Page 43 of A Deal with the Devil

“Are you just getting home from work?” she asks. How many times have I called, ignoring the tiny slur to her words? Countless, and I want to ignore it tonight too. She’s the adult. It’s never felt like it was my place to judge or even wonder about how much wine she might drink at night, but that has to change.

“It’s been busy,” I reply distractedly, kicking off my shoes. I have no idea how to broach the topic I need to…but I know it won’t go well.

Her laughter sounds a trifle mocking. “Busy hanging out with the rich and famous, more likely. I’ve heard from Liddie about your glamorous little life out there.”

My jaw grinds as I fill a measuring cup with water. I can easily imagine the spin Liddie put on things, and it’s so like my mother to take her side.

“Since we’re judging each other,” I reply, slamming the microwave door, “Dr. Shriner is worried about you. She said you appear to have been drinking when you show up for family therapy.”

“I’m an adult and we’re not paying for Dr. Shriner to take care of me,” she says. “I’m allowed to have a glass of wine in the evening if I want one.”

We aren’t paying for Dr. Shriner at all, I think. I am. And you can’t even bother to be sober for it.

“Mom,” I say, taking a slow breath as I lean against the counter, “it doesn’t look good when you can’t even stay sober for your kid’s therapy appointment. She isn’t sure Charlotte should be coming home to you under the circumstances. If you could—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she says, her voice so shrill I have to pull the phone from my ear. “Shriner’s just looking for someone to blame for the fact that Charlotte isn’t better.”

If she were calmer right now, more rational, more sober, I might consider what she’s saying. She’s the parent. She’s supposed to be the one of us who’s right about things. But the truth is that she hasn’t been right about much in the past year, and she’s been perfectly happy to let me figure it out in her stead.

“Mom, she just wants to make sure Charlotte’s coming home to someone who’s going to be able to take care of her.” I pull my hair out of its ponytail and run my fingers through it, wishing I hadn’t called. “And right now, she’s saying that person will have to be me or Liddie, so I really need you to just...pull it together, okay? Wait to have your glass of wine until after therapy.”

“She can’t hold Charlotte there,” my mother argues.

“Jesus, Mom,” I snap, pinching the bridge of my nose, “you’re missing the point. Charlotte needs to come home to someone capable of staying sober. Can you do it or not?”

“I don’t answer to her,” my mother replies, “and I don’t answer to you either.”

I blink in shock when I hear the ring tone and realize she’s hung up on me. She fucking hung up on me.

Which means Dr. Shriner probably had a point. And unless something changes fast, I really might have to move home.

23

We all have our talents, and mine is avoiding unhappy thoughts. I mostly try to forget the miserable conversation with my mother, and when I remember, I simply assure myself that even if she didn’t sound receptive, I made my point, and things will turn around.

There’s not much time to think about it anyway because I’m so busy getting Hayes’s luncheon planned I can barely breathe, much less dwell. It seems almost every attendee wants to bring extra friends, and I swear to God if I hear about one more woman with a “special dietary need”, I’m going to lose my shit.

Two days before the event, the gift bags arrive completely botched, which leaves me frantically assembling them myself on Hayes’s living room floor. I’m halfway through counting out lip balms when the emergency phone rings, and I’m seriously tempted to let it go to voice mail—it’s not as if there’s ever been a call to that phone that was actually an emergency. They’re usually of the I’m looking especially old today variety.

Reluctantly, my hand slides beneath a mountain of ribbon and cellophane for the phone, trying to banish the weariness from my voice as I answer.

“I need Hayes,” the woman on the other end of the line croaks. “It’s an emergency. My ten-year-old…I think he’s got a broken nose. There’s blood everywhere.”

“Uhhhh…” Hayes does not treat kids, as far as I know, and this sounds a little more pressing than his booked-out-three-weeks schedule will allow. “If he’s bleeding heavily, he needs to go to the emergency room.”

“No,” she insists. “We can’t. My son is Trace Westbrook. If we go to the ER, the paparazzi will be all over us asking how it happened.”

I know little about him aside from the fact that he has a popular YouTube channel, but I find it deeply suspicious that his mom is more concerned about paparazzi than she is her son’s health.

“Hayes understands the situation and has helped us many times before,” she says brusquely. “Just call him.”

She hangs up, and something sours in my stomach. If Hayes has helped many times, that means this kid has gotten injured many times. Why would Hayes be going out of his way to help a parent avoid the paparazzi instead of sending him to the emergency room? Surely he realizes how suspicious it all is?

Hayes wouldn’t help a family hide abuse. I know he wouldn’t.

But you also thought Matt would never cheat, a voice says. You thought he supported your dreams the way you supported his. You’re a terrible judge of character.

I call him, feeling strangely certain the bottom is going to fall out. That he’s going to disappoint me. I pull my legs tight to my chest.