.
Sparrow xx