No.
The bedroom is dark, the only light a white-blue flicker from the TV I left on mute. They’re on the bed farthest from me. Bile rises up in my throat as I see my suspicions confirmed—?my mother on her hands and knees, her dress up around her hips, some guy I’ve never seen before wrapped around her from behind. Her friend, no doubt. He grunts and smacks her butt a little with the palm of his hand, and my face burns red. All I can see is his back, his jeans around his ankles, and his long button-up shirt covering most of the rest of him, thank god. But with that little slap, something ignites in my gut. Something that lights up my veins, so hot I can almost feel it slithering right under my skin. There’s something cold under there too. Something childlike and lost and tired.
Something reaching for a new wish.
Eerily calm, I pick up the TV remote from where I left it on the white duvet cover and hurl it at his blond head. It makes contact exactly where I intended, cracking him on the back of his skull. The sound echoes through the room, and he cries out, his hands leaving my mother’s hips and flying to his head.
“What the fuck?” he screams, and staggering forward a little, bracing himself with one hand on the mattress.
Mom scurries out from under him, yanking her dress down to cover herself. “What happened? Tom, are you—?”
Her voice dies when she sees me standing there, hair dripping, clad in nothing but a skimpy white towel.
“Grace.”
I don’t acknowledge her. Instead, I direct my attention to the dude now sitting on Mom’s bed. He’s breathing hard and rubbing at what is probably a quickly forming knot on the back of his head. His pants are still down, everything on display for the entire universe to see.
“Get out,” I say.
“Gracie—?”
“Get. Out,” I say again. Tom—?or whoever the hell—?blinks at me, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real. “Or I’ll call the cops and tell them you exposed yourself to a minor.”
“Grace!” Mom gasps, like my threat is what’s oh so shocking about this situation. But not Tom. In the TV’s light, I see his expression fall, and he quickly yanks his pants up with one hand and grabs his boots, scattered by the door, with the other.
“Call you later,” he mumbles as he stumbles out the door.
“Wait. Tom—?”
But he’s gone, hightailing it down the hotel’s hallway. The door clicks shut behind him, filling the room with a ringing silence. Mom stares at me, agape. I stare back, but it’s more of a cool observation than shock. I feel so completely unshocked, and I shouldn’t be, you know? I should be completely flabbergasted.
“Margaret Grace, what in the ever-loving hell are you—??”
“Just stop,” I say, my voice thin and cold like a razored slip of sheet metal.
She pops her hands on her hips, her mascara smeared into black half-moons under her eyes. “What has gotten into you?”
Wishes, I think. I hold one hand out in front of me, the other still gripping at my towel. My nails are bare, but I can still see it. A few flecks of leftover purple.
“God, I can’t wait for you to grow up,” Mom says, heading toward the sink behind me. She’s shaking it off, ready to wash up and hit the sack, no doubt. No big deal. Just another day in the life of Maggie and Grace.
My hands start to shake as I hear the faucet turn on, water rushing, Mom’s sigh loud enough to drown it all out. A million lights are coming to life inside me, their force and glow and color almost too much.
Or just enough.
Maybe you really can’t love me the way I want you to.
Eva’s words come back, latching on to every single little light, turning them inside out and outside in.
But I can, I say back to her now, wishing I were still standing with her in that crappy motel parking lot in the rain. I’d do everything differently. I can love Eva the way she deserves, the way I deserve. I can have what I need. Maybe even what I want.
“Mom,” I say softly.
The word stops her. She stiffens, bent over the sink, her hands full of water. She lets it splash back into the bowl and flips the faucet off. Then she turns around to face me, a stony expression just underneath that fuzzy gaze caused by whatever she drank tonight.
“Grace, it was just—?”
“Don’t you dare.” Unbidden, tears well up, and this time I let them come. They feel right; they feel good. It seems so easy now, just to cry about it. Just to feel pissed off and cheated, to love my mother this damn much, but love myself a little more because I need to. I have to.
“Don’t you dare,” I say again through a clogged throat. “It’s not just sex or just some guy. It never has been. It’s not just a town. It’s not just music. It’s not just a birthday. It’s not just a little vodka or just some bar or just some new drafty duplex’s address. It’s not just my life. And you know it.”
She flinches like I smacked her. Maybe I did. Everything burns—?my chest, my eyes, the palms of my hands. My fingertips tingle with certain wishes dying out, others coming to life.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Gracie. I’m your mother.”
“Then act like it! Fucking act like it, for once in your life.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Really? Are you serious? Look at what just happened! You brought a guy back to our hotel room to screw with your teenage daughter twenty feet away, naked in a bathtub.”
She frowns but has the decency to blush. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Where else would I be? You left me alone with two dollars in a city I don’t know.”
“Grace—?”
“Please just tell me you realize how fucked up this is.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Mom.” I take step toward her, my voice so soft it pulls up more tears. Her eyes are on mine, genuine confusion underneath genuine embarrassment. I’m not sure which one is stronger. “Two days ago, you drove drunk with Eva in the car.”
“Eva is fine—?”
“And then you ran her into a tree. You hurt her, after everything she’s already dealing with. She’s not fine. And then you pulled me away from everyone who ever mattered to me. And then tonight with Tom or whoever the hell that was. And then, and then, and then. Where does it stop? How many bottles in the suitcase next time? How long until some boyfriend you bring home looks at me and—?”
“I would never put you in that position,” Mom says, her hands pressed to her heart.
“You have, Mom. You do.”
She folds her arms and shakes her head.
“Mom. This is not okay. I am not fine. You are not okay.”
“Why do you keep doing that?” she asks, her voice small and low.
“What . . . calling you Mom?”
She nods.
“Because that’s who I need you to be.”