Harlan raises an eyebrow at her, then looks at the other two people, and they all burst out laughing. Big, full belly laughs with a not unfamiliar hint of madness. Chelsea feels off-kilter, like she’s the only one at the bar who isn’t drunk, but somehow this response seems appropriate to an admission of murder. The world is crazy now, and thus crazy is a reasonable reaction.
“Ms. Martin, we’ve all killed people. All of us. That’s what the Violence does. You black out, and you wake up covered in blood, and whoever had the bad luck to be standing next to you is dead. Blaming you for that would be like blaming someone with epilepsy for having a seizure. It’s scary and dark and grim and tragic, but…” He holds out his hands as if he’s hugging the world.
“None of us can change that. So we’re using it to our advantage. If you join on and can work the mat, people will pay good money to watch Florida Woman going apeshit, hitting people with chairs and bottles of Costco ketchup. They know who you are, and for us, that’s a good thing. You’ll help legitimize what we’re doing. So if that’s your only problem, we should be good now?” He holds out his hand again, eyebrows up, and she gets the sense that if she doesn’t shake now, he will oh so politely march her right out the door and wish her well.
She reaches out and takes his hand.
25.
The next morning starts early when Brooklyn falls out of bed at dawn and starts crying. Being her sole caretaker makes the day stretch out long and boring, and Ella feels like a dog straining at a leash. Nana clearly doesn’t like her granddaughters and doesn’t seem to want to be anywhere near them, but she’s not dealing well with the fact that she’s stuck with them. She ignores or pooh-poohs all of Ella’s suggestions for entertaining Brooklyn—scavenger hunts and pillow forts and cookie baking—and becomes increasingly cold to Brooklyn as the poor kid starts to go stir-crazy in the afternoon. Like, yes, the pool is fun for an hour or two, but of course a little kid is going to get bored and hungry and complain about being pruney and sunburned. They can’t stay out there all day just to make life more convenient for Nana.
So that’s uncomfortable, but even worse, she gets a flurry of texts from a new number that she soon realizes are from her dad. She blocked his old number, so it must’ve taken him a while to get a new phone to bother her with.
Ella, where are you?
Tell me right now.
Where did your mother take you?
Tell her the police have her license plate number.
And then, later, more troubling, Tell Mom she’s all over the news. They have all the evidence they need. Tell her to turn herself in, and it won’t go as badly.
“It’s very rude to use a screen at the table,” Nana snaps, and Ella puts her phone away.
She understands by now that anything she tells Nana can and will be used against her. And if Nana’s disgust and exhaustion with them continue, she might think that unloading them on their father would bring welcome relief. Ella knows that if she tells Nana that Dad is an abusive drunk, she’ll just be called a liar.
No wonder Mom hates Nana so much.
It was bad enough when they saw her four times a year, but living with her is like living under a magnifying glass, being watched every moment by someone looking for a fault or a crack big enough to stick their fingers in and pry wide open. Ella has been told that her posture is bad, her haircut and color doesn’t suit her face, she uses the wrong skin cream, she doesn’t dress for her figure, she’s an inattentive sister, she has bad manners, and she’s in general a whiner, a complainer, and a sourpuss.
Nana’s pep talks are not good.
And poor Brooklyn has been told that she’s rude, pudgy, dirty, annoying, loud, sticky, whiny, badly behaved. It’s like Nana’s never met a little kid before. Or maybe, Ella thinks, Mom had to learn the rules just like she did, so Nana hasn’t spent much time with a kid who hasn’t yet been forced to make herself smaller to accommodate a cruel adult’s random whims.
The worst thing is that Nana won’t let her leave the house, and there are things back home that Ella needs, things her mom forgot, things worth dodging Dad for. Her car is in the driveway, and it contains her school bag full of the notes and laptop she needs to do summer reading work, plus her purse, money, and ID. It also includes her birth control pills, which she’s on not because she’s sexually active, but because her cycle is really rough and the pills help with the cramping, heavy bleeding, and horrible mood swings. If she misses any more pills, she’s going to have to ask Nana to buy her pads, and—no. Just, no.
She has to get her stuff. Now.
She acts like a perfect angel all afternoon, doing exactly what Nana asks with no attitude and dedicating her time to keeping Brooklyn busy and quiet. She cooks dinner, boxed couscous with canned vegetables, which Nana approves of but Brooklyn hates. She gets her sister to bed early without a fuss, and then she softly knocks on Nana’s bedroom door.
“Yes?” comes the annoyed call within.
She opens the door and finds Nana sitting up in bed in silk pajamas. With a scowl, Nana rips off her reading glasses and sets her book aside. “Well?”
“Nana, would it be possible for me to please borrow your car?” she asks.
Nana’s eyes bug out. “Are you joking? Of course not. Out of the question.”
Just like Nana not to ask why she might need a car. So Ella tries another tactic.
“Then could you drive me by my house? I need to pick up something.”
Nana snorts and puts her glasses back on. “Absolutely not. You have everything you need here. Or we can simply order—” She stops, her eyes sliding sideways. “You are not lacking. Now go to bed, please.”
“It’s medication.”
“And your mother didn’t include that with your things?”
Now it’s Ella’s turn to look away. Her mom’s still hurt and angry that she went alone to Planned Parenthood for the pills. They don’t talk about these things.
“She forgot.”
Nana shakes her head in a gesture that in most people conveys sadness and actual pity but here just suggests that Ella is an idiot who should learn better.
“You don’t appear to be dying. Bed, please. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ella closes the door softly behind her and walks to the kitchen counter. It’s nine, and Nana hasn’t set the security system yet.
This is Ella’s only real chance.