“What’d I tell you, baby?” Mom asks, her eyes sparkling as she lifts her hand to shade them from the low-hanging sun. “Isn’t this lovely?”
“Yeah” I hear a voice say. It takes me a couple seconds to realize it’s mine, the raspy, passionless tone so foreign in my ears. I glance at Mom to see if she’s noticed and barely react when it’s clear she’s found a new love, a new city, an entirely new world to throw herself into and around and before. Something almost manic glints in her eyes, in the slight curve of her mouth. Something wild and free. It would be completely captivating if it didn’t look all wrong on her face, a mask she shouldn’t be wearing.
“So who’s this friend you want to meet up with?” I ask.
She waves a hand as we cross the street on a Do Not Walk sign. Cars honk and drivers yell, but she keeps sashaying along, wearing her torn shirt like it’s a brand-new Chanel. “I’ll call him later.”
Him. Fucking great.
Mom checks us into a Holiday Inn in the Portland Arts district. I breathe a sigh of relief when she opens the door and we’re greeted by two double beds, a fresh linen scent, and sparkling white tile in the bathroom.
I don’t know how she’s paying for it—?how I’m paying for it—?but for now, I don’t care. I need a hot shower, a soft blanket, a room in which I can close my eyes and make believe it’s a home.
Mom showers while I lie on the bed, listening to my phone not buzzing in my bag. It hasn’t made a sound in hours, which means everyone’s done calling to check on me for now. Or maybe forever. Just like that, I’m gone and it’s as if the world didn’t even notice. With the realization comes a weird sort of relief, like I’ve been waiting for this to happen, to simply give in and become a little Maggie, letting the wave roll over and under me until there’s no more me. No more Grace.
It’s easier like this.
No one to love.
No one to lose.
“Good god, you look morose lying there,” Mom says, standing at the bathroom mirror. She’s all gussied up, a slim black dress hugging her hips. Her hair is clean and falls in gentle waves. It’s not shiny or even healthy-looking, but it’s not a mess, so that’s something. Her face is done up too, soft mascara around her eyes and an elegant rose-colored hue to her mouth. She looks pretty. She looks like my mom should look all the time, and I can’t help but smile at her reflection.
“Cheer up,” she says. “It’s a brand-new day, baby.” She kisses the air, then pushes up her boobs a little more. “I’m meeting my friend, all right? Don’t wait up. I left a few bucks on the sink here if you get hungry.”
She motions to the couple of dollars lying on the counter—?literally, two dollars. And just like that, all that beauty in the mirror goes foggy and drippy, a gorgeous painting neglected and ruined by the rain.
“Fine,” I deadpan, and flip on the TV. I don’t say goodbye as she flounces out the door.
Later, I take Mom’s two dollars and walk a block to the Walgreens. With that and my last five bucks, I buy a Dr. Pepper, a small bag of Sun Chips, and fresh bottle of nail polish remover. I eat my meager dinner on the walk back to the hotel. Once inside my room, I unroll a few sheets of toilet paper and remove every trace of purple polish from my fingers. When they’re clean, I dig my favorite shade of violet out of my toiletry bag, but I don’t open it. Instead, I stare at my naked nails, bare and tinted faintly pink from so many years of color.
Why purple? Eva had asked that night we sat together on the back of Emmaline, lost in each other, in possibility, in hope.
It’s always been our color, I had answered, but that wasn’t really why. For years I wrapped myself in this purple, made my silly wishes, telling myself it’s what linked Mom and me, and I was so desperate for that connection, it was enough. But really, it was the opposite. These fingers, these nails wrapped in color, they were my way out. My hope. My wishes for who Mom should be, who I’ll be for her, for myself.
I wore that color as the ultimate wish.
And I’m finally done wishing.
Nails bare and free, I toss my bottle of Violet Glow into the trash and then run a bath. I’m not sure how long I lie in the hot water, but there are clean washcloths and a tiny bottle of bubble bath that smells like spearmint and rosemary and a beautiful girl’s face framed in dark curls floating in and out of my head. I miss her so much, it hurts to breathe, my lungs rebelling against me. I can’t close my eyes without seeing her, so I force them open. But I can’t keep them open without seeing some part of me she touched, some part of me I loved because she loved it too. So I close my eyes again and just let her face bloom in my mind while my skin prunes and softens. When the water gets cool, I let it out and run more, hoping if I get it hot enough, it’ll scald that girl from my mind, her memory from my fingertips.
Chapter Thirty
I WAKE TO THE SOUND OF A DOOR SLAMMING OPEN AGAINST A WALL. At least, I think that’s what it is. The bath water is long cold and my neck aches when I sit up, so I know I’ve been in here for a while. Another loud bang, this time the door slamming shut. This room is separated from the bathroom sink and main bedroom, only the tub and toilet inside. Out of habit, I had closed the door when I got in the bath, so I can’t see whatever the hell it is Mom’s doing. I hear a giggle and then a low rumble.
It’s that low rumble that makes me freeze, my hand under the too-cool water and on the drain plug, ready to pull it up and wash everything empty.
Because that low rumble is definitely not my mother’s girlish voice.
As quietly as I can, I get out of the tub and wrap myself in a white towel. My hand grips the doorknob, every nerve in my body alert and listening. No more voices. Just rustling, a thumping noise like the lamp on the nightstand got a little hip bump, a long exhalation followed by the squeak of mattress springs.
“The hell is she doing?” I whisper to the door. To no one.
My naked nails curl around the knob even tighter as more sounds filter under the door. Breathy moans. Breathy giggles. A breathy “Aw, yeah, baby” drenched in a male tone.
I’m not sure what makes me open the door. Even as I’m doing it, there’s a voice in my head telling me to go back in the bathroom, huddle in the tub, and wait it out. She’s done this before, brought guys home, but even in the worst apartments, I’ve always had my own room, a lock on the door, a Luca to call and ask if I could stay over. Here I’m trapped like a rat in a cage, hitting a food-pellet bar over and over and over that never, ever yields any nourishment.
Is Maggie okay?
After you graduate . . .
Eyes fixed on my colorless nails, I throw the door open and finally answer that question, the supposition.