The Perfect Wrong, page 25
“Come sit,” she says.
I don’t move a muscle. “Are you feeling any better, or what?”
“I am. Bruce has been an absolute darling through my latest troubles. He’s friends with some very good doctors. I’m feeling hopeful this time. I think I’ll be just fine. Please don’t worry yourself sick about me.” She catches me staring at the glass in her hand and smiles, holding it up. “It’s just a mocktail.”
I hold in a snort.
Her face falls. It’s sick how self-absorbed she is.
“Oh, and thanks for calling to check on me while I was trying not to choke on my own vomit. I know how busy you are, but the very notion that you’d take time out of your day for little old me...”
There it is.
My lip curls at the sarcasm, the guilt trip for something I’d never do even if I had a rifle held to my head.
Her nasty smile disappears behind her glass of green venom. She takes a long, fortifying sip, draining it like she needs the liquid courage to bring more hell.
I should turn around and walk the fuck out right now.
She slams the glass down on the stand next to her, though, glaring like I just scooped up a handful of pool water and threw it in her face.
“Well?” she bites off. “Are you just going to stand there like a lump? Don’t you have anything to say about why you ignored—”
“I kept you breathing, Ma,” I cut her off. “My obligation ends there. You’re the only one who can fix your shit.”
“So judgmental,” she snarls. “You think I asked for this, Christopher? I asked for your comfort, Mr. Man. A few kind words, a hug, a 'glad you’re still breathing, mommy...' It wouldn’t kill you.”
If only she knew.
“Fucking please. Haven’t you bilked enough sympathy from Bruce already? I thought I’d have to resuscitate him too when he was having a heart attack over you laid out on the floor. Looks like all the money in the world can’t buy a quack who gets you off the sauce, huh?” I motion to her empty glass.
She smirks, amused and still angry, which tells me she’s pretty wasted.
Yet still sober enough to rear up in her chair, pulling the towels tight around her frame to keep them from slipping.
I twist my head away in disgust.
Fuck that.
The last thing I need is a look at her plastic boobs, the only thing she’s bothered investing in over the last decade.
“What? Am I that repulsive?” She snaps her fingers, begging me to look at her again.
“Ma, shut it. You’re not thinking right. What else is new?” I force out, stunned that I have to state the obvious.
“Oh, okay. That’s right. I’m too old for you. Too related.” She heaves out a sigh. “I’m sorry I’m going senile in my old age, Christopher. But, you know, I’ve noticed you’d rather fuck your stepsister and tear this family apart, piece by piece, wouldn’t you?”
Her words shove me back like a gunshot to the ribs.
I’ve put up with these tirades my entire fucking life. I learned a long time ago that the only good defense is to turn around, leave her stewing, and walk the hell away.
Only, it seems impossible to do that when she’s accusing me of a high crime that isn’t any crime at all.
She picks up her glass and twirls it, staring at it like she’s contemplating new ways to blame me for her dumpster fire of a life.
“Ma, I don’t know what the fuck you think’s going on, or why you think it’s any of your business,” I say, trying not to let the growl overwhelm my words. “I didn’t come out here to listen to your shit. So rather than take your shit out on me for the trillionth time, why don’t you crawl back in the house and sleep it off? Or are you just bawling me out because you feel guilty for making that poor simp you married fight your demons for you?”
She smiles slowly, her eyes a shade lighter than mine, shiny and poisonous as an exotic snake.
There’s no warning before she whips the glass over my head.
It slams the ground behind me and blows to smithereens with a deafening crash.
Goddamn.
I don’t even flinch, despite several shards rebounding off my boots.
Her hand jerks back so fast her long fingernails graze her other arm. She pulls it back and studies the fresh self-inflicted cut.
One more wound that’s so small in the grand scheme of her wreckage that she probably can’t feel it.
“You think Bruce is the big damn hero here? Really?”
I know there’s a screaming, ugly tantrum building behind that tone.
I definitely don’t need her throwing herself in the pool.
Now is the time to escape—before she says anything else about Delia.
“I don’t think anything about you, Mother, because I’m done. You know that. I didn’t come here to beat my head against the wall, trying to have a human conversation when that’s never worked.”
Hurt rage fills her eyes.
She knows damn well who I came to see, and it kills her.
Ma only hates Delia because she’s jealous.
Because I’d rather spend the rest of my life with that girl, and it hurts like a bat to the balls that I fucking can’t.
We stare each other down.
Yeah, this latest overdose had to be a suicidal stab at kicking up fresh drama to reel me back into her life. I’m only sorry it worked better than anything else she’s done.
She could’ve easily offed herself for real this time—unlike the other incidents when she was more careful, when she stopped shy of the danger zone.
Evie just wants to walk a tight rope that helps her manipulate everyone else.
“Go ahead and play soldier boy then,” she chimes. “Jesus. You don’t have any balls, do you? I gave you tough love, Christopher—tough fucking love. Now look at you! Living like a robot, all hollowed out and alone.”
She pauses, hoping her words will sink in.
It’s almost funny that she thinks she can still hurt me.
“No family. No friends. No girlfriend—I hope,” she continues. “Just me. I sure wish you’d realize I’m the only one who cares. That little tramp only wants you because she’s just as screwed up as you. Christopher...I’m all you’ve got. The only one who tries to understand you. And the sooner you realize that, we can—”
Enough.
I tune her out, my jaw pinched tighter than a vise.
Fuck, if she weren’t so goddamned crazy—anybody but my own flesh and blood—I’d have picked her up and hurled her in the pool about ten words into this fit.
My skin feels like its crawling with scorpions.
She’s my personal kryptonite, my Achilles’ heel, the demon I never asked for always whispering in my ear, all rolled into one wretched person.
I’ve survived firefights that left me sore for days.
Bastards shooting at me from the shadows, planting IEDs meant to dismember me, hearing friends scream as they’re cut to pieces.
I’ve seen enough suffering to prove the Buddha right about what life is a thousand times over.
All that, and I still don’t know what the hell to do with the bitter psycho in front of me, sucking in her cheeks like she’s chewing the world’s biggest lemon.
I turn sharply, ready to get the hell out of here.
Still, I can’t resist looking over my shoulder, even though everything screams not to.
Her eyes are tiny pinpricks, angry and black and vengeful.
Hot tears stream down her cheeks.
She’s shaking like a leaf now, holding the towel so tight against her throat that it looks like she’s choking.
“You’re just walking away then? You won’t even fight me? Are we that far gone? I’m your mother!”
“I know what you are, Evie,” I say numbly. “I’ve seen what you do, and how you just can’t quit even when you’re pretending to give a rat’s ass about getting well. I told you a hundred times, I’m done. And I won’t be around for the next round of fallout. Not anymore. Not ever. Save it for Bruce and try not to bust him up too bad when you get bored with him. He’ll figure out who you are soon enough.”
“Oh, no, you...no, no...” I hear her whispering behind me as I start walking.
I’m about halfway to the house when she runs toward me, her footsteps pounding the stonework. I’m so up in my head I don’t hear her coming until it’s too late.
Then she lunges, wrenching her hands around my throat.
My own mother tries to wrestle me to the ground the way she used to when I was ten years old, before puberty bulked me up and made me four times her size.
Shit, does it ever end?
I throw her off me easily, slamming her into the stone underfoot.
It’s a strange irony to see how things have changed over the years.
She’s lucky she’s got that towel folded tight to cushion her blow. The last thing she needs is a cracked hip on top of her crazy and substance abuse.
“You ungrateful little shit! I gave you everything. Everything!” she hisses. “Food, shelter... I helped you with that stupid recruiter years ago, never knowing it would suck your life away.”
She’s given up fighting, at least.
Her fingers are deep in her eyes, digging in as she rattles off the entire litany of why I’m the worst son ever born.
“No regrets,” I say coldly. “I served my country. I’m protecting people from scum who won’t think twice about leaving them in worse shape than you.” It hurts when I sigh. “You know, I still have days where I feel sorry for you. I hate that.”
Her eyes spark with a hope that tells me she still doesn’t understand.
We’re done.
“Because you’ll never grasp what it means to stick your neck out for someone else,” I finish slowly. “You’re too far gone, and I wish like hell you weren’t. I’ve seen enough, Evie. Have a good life.”
Her hands fall as a rough sob racks her body.
Then she shoots me the most hateful look I’ve ever seen her wearing—and that’s saying something.
“Go. Get the hell out of here then. You’re a disgrace, Christopher. Bruce is all I need. He’s going to take care of me forever. He understands what love is—something they took from you. The Navy, the war, it tore out your heart. And it makes me sick!”
The shit coming out of her mouth is just total psychobabble now.
Well, almost.
I don’t dwell on the horrible grain of truth in that last part.
It’s not worth risking more wasted breath on this woman.
So I turn and march on, my jaw set, moving even when she shrieks her gibberish threats, telling me she’ll hurt herself, so desperate to make me care one more time.
“Christopher, hey, come back! You don’t get to walk out... I’ll have you thrown out if you don’t fucking listen. We’ll see how much of a fight you put up when they’re hauling you off to jail!”
I roll my eyes.
It’s the same crap she used to threaten me with before, when I rebelled in my teens.
Before I knew better, the police scared me. Dad left me with a healthy fear of cops and I was too young to understand they’d probably catch on to the one-way abuse.
Then one day when I was sixteen, she did it.
I came home pissed off from the greyhound rescue. Her ex, Greg, was so nice he offered to let me hang around with the dogs as much as I wanted.
But I saw how she wrecked him, and even if he smiled to my face, my presence was one reminder of the rot she’d left in his life.
So I said my goodbyes to Snoot and Blinkey—two hulking fawn-brown dogs with stilts for legs who’d lived with us before Evie kicked Greg out in a shrieking rage. I let them lick my face till it was damn near chapped while I gave them a lifetime of pets.
Then I came home to a house that reeked so strongly of pot and booze I gagged the second I stepped inside.
Ma saw me dragging my ass in, moping, and she knew why.
Of course, she was pissed.
Because she was with Tanner or Tim or whatever the fuck.
“Such a fun guy,” she kept saying. And wasn’t it just the best thing ever that Tanner-Tim wanted to bring us up to the beach house his rich parents owned in Lincoln City, Oregon, for the next weekend?
Never mind that I had work at this lifeguard job I’d just taken.
Never mind that I was still so torn up about leaving those awesome dogs, I shoved Mr. Fun Guy’s overly friendly hand off my shoulder.
So hard he went spinning into the fridge and banged his head.
Ma went ballistic. I retreated to my room and had my headphones on, drowning her out while she flung herself against my door, screaming at her latest boy toy to knock it the fuck down.
“Get the hell out here, you ungrateful little shit!”
Fun Guy was swearing at me, struggling to take the door off its hinges with a screwdriver, but I’d already shoved my bed against it.
When I lifted one headphone off and the pounding and screaming finally stopped, I thought they’d given up and blown without me.
I walked out into the kitchen to make myself an omelet.
Two stone-faced officers were standing at the front door with Ma and dickhead. She told them point-blank I’d threatened her boyfriend after refusing to get in the car with her and the drunken beach bum.
Oh, and that awful marijuana—you can guess who she blamed that on.
The officers were smart, thank fuck. After a thorough search and a quick talk with me, they figured out the truth, or close enough.
The cops damn near hauled her away instead, but Fun Guy took the fall, claiming the entire fat bag of Mary Jane was his. He was hauled away in handcuffs and we never saw him again.
Back in the present, I’m seeing that night like it was yesterday, clear as day.
It’s so tempting to remind her how she tried to frame me then, but why fucking bother?
If I thought there was any last flicker of kindness or remorse left in her heart—any mirror in the soul that would show her how psycho she is—I’d wait.
But there isn’t.
Whatever goodness Evie Triton may have ever had in her died years ago.
Now, she’s a dependent shadow person, exiled to a pitch-black pool of pain, regret, and pathetic control attempts.
I know what’s coming next.
I stop at the door with my hand on it for a long second, waiting for the final explosion.
“You stupid shit! I know about you, Christopher. I know about her,” she screams, every word cut by shrill sobs. “I swear to God, I’ll cut your dick off before I let you stick it in Bruce’s little slut again! You’re not using that girl and tossing her away like a soggy condom. I won’t let you hurt this family. You go and ruin your life—not hers. Not mine. So if...if you think I’ll just sit tight while you’re screwing her, right under our noses, I’m telling you I won’t even hesitate. I’ll call the police and you’ll—”
Rolling my eyes, I step through the door and slide it tight behind me.
The thick glass chokes off her ongoing threats to peel my face off, or whatever else.
Unfortunately, I already have a decent idea what she’ll actually do.
I walk toward the main entrance and its soaring staircase, stopping along the way to flag down one of the house staff.
I tell the maid to keep an eye on Evie. Make sure somebody keeps her in their sight. Purely to make sure she doesn’t do something incredibly stupid in the pool, or with one of those broken glass fragments that needs to be swept up ASAP.
Then the race begins.
I feel the clock ticking with every booming beat of my heart.
Sooner or later, she’ll tell Bruce what’s going on, her distorted version of the truth.
Part of me wants her to blab.
Maybe he’ll finally man up and punch me square in the face like he should.
It might take the edge off the way I’m about to hurt Delia, even with everything in me revolting against it.
I stop at the base of the stairs, raking a hand over my clammy face.
My heart is a hammer now, every beat pounding through me until it drowns my ears in thick silence.
All I want to do is skip what’s coming next.
I want to fly upstairs and kiss her, get her under me, take my fill of her again and again, leaving us hot and spent and healed.
Robot.
It tore your heart out.
I fucking hate every vile word Evie said that drifts back to me.
If there wasn’t a little shred of truth, it wouldn’t sting like this.
My mother always had an uncanny ability to tap into my deepest fears, and right now, I’m scared shitless she could be right.
I am a human robot.
A heartless machine so hellbent on getting my dick wet without attachments that now I’ve butchered Delia’s innocence. I’ve mangled her heart on a hope that can’t be.
Fuck, I’m going to break her, shatter myself in the process, and leave a smoking pile of debris behind us.
God Almighty.
I should just forget the heart-to-heart. Walk the hell out of this house forever while I still can.
If only ghosting or sending her a limpdick letter didn’t feel so much worse.
All my options are hideous.
Toxic.
Wrong.
Everything, everything, including what she feels for me.
But I can taste Delia on my lips. I see her mahogany eyes shimmering with an innocence I wish I could keep intact.
Ma may be right in her own sadistic way about how fucked up I am—after all, she made me that way—but she doesn’t have a clue.
I won’t cut the last chord of my humanity and walk away without a word.
I’ll just sever the accidental thread tying my fate to a woman who’ll always be too pure for my tarnished soul.
* * *
She looks up in surprise when I barge into her room.
For a second, I’m just punch-drunk.
There she is.
The perfect portrait of brains and beauty and sensitivity, hunched over her easel, a brush in her hand that’s been hard at work bringing a field of brilliant violet-blue flowers to life.
“Chris?”
