A Little Too Much

by Lisa Desrochers

  I watch my breath billow in white clouds that break up when I walk through them, and think about where I want to go. “So, I can choose anything?”

  He nods. “Anything you haven’t seen already.”

  “Well, that doesn’t rule much out . . . unless you had your heart set on the Theater District or Coney Island.”

  He smiles. “I’ve already been.”

  “Anything,” I say again. I look up as we weave through a group of kids in costumes, moving toward Fifth Avenue. And that’s when I remember it’s Halloween. “Shit!” I yank my phone out of my pocket and check the time. Five.

  “What is it?” Alessandro asks, alarmed.

  “It’s Halloween. I promised to take Henri and Max trick-or-treating. I’ve got to go!” I bolt across the park for the nearest subway stop, leaving him standing there, staring after me.

  I’D PROMISED TO be here by six, but it’s after seven when I sprint up Mallory’s front steps. I ring and Mallory comes to the door with a big smile and a bowl of candy. Her red mane is pulled back in a sloppy ponytail and she’s got a headband on with black cat’s ears. There are messy whiskers drawn on her face with eyeliner. Henri’s handiwork, no doubt.

  “Are they ready?” I pant.

  Mallory’s smile vanishes the second she sees me. “They’ve been ready for over an hour, Hilary. They’ve been waiting. Jeff just got home from work and took them.”

  “Damn!” I’ve been looking forward to this for a month and I blew it.

  Mallory moves out of the way and I step through the door. “Don’t worry. They’re used to it,” she says, setting the candy bowl on the hall table and moving into the family room. She drops onto the couch and clicks the TiVo button.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” It pisses me off when she says stuff like that.

  Her eyes flick to me. “You’re not the most reliable person, Hilary.”

  “I was at the Met and I forgot it was Halloween.”

  Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. “You? At the Met? Who were you with?”

  I shrug. “Just a guy.”

  A slow smile curves her lips. “A guy got you to go to the Met? I want to meet this guy.”

  No, she doesn’t. I move to the kitchen and pull a Diet Coke out of the fridge. “You want anything?” I ask from the door.

  “Yeah,” she says as the doorbell rings. “Grab me one of those.”

  She pushes the TiVo button again, pausing the TV, then goes to the door while I bring her Coke to the family room and sit. I hear talking and giggling at the door as she hands the candy out. A minute later, she’s back, flopping onto the other side of the couch. “So, is this guy . . . I mean, what’s going on with you and Brett?”

  Damn. I was hoping we’d changed the subject. “Brett and I are the same. He’s just a guy I know.”

  “Who is he?” she presses.

  I blow out a sigh. “No one, Mallory.”

  Her face changes in a split second from suggestively amused to wary.

  “What?”

  “Who is he?” She’s not joking around anymore. She’s always been overprotective, and that hasn’t changed just because I moved out.

  “Someone from before.”

  “Before?” she says slowly.

  I take a sip of Diet Coke and reach for the remote, unpausing the TV. “He’s from the group home.”

  For a long time, Mallory says nothing. I don’t look at her. Finally, she clears her throat and says. “I don’t think you should spend time with him. I don’t think it’s good for you.”

  I still don’t look at her as all my insides pull into a tight knot. “I’m fine, Mallory. It’s really not a big deal.”

  She tugs my arm, forcing me to look at her. She just stares into my eyes for a really long time before saying, “Is he the one?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s dif—”

  “Of course it matters!” she erupts. “You can’t be around those people. I forbid you to see him anymore.”

  I bark out a bitter laugh and spring out of the couch, spilling my Diet Coke. “Are you serious? I’m twenty-two years old. You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

  I go to the kitchen for a paper towel, leaving her stewing on the couch. When I come back and start soaking the few drops of Coke out of the carpet, she says, “I’m sorry, Hilary. I just . . . you don’t think he wants back into your life?”

  “He has some major guilt issues. He wanted to apologize.”

  She blows out a laugh. “Like he could ever apologize.”

  I sit back down. “I think he means it. He’s changed. A lot.”

  Her lips purse. “I still don’t like it.”

  The door bursts open and Henri comes charging through in a Transformers costume with a weighted-down pillowcase in his hand. Max trails behind with his dad, wearing some green costume that doesn’t look even remotely familiar to me.

  “Hey, guys!”

  “Auntie!” Henri squeals and launches himself at me. “I’m Maximus Prime!”

  “Are there any Decepticons out there?” I ask, tickling his side.

  “Don’t worry, Auntie! I’ll protect you,” he giggles, pulling away and puffing out his chest.

  “I’m counting on it, buddy,” I tell him. “Hi, Jeff,” I say as he gives Henri’s black mop a ruffle on his way past.

  “Sorry we left without you,” he says, and unlike Mallory, there’s no accusation in his tone. “The boys were chomping at the bit.”

  Henri drops to the floor and dumps the contents of his pillowcase onto the carpet while Max climbs onto the couch between his parents and opens his.

  “Anything good in there?” I ask, coming over and peeking in.

  “You want a Charleston Chew?” he asks, pulling one out.

  “Sure,” I say, taking it from his hand. “What’s your costume?”

  “A Creeper,” he answers, digging in his bag again.

  The doorbell rings and Mallory goes to get it. I look the question at Jeff.

  “From Minecraft,” he clarifies. “Creepers are one of the monsters in the game.”

  “They’re made out of TNT! They hiss and explode!” Henri volunteers through a mouthful of something blue.

  Max hands Jeff a fun-sized Snickers, which he tears open as Mallory comes back into the family room. “Hilary was late because she was out with someone,” she tells Jeff, “from before.” The way she says the word leaves no doubt what “before” she’s referring to. Her lips purse and her eyes tighten a little when Jeff doesn’t respond by dragging me off to the bedroom and lecturing me. “I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea,” she presses.

  Jeff splits a glance between us. “She’s all grown up, Mallory. I don’t think we have any say in who she sees.”

  I totally love Jeff. If he wasn’t already married to my sister, I might actually consider marrying him.

  Henri hops up and climbs into Mallory’s lap with a candy necklace in his hand. He loops it over her head and I can tell he’s already been sucking on it by the way it sticks to her hair. “You look pretty, Mommy,” he tells her, admiring the necklace.

  She pulls him close and kisses his forehead. “Thank you, baby.” He squirms, trying to get back to his stash on the carpet, but she doesn’t let him go right away. “I don’t like it,” she says, her eyes locked on me. And I know this isn’t the end of the discussion.

  Chapter Eight

  IT’S THE FIRST of the month. I go on the first of every month like clockwork so she knows what to expect. Mom doesn’t do great with surprises.

  As I climb onto the 9:48 train at Grand Central for the long trek to Bedford Hills, I’m still thinking about what there is in New York City that’s worth seeing. When the train surfaces at Ninety-seventh, I lean my forehead into the window and watch as the city rolls by, hoping that something will catch my eye . . . maybe there’ll be a big flashing sign that says, “You’ve got to see this thing right here that no one else knows about because it’s
really cool.”

  I don’t see any signs like that, and then we’re in the country: rolling hills and leafless brown trees for as far as the eye can see. I sink deeper into my seat and close my eyes. I have to get up early for these trips. It takes forever to get there and back, and if I’m going to bother at all, it feels like I need to spend at least an hour there, so it’s an all-day thing, for the most part. And I need to be back for work at five.

  An hour later I stumble off the train in Bedford Hills. It’s about a mile from the station to the correctional facility and I could catch a cab if I could find one, but, unless the weather’s totally nasty, I usually walk. It takes about a half hour and helps me clear my head before Mom clogs it up again.

  When I get to the visitor entrance I tell them, “Hilary McIntyre, here to see Roseanne McIntyre.”

  I jump through all the hoops: store my bag in the lockers, walk through the metal detector, sign in, show my ID, sign the paper that says I don’t have any contraband on me and I agree to be searched, then wait.

  Mom has to agree to see me.

  Ten minutes later they tell me I’m good to go and let me into the visitor room. I take one of the dollars I kept in my pocket to the vending machine and buy an Oh Henry! then find a spot at an empty table near the back of the room.

  When she comes through the door, she shuffles over to my table in an orange jumpsuit that hangs off her. She literally drops into the chair across from me, like the act of sitting down takes too much effort. Her cheeks are hollow caves, her skin is patchy and dry, and her long red hair is in a messy, low ponytail with stringy strands hanging loose into her sunken, dull green eyes. I swear every time I see her, she looks five years older. She’s not even fifty yet, but she could pass for one hundred.

  Or maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s because, in my head, I always see her how she was before she killed that guy and got sent here.

  She reaches for the Oh Henry! and peels back the wrapper, biting off a hunk and glancing deliberately at the caged clock on the wall. “You made it,” she rasps in her smoker’s voice.

  It’s always the first thing she says, like I’ve kept her waiting.

  “Yep.”

  She swallows and bites another hunk off the candy bar. A little piece of chocolate sticks to the corner of her mouth and starts to melt. “So how’s McDermott’s?”

  Always the second thing she asks. I think maybe she used to go there.

  “Good. Jerry is behaving himself for now.”

  She crams the last bite in her mouth. “Tips good?”

  Always the third thing.

  I shrug. “Up and down. Seems like people are getting cheaper. Weekends are usually decent.”

  “How is that sister of yours?”

  And, always number four.

  “She’s good.”

  “Still married?”

  I slouch deeper into my chair. “She hasn’t gotten divorced in the month since I saw you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “And Harry and Max?”

  Every.

  Freaking.

  Time.

  Considering her favorite candy bar is Oh Henry! you’d think she’d be able to remember her grandson’s name. “Henri, not Harry, and they’re good too. Getting big. Halloween was last night. They were adorable.”

  She frowns, which really isn’t all that different from her usual expression. “I’d know that if I ever saw them.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” It’s the same guilt trip I get every time I come, like it’s somehow my fault Mallory’s never comes to see Mom. I don’t tell Mallory when I’m coming because she forbade me to see Mom when I was living with her. I doubt she’d feel different now. She told me a long time ago to forget about Mom. Mallory blames Mom for everything that happened to me at the group home and after. So do I, I guess, but there’s no changing it, so I don’t see the point in holding a grudge.

  The truth is, I know it’s probably a waste of time coming here. I know I shouldn’t bother. I mean, it’s not like Mom ever really bothered with me. I was just an inconvenience most of the time. I don’t know if she wanted me or not, but once she got me, she didn’t really seem to care one way or the other. Indifference smarts, coming from the one person who’s supposed to love you unconditionally.

  But for better or for worse, she’s my mom—the only parent I’ve ever had. So even though a big part of me is screaming that I should forget about her, there’s a smaller voice that comes from somewhere in my DNA compelling me to keep digging for something deeper—like if I try hard enough, maybe she’ll love me despite herself.

  Mom leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, and splays both hands across her face to hold her head up, like it suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. “You should make like your sister and steer clear of me. I was never any good for you girls.”

  I squirm a little in my seat, uncomfortable with Mom’s rare moment of honesty. I’m so used to her shifting blame that I don’t know what to say when she finally accepts some. “You did the best you could, Mom.”

  She lifts her eyes but not her head and looks at me from under her stringy hair. “Wasn’t good enough.”

  I shrug. “We turned out okay.” For the most part.

  She pulls her head out of her hands and looks at me for a long second, as if finally realizing maybe it’s true. Her face looks younger all of a sudden, less haggard, as she straightens her arm and brushes her bony fingers across the back of my hand. “I guess so. You’re a pretty good kid, aren’t you? Maybe I didn’t screw up too bad after all.”

  I don’t even know what to say. For some unexplained reason, a wet lump forms in the back of my throat. It’s not like she said she loved me, so why does it feel that way?

  A tired smile pulls at her mouth as she draws her hand back. “So, if that’s true, when are you gonna find a man?”

  And just like that, the moment is gone and we’re back on track.

  I take a deep breath and swallow. “I’m still living with Brett. It’s been almost a year.”

  “The model?” she says, her eyebrows rising.

  “He’s an actor, Mom. On Broadway. Not a model.”

  “But you don’t got no picture,” she says with a skeptical squint. I’m pretty sure she thinks Brett is a figment of my imagination. Somehow it’s not real if she can’t see proof.

  “You know they take my phone. I can’t bring it in here.”

  She crumples the Oh Henry! wrapper and shoots it basketball style at the trash can in the corner. It misses by a mile and uncrumples itself on the cement floor. “What about cigarettes? Did you bring me any?”

  This is the part of the program where she gets in all her jabs to remind me what a shitty kid I am.

  “You know we’re not allowed to bring those in either.”

  She frowns deeper. “You’d have snuck some in if you loved me.”

  Who said I loved you?

  The thought springs out of my mind like some demented jack-in-the-box. The scary-clown kind that gives little kids nightmares.

  In Mom’s defense, I’ve never told her about anything that happened to me after she got her sorry ass thrown in jail. Maybe that’s why, despite everything, I don’t mind coming here. She never gives me that look I get from Mallory—the one that reminds me she knows all my shit and she feels sorry for me.

  “Are they keeping you busy?” I ask, just for something to say.

  “Oh, yeah.” She makes a big production of rolling her eyes. “Big trip planned for tomorrow. I’m walking the runway in Paris, then shopping in Monte Carlo.”

  I slouch in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. “Sorry.”

  We sit in silence for the next fifteen minutes, and the visitor room starts to fill up. The chatter gets louder by the second, which only punctuates our silence.

  “You want another candy bar?” I finally ask.

  She shrugs.

  I get up and buy her two. I come back and drop them on the table, then we sit in s
ilence for another fifteen minutes while she eats them.

  “So, I gotta go, but I’ll see you next month,” I tell her when she’s done.

  She stands and turns for the door, and I pull myself out of my seat as the guard opens it for her. But just before she disappears through it, she glances at me over her shoulder. “Bye, Hilary.”

  The lump is my throat is back. I can’t remember the last time she called me by my name. And the look in her eyes when she said it . . . like it was the saddest word known to man . . .

  I head back through security and collect my bag, looking forward to the walk back to the train station.

  “WHERE YOU BEEN?” Brett asks when I come through the door. He’s on the couch slipping on his shoes.

  I peel off my jacket. “The same place I always am on the first of the month.”

  He just looks at me for a minute, then understanding dawns. “Your mom.”

  I nod.

  “Crazy as ever?” he asks with a smirk.

  “She’s not crazy,” I say. Ever since I told Brett about Mom, he keeps thinking she’s in some mental institution or something. “She’s incarcerated.”

  He shrugs, then scoops up his gym bag and stands, hiking it onto his shoulder. “So, I heard from Tim about that audition.”

  I look up from where I was hanging my jacket on the peg near the door. “And?”

  “They’re replacing the pregnant chick after the first of the year, so they’re auditioning the first week in December.”

  My heart sinks as I step deeper into the room. “That’s over a month away.”

  “Chill, Hilary. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.” He squeezes my ass on his way to the door. “Wish I had time for a quickie.”

  Something in my gut squirms in a not-so-good way and I slap his hand away.

  He grins and pulls the door open. “See you after the show. Your ticket’s on the counter.”

  Shit! I totally forgot it’s opening night. Guess my mind has been elsewhere for the last few weeks. “Great. I’ll see you down there. Break a leg.”

  He grins over his shoulder and swings the door shut.

  I move to the kitchen and pull my phone out of my pocket, dialing the bar.