by Sadie Haller
“It was lovely. But then, Italy always is.”
“I’m surprised you decided to do dinner so soon. You must be exhausted from jet lag.”
“A little tired, but it’s a good tired. I missed you. A month is a long time to go without seeing you, and I didn’t want to wait any longer.”
I give her a gentle squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “I missed you too. Glad you’re both home, safe and sound.”
My mom checks her watch and frowns slightly. “Maybe she’s just late. Supper is ready, so we should go ahead and start, and I can serve her up a plate when she gets here.”
“Franny, my love, she’s not coming,” George says gently as he kisses the top of her head. “I’m sorry, but it’s the more likely reason she’s not here by now.”
Mom nods slightly. “You’re probably right. Go sit down, and I’ll bring the food through.”
George heads toward the dining room, but instead of joining him, I follow my mom into the kitchen. She looks at me with sad eyes. “You’re a good boy, Heath.”
“I try. Now what can I carry in?”
The subject of Georgia was skillfully avoided by sticking to questions about their honeymoon. It’s always easy to get my mom to talk about her travels.
When we’re done, my mom starts to rise from the table. “Stay there. I’ll take care of the dishes and kitchen.” I tell her. I stack the dirty plates, and add the offending empty plate and all the cutlery that had been mocking us all through the meal. I know my mom would have taken the clean stuff separately and put it away, but its presence offends me, so I want to ensure it’s all sanitized. Petty, but it pales in comparison to multitude of things I want to do.
George comes into the kitchen as I’m loading the dishwasher. “I’m at a loss. When I was the only one her behavior affected, it angered me, but nothing like this. I can’t bear the way Georgia keeps hurting your mother.”
“I don’t know what to say. I thought I’d got through to her that day after brunch. She gave me her word that she’d always respond to invitations, even if she couldn’t, or wouldn’t attend.”
“And you believed her?” George asks, incredulous.
“I didn’t want to, but she seemed earnest.”
“She’ll say whatever she thinks you want to hear to make you go away. If I thought your mother would let me get away with it, I’d disown Georgia here and now.”
“She’s your child,” my mom says as she enters the kitchen.
“She’s an adult, Franny.”
“No matter how old she is, she will always be your child. I know it’s just your anger and frustration speaking, but talk of disowning a child breaks my heart. It makes me think of poor Alasda—oh my goodness, I totally forgot. How was he?”
“Stoic as always, Mom. Although he did suggest we change things up next year. Oh, and he had a good laugh when Nick double-booked himself at the same bar. It was bound to happen one day.”
“Oh dear. I assume it didn’t end well.”
“Weirdly, he left the bar later with a completely different woman. Honestly, I have no idea how he keeps them all straight. And with that, I must wish you both good night. You look worn out, and I have back-to-back meetings most of tomorrow.”
When I get into my car, I know I should go to my place and sleep off some of my anger. That I should wait and confront the step-bitch in the morning when I’m calmer and more reasonable.
But I don’t always do what I should.
21
Georgia
I’m on my way home from an aborted call-out when my phone rings. Fuck. It’s my father’s new wife. I’m in a foul mood, and just can’t deal with her right now, so I let it go to voicemail.
Call-outs like these are the ones I find hardest to emotionally handle because they make me feel so helpless.
A trip to Starbucks for a fancy-ass coffee is at the top of my self-care to do list right now. I park and decide to check that message and get it out of the way. As a reward for adulting like a boss, I might even treat myself to a piece lemon loaf.
“Hi Georgia. Hope all is well. Your dad and I just got back from Italy last night, and if you’re free tonight, we’d love for you to come to dinner so we can thank you in person for your lovely gift. You can come for six and we’ll eat at six-thirty.”
Damn. I’d forgotten they were due back last night. Jesus, she doesn’t waste any time with the invitations and she sure doesn’t give much notice. It’s already three. I have a short debate with myself on the merits of calling her back now or waiting until I get home. Home wins. Partly because I have some silly idea in my head that if I wait until later, there’s a better chance she won’t be able to answer in time and I’ll be able to keep my promise and send my regrets oh, so politely via voicemail.
The door to my apartment is ajar when I arrive home. Awesome. Another break-in.
This is my second in the four years I’ve lived here—I resign myself to the loss of my valuables, not that there were many, and feelings of profound violation before I even cross the threshold.
What I’m not prepared for is the level of vandalism that has been visited upon my personal space.
Bile rises in my throat as I see the obscenities smeared over the walls. I pick my way through the broken glass to my bedroom, and my heart shatters. My bedroom has always been my sanctuary, and it has been completely destroyed.
This time, it’s more than just simple burglary and vandalism. There’s something…almost like it’s been done to scare me. I’m not even sure anything is missing. Just broken.
Not that the cops will care. There’s nothing written on the walls that they would consider overtly threatening. They’ll just label it as local kids looking for trouble, same as they did last time.
I start picking through the rubble, trying to make some kind of order from the chaos, holding out hope there is something left that can be saved.
As I pick up a pile of shredded sheets, my heart shatters. Beneath it is the twisted, empty photo frame, the picture torn into pieces and scattered.
I start picking up the pieces of my only connection to my mom. I’d mostly kept myself together until that point. And when I can’t find anymore, I just curl up and surrender to grief.
I’m vaguely aware of my phone blowing up with a flurry of calls and texts, but it’s not my work phone, so I ignore it.
22
Heath
By the time I get to Georgia’s apartment in Queens, I’m worked back up to livid. She promised me she wouldn’t leave my mom hanging when it comes to invitations, yet she can’t be fucking bothered to return a phone message, or at the very least, decline by email. Of course, her ignoring my calls and messages as well has only thrown gas on an already raging fire.
Again, I don’t need to buzz up to be let into the building. And that pisses me off in a completely different way. I should probably say something about it to the woman holding the door open for me, but right now, I’m on a mission.
I bypass the elevator in favor of the stairs. I need some time to calm down, because somewhere deep inside, I know going in there raging on all cylinders is likely to be unproductive. By the time I reach her floor, I’m slightly winded, but every bit as angry as I was in the lobby. I stop to take a few deep breaths and force myself to get a grip.
When I finally feel like I can confront Georgia reasonably, I start walking down the hall.
As I get closer to her apartment, something doesn’t look right. Her door is not fully latched. And once it’s in full view, I see it’s been kicked in and the door frame is splintered.
My heart is slamming against my chest as I slowly push my way into the apartment.
The sofa and chair in the living room have been slashed, the stuffing strewn all over. From what I can see, every piece of furniture has been destroyed. There are shards of glass everywhere, and the walls are covered in slurs and graffiti.
As I pick my way through the apartment, my anger morphs into dread when I see her on her knees, cur
led up in a ball on the bedroom floor.
I rush over, relieved there’s no blood, and her back is rising and falling with each breath.
At least she’s alive.
23
Georgia
“Jesus, Georgia, what the hell happened?”
Great. Golden Boy. The one person I really don’t need to see.
“Just go,” I whisper, as I roll away from him and onto my side, curling myself around the remnants of the most precious thing I own.
He sits down and pulls me into his lap. His arms wrap around me, holding me tight to his chest.
“Georgia, sweetheart, talk to me.”
His warmth feels good, and I want to let myself sink into it. But I’m not his sweetheart. I’m not his anything. I’m nobody’s anything.
At first, I try squirming away, but he holds on tighter. I don’t have enough physical or emotional energy to fight him for long, so I give up and try to disappear into my head.
“How long have you been like this?”
I don’t know. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want you near me.”
“Too bad. I’m not leaving you alone until I get you settled somewhere safe.”
I don’t know why he’s being nice to me, but I can’t handle it. I don’t know how to handle it. “Look, I’m fine right here. It’s just a break-in. It happens sometimes…occupational hazard.”
“What do you mean, occupational hazard?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I can take care of myself. So, just fuck off. I need to be alone.”
“Georgia, you can’t stay here. At least not until we get the place cleaned up and the door fixed.”
I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I should just make him go and deal with it all myself. But I’m so tired. I’m tired of fighting, I’m tired of doing it all on my own. I’m just so damned tired of everything. But I’m also mortified to be caught like this—emotionally exposed and vulnerable—and that’s what gives me that extra push I need. “No. You don’t get to come in here and take over.”
“Well, you’re in no condition to do anything right now, and even if we ignore the state of the apartment itself, the door can’t even shut, let alone lock.”
I hate that he’s right.
“Let me help.”
24
Heath
I know I need to involve the police, but I need to get Georgia out of here first. And the way things are going so far, the only way that’s going to happen is if I out-stubborn her.
“I’m not leaving you here, so either you get on your feet and start walking, or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of here.”
I give her a hard stare, and she slowly starts to get up. Taking her hand, I lead her to the front door, where I stop and cup her face.
“Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell her. She doesn’t respond. She’s sinking inside herself and it worries me.
I assess the state of each room as I work my way back through the apartment. There’s not much that looks salvageable. Once I reach the bedroom, I pull out my phone and call the one person I know who might be able to help.
“Hey mom, I know you’re tired, and I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a bit of a situation. Can you meet me at my place in thirty?”
“Of course. What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but it’s a bit of a delicate matter, so just you, okay?”
“Okay, I’ll see you shortly.”
“Bye.”
I walk over to where Georgia had been lying, and there on the floor is a small pile of torn photograph pieces.
I scoop them up and slip them into the pocket of my suit jacket before taking one last look around the room.
I manage to find a chunk of wood from the broken coffee table to wedge the door closed. It’s not much, and if someone went in to trash the place again, it couldn’t be any worse, but at least I’m giving it a fighting chance to remain undisturbed until the police come in and do their thing.
My mom is already at my apartment when we arrive. She takes one look at Georgia and she goes into full-on mama-bear.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says as she wraps her arms around Georgia and leads her off to my guest room.
I put the kettle on for tea and start making phone calls, starting with the police. I explain the situation and arrange to meet them at Georgia’s apartment before I go to the office in the morning. Then I call my hotel manager and ask him to find me contact information for the company we hire on the rare occasions a room or suite gets trashed. They’re good, and they have twenty-four-hour service. They’ll have a crew ready to go in as soon as the police are done. Once I’ve got the clean-up crew booked, I remember the bits of photo I’d picked up off Georgia’s bedroom floor.
I pull them out and start arranging them on the kitchen table. Slowly, the image reveals a very young Georgia with her mother.
In the end, there are a few pieces missing and my heart squeezes.
It’s like it’s a metaphor for Georgia herself.
25
Georgia
“Come on lovely, let’s get you settled.” Frances’s voice is soft and gentle and mom-like, and I can barely hold it together as she leads me through Heath’s apartment.
“I’ve set you up in the guest room with the en-suite. I thought you might feel more comfortable if you’re relatively self-contained.”
“Thank you.” I have no idea what else to say.
When we enter the room, Frances sits on the bed, pulls me down next to her, and folds me in her arms, rocking me slowly.
Her kindness is killing me, and I have all these irrational urges to lash out, to push her away, to scream that she’s not my mom.
But I force myself to rein them in and just let her mother me because I need this more than I want to admit.
Holding my head against her shoulder, she strokes a hand over my hair, and tendrils of warmth permeate the space in my soul that has been numb for as long as I can remember, making my heart ache.
I’m conflicted. I want this, I like how this feels, but I want it from my own mom. The unfairness of it all hits me like a punch to the gut, and I cling to someone else’s mother like she’s my own and let the tears fall.
I just can’t do tough-girl right now.
“Georgia, sweetie, I think we should call your dad. He’ll want to be here for you.”
And just like that, the warmth vanishes and my soul goes back to numb. Why did she have to ruin it by bringing my father into it?
“No.” I pull away, and she lets me go.
A part of me resents that. Wants her to fight for me. To reach out and hold me tight anyway. To do what it takes to make me feel better.
At least she doesn’t try to argue the point about calling my father.
“Okay. I won’t call him to come, but you have to understand that I will fill him in on the situation when I get home.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know.” And he’ll tell her to leave me alone, and she will.
The worst part of all this is the small taste of affection. When you go without long enough, you forget what it’s like and you no longer miss it.
26
Heath
When Mom walks into the kitchen over an hour later, the tea is cold, so I put the kettle back on to make another pot.
“How is she?” I ask, as I pull another mug out of the cupboard.
“Distraught. Exhausted. Sad. So many emotions. She won’t let me call her dad to come. I wish things were better between them.”
“Yeah. Me, too. I’ve made arrangements for a crew to go in and deal with her apartment in the morning. But I don’t want her staying there. It’s not safe.”
“Where will she go? The hotel?”
“If I can’t convince her to stay here, then yes. She can have the family suite for as long as she needs.”
“I’d take her home with me in a heartbeat if I thought she’d agree.” The tears in my mom’s eyes
tear me apart.
This time, I won’t blame Georgia.
This time, it really isn’t her fault. “I know. And probably best not to bring it up. It’ll just put her on the defensive.”
Mom nods. “She’ll probably insist on going home, regardless. That apartment, such as it is, belongs to her. It’s her home. Her independence. That’s a pretty hard thing to give up—even temporarily.”
I let out a long sigh. “You’re probably right.” The kettle boils and I finish making the tea.
“What’s this?” my mom asks, pointing at the incomplete photo on the table.
“It’s Georgia with her mother. I found the pieces on the floor in Georgia’s bedroom. I had hoped I’d collected up all the pieces so I could get it restored, but apparently, I missed a few bits.”
Mom sank into a chair and studied the photo more closely. “She certainly was an adorable child. And now she’s the spitting image of her mother.” She lets out a long sigh. “I think it’s probably beyond redemption. I’ll see if George has one so I can get a copy made.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She reaches over and holds my hand “You’re welcome. Do you want me to stay?”
I shake my head. “No. We’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve got a new husband waiting for you at home.”
27
Georgia
I wake up feeling disoriented, and I panic for a minute until I remember I’m at Heath’s, so I’m safe—safer, anyway—and it’s Sunday. A scheduled day off, and I’m not on call.
Okay.
And I’m not naked. Yay for t-shirt and panties.
Taking a deep breath, I look around the room and spot my purse sitting on a chair in the corner. I get up and grab it, along with my jeans, climb back into bed, and pull out my work phone. I unlock it and scroll through my contact list until I get to the office number.
