“But, Mom,” Nessa said. “You and Brandon weren’t the only ones who suffered. I was raped. I was a kid. A baby. And you turned me into a sideshow. Don’t you understand? I started using heroin because of that.”
“I know!” Joyce screamed it into her face, so loud and suddenly that Nessa rocked back in her chair. “Why do you think I sent that incompetent rapist here? Then practically put the drugs in your hand? You see, I came up some new show ideas. Show A was ‘Mother of a Murderer.’ That one didn’t work out because Brandon’s plan was so ridiculously complicated that all it did was confuse the detectives. So then as usual, I had to come up with the workable idea. Here’s the logline: ‘Famous radio personality turns out to be dead girl, commits suicide out of guilt before her mother can stop her.’ The synopsis: Long--suffering mother of ill son and dead daughter discovers the daughter is still alive. But in a cruel twist, the daughter commits suicide before the devoted mother can get to her side.”
Something had been removed from Joyce. A protein, an enzyme, a hormone, a neural connection. All Joyce could do was act like she loved, act like she was happy, act like she was in love. Had she been born this way? Or had her parents and circumstances made her this way?
In her mind, Joyce put -people into two rooms—-one for good -people (the list was short and sometimes nonexistent) and one for bad -people, which included nearly everyone else. Sometimes Nessa was allowed into the warm room, but rarely. Brandon had twisted himself into pretzels insinuating himself into it.
Nessa had read a novel once in which a character dreamed he was watching the entire human race holding hands and marching around the planet in a circle. But he couldn’t figure out how to become a part of the circle.
Nessa had once been part of that circle, but had let go of it.
Joyce, on the other hand, couldn’t even see the circle. And she’d wrenched Brandon from it so she wouldn’t be alone.
“Mom,” Nessa said. “Just walk away, and I’ll leave you alone. I won’t report this. I’ll tell the cops that an intruder killed Isabeau, and I came home to find her dead. You and Brandon can get in your car and drive away.”
Joyce almost seemed to consider this. Nessa reached out a hand.
“I love you, Mom,” Nessa said, tears running down her face in an endless stream. “You’re sick. I can get you the help you need.”
Now Joyce fixed her eyes on Nessa and for a brief second Nessa thought maybe she’d broken through the layers of Joyce’s mental illness.
But then Joyce gave her that superior, haughty look Nessa knew so well. “Oh, the heroin addict is going to help me. Oh, happy day. Lucky me. No. You’re not going to fool me again. Not ever again.”
Joyce rose from the couch and walked toward Nessa, and Nessa was certain Joyce was going to strike her. But she didn’t. She leaned over and kissed Nessa’s cheek. She pulled back and looked into Nessa’s eyes.
And smiled.
Nessa’s breath died in her lungs.
“Your son is very photogenic,” Joyce said, and laid her hand on Nessa’s cheek. “And don’t worry. He’s going to love living in California. I’ll take good care of him.”
Like fucking bloody hell she would.
It was as if someone had lit a fire beneath her chair. Nessa launched herself at her mother, throwing all her weight forward onto her feet, bringing the chair with her. The momentum and weight of the chair knocked Joyce to the ground, and Nessa grabbed a handful of Joyce’s hair as she rolled the chair on its side.
Joyce repeatedly slapped Nessa’s face, but Nessa wouldn’t let go. When one of Joyce’s fingers strayed toward Nessa’s mouth, she bit into it and whipped her head back and forth like a dog with a chew toy.
Joyce screamed and scratched at Nessa’s eyes. “You’re not going to ruin this for me. Not again.” Joyce reached toward the coffee table.
Nessa clutched at her mother’s hair, but Joyce was so determined she dragged Nessa and the chair toward the syringe, the handful of hair tearing loose with a moist ripping sound.
Joyce grunted and lunged for the coffee table, plunging facefirst into the floor.
Nessa dug her fingernails into Joyce’s leg, and Joyce kicked Nessa in the temple. Joyce’s hand scrabbled over the tabletop and tipped it.
Nessa tried to wrench the bungie cord from around her chest, tried to slide free, but it held firm.
Joyce turned back toward Nessa with a victorious smile, the hypo in her hand, blood dripping from her torn scalp. Nessa flailed, trying to grab hold of Joyce’s arm to knock the syringe loose, but Joyce was intent on seeing it all through.
She bulldozed the chair with Nessa in it and knelt over her, panting, triumphant, holding the needle high over her head.
And part of Nessa yearned to let Joyce plunge it in. Would welcome it. Nessa closed her eyes and surrendered.
Then she heard heavy, quick footsteps come down the stairs.