Bad Rules (A Wild Minds Novel)

by Charlotte West

  Ash: It does. But you’re into it. And I’m into what you’re into.

  Lily: I’m speechless.

  Ash: I miss the fuck out of you.

  Lily: We saw each other this morning.

  Ash: Yeah, at rehearsal. I want a full day with you. One on one.

  Lily: We finally going on another date? Not scared I’ll set you on fire again?

  Ash: We have a free day in Stockholm.

  Lily: I’m listening.

  Ash: You and me, we’re going out. Warren can take care of his own wife.

  Lily: It’s a date.

  Lily: I have one small errand this morning. Can we reschedule to this afternoon?

  Ash: ?

  Lily: Nothing big. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. But I might have some guests for our dinner tonight.

  Ash: Thought it was just going to be you and me.

  Lily: I know. I’m sorry to disappoint you. But I really want you to meet them.

  Ash: Who?

  Lily: It’s a surprise.

  Ash: I don’t like surprises.

  Lily: That’s what makes it fun.

  Now

  Nothing but blue skies in Stockholm.

  With just under a million people living in the municipality, Stockholm was the cultural, media, political, and economic center of Sweden. It also hosts the annual Nobel Prize ceremonies. A real classy place. An intellectual paradise. Despite the clear day, it was bitterly cold out. My cheeks stung from the freezing wind. I huddled into my jacket, a loaner from Addy. Warren had whisked my bestie away for the day. Though traveling, she had a major case of cabin fever. She’d grown weary of hotels. He’d planned a whole day of sightseeing and shopping. Though some reporters followed the band, paparazzi were virtually unknown in Sweden. This was about as low-key as it could get. Everyone was enjoying a break from the hubbub.

  My parents were staying at the Grand, a few blocks west of the band’s lodgings. I didn’t tell Addy about my secret mission to surprise my parents. I didn’t need the doom and gloom. She’d look at me all soft and sad, eyes full of pity. Nope, no thank you. I’d left Asher out of the loop on purpose as well. I pictured surprising my surly rocker with my parents. He’d made me endure a dinner with his folks once. I looked forward to returning the favor.

  The lobby was old-world classic. Giant crystal chandeliers that could crush a man. Marble floor polished to a high gleam. Mahogany trimwork and giant columns. Fresh roses sprung from vases, lightly scenting the area. A little flirting at the front desk, and I obtained my parents’ room number. Hell, the guy had even been willing to give me a key.

  I drummed my fingers against the strap of my purse as I rode the elevator to my parents’ floor. Maybe this was a mistake, showing up at their door unexpectedly. They’d be happy to see me though. I was sure. Maybe that’s what they needed from me. To meet them in a place they loved. I’d never ventured to the places they traveled. I’d kept my explorations to bigger cities with more nightlife. Perhaps if I showed more of an interest in their careers, we’d find some common ground. Maybe I’d switch my major to anthropology.

  I stepped off the elevator, smiling at the elderly couple I’d ridden up with. “God dag,” I told them—good day, in Swedish. They reciprocated, wishing me one as well. Damn, my accent was spot on.

  I was still smiling when I knocked on my parents’ door. Silence. I knocked again and pressed my ear to the wood, hearing the slightest bit of movement on the other side. I stepped back just as the door swung open.

  “Lilliana?” My mother stood at the threshold looking just as regal as ever. Even in the Amazonian wilds, she always appeared calm and collected, her khakis neatly pressed, her hiking boots polished to a high shine, her hair straight and in a smart bob, makeup done to perfection. Today, she wore a sweater set and fingered the pearls around her neck—an outfit more suited to the Ivy League colleges she solicited funding from.

  “Surprise!”

  Then nothing. Silence. We stood awkwardly, facing each other. I rocked back on my heels. I blew out a breath. My stomach churned. Bad feelings started. Dread. Embarrassment. Shame. You name it. “Is Dad around?” I asked, peeking over her shoulder.

  “Paul went out to lunch with the conference director.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.”

  “Looks like a nice room,” I said. There was a living-room space just past my mother, a cream couch flanked by two chairs. On the coffee table a laptop sat, along with scattered papers.

  She startled. “Would you like to come in?” she asked. Her tone said, “Please say no, crawl back to whatever hole you climbed out of.”

  I tipped my chin up. “Sure.”

  She stepped aside. I strolled into the room with all the confidence I didn’t feel. Addy surprised Billy once while he was on tour. I’d gone with her. You should’ve seen the man’s face. Like Christmas, Halloween, and Thanksgiving had all come at once. The whole band had practically tackle-hugged her. Grown men who had no biological stake but loved Addy as second fathers. Guess that’s where I’d gotten the idea. The subconscious mind is a wondrous thing. I sought to recreate Addy’s happy family reunion and make it my own. Fuck Freud.

  Truth is, I wanted to turn tail and run. I knew there was only one way the rest of this visit was going to go; straight downhill. But that’s quitter’s talk. Yes, I’d abandoned major after major, traipsed all over the world leaving a trail of broken hearts, but I’d always, always been my parents’ daughter. Some things you can’t change. I just needed to know if they felt the same way.

  I strolled the room, examining the lampshades, shifting the curtain to take in the view of the water. My mother hovered by the door.

  “What brings you to Stockholm?” she asked. “I hope you didn’t come here for us. Your father and I are very busy with the conference.”

  “Purely coincidence.” I lied. I would’ve sold my soul to see you. How come you don’t feel the same? “I’m traveling with Addy and her husband’s band. And I’m sort of not-fucking-but-seriously-dating the lead guitarist, Ash. I don’t know if I ever told you about him.” I perched against the couch, crossed my arms. My pose was all defensive, closed off. This visit was not going how I’d intended. No worries, I could roll with the punches. We were going to have it out once and for all.

  “Lilliana.” My mother’s disappointment was palpable.

  “He might be a raging alcoholic, but he bought me a Rodin. So there’s that.” I sighed and studied the papers on the table. “Maternal marginalization,” I read the title out loud.

  She frowned, pushed forward, stacked the papers up, and placed them away from me.

  “Wow. Is that how you feel about being a mom?” I tilted my head. “You feel marginalized by having children?”

  “I’ve been researching how motherhood confines women to unimportant or powerless positions within society.”

  “Huh.” My smile tasted bitter. “Interesting.”

  She stiffened. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

  Nothing to do with me? How should I interpret that? The only interest my parents ever paid me was in regard to my studies. They treated me like a grad student, offering careful, detached advice and cold disappointment when I didn’t follow their recommendations. Nothing to do with you. The words rung in my ears. A warning bell.

  “Are you happy to see me?” I asked the question I’d always been too afraid to.

  “I’m pleased you’re looking so well,” she said. God, now I knew where I got my mastery of evasion.

  As far as a lie went, it was water thin. I glanced down at my body. Holey jeans. Scuffed-up tennis shoes. A camo jacket—Addy’s loaner. There were bags under my eyes, a consequence of the country hopping and staying up late with Addy last night when she couldn’t sleep because of Braxton Hicks. “It’s too bad you had to cancel your visit to see me.”

  “Yes. Paul and I were disappointed.”

  Another lie. Man, her bullshit veneer was so thin. I
gazed at my feet. Thoughts were starting to churn. Remember that bad feeling I mentioned earlier? It reared its ugly head once again, forcing me to a conclusion I didn’t want. “A conference like this, they book keynote speakers well in advance.” I leveled eyes with my mother. “Probably a year, maybe even two years ahead of time.”

  Again, my mother fingered her pearl necklace. She should never become a poker player. Her tell was way too obvious. She shifted on her feet. “Lilliana—”

  “Everyone calls me Lily,” I said. “I started demanding everyone call me Lily when I was four. I went through a whole phase when I wouldn’t even answer to my full name. But you wouldn’t know that because you were where?” I scrunched up my nose. “Oh, that’s right. You were in Bogota researching street art.”

  “Is that why you came here, to discuss my failures as a parent?” she asked, unashamed. If anything, she looked annoyed. Aggrieved.

  A headshake. “No.” My lower lip trembled a smudge. Keep it together. I bit back my sadness, my hurt, and focused on my anger. “But now that you mention it, let’s talk about it. Was there ever a time when you wanted me?” There, I asked it. The big question. The one I’d always tried to answer for myself. Of course your parents want to see you, Lily; they’re just busy.

  Her sigh said it all. But I wanted to hear it out loud. I was a masochist that way.

  “C’mon, Mom,” I said, goading her with the one name I knew she hated the most. She’d been everything to everyone else. Devout partner to Paul. Mentor professor to graduate students. Studious academic and researcher to various universities. But never a mother to me. “Is it me you hate, or just the stigma of motherhood?”

  Her eyes watered. Well that was something. “I feel a tremendous amount of guilt. The whole time I was pregnant with you, I kept thinking that there must be something wrong with me. I wasn’t bonding with you. I’d studied cultures for years and always, always there was a common thread: a mother’s love for her child. But I couldn’t forge a connection. I resented you. The time I had to stop working while I was pregnant and after. How needy you were.”

  “I was a baby,” I stated, just to be clear.

  Now she clutched her pearls. “I never connected with you. I tried. Believe me, I tried. Then I decided it would be best to step away.”

  “The best,” I whispered to myself, slowly nodding. As a feminist, I wanted to tell her it was okay. I got it. Really, I did. Not every woman is destined for motherhood. It’s not always, or hardly ever, the journey portrayed in movies or social media. But as the child who suffered my mother’s resentment, all I wanted to do was cry, rail at the sky, or God, or whoever the fuck was up there, about how unfair the world is. Humiliation came next, swift and unforgiving as a torrential downpour. Ever hear that Harry Chapin song “Cat’s in the Cradle”?

  No? Let me give you a rundown.

  It’s a hauntingly beautiful folk song about a father and son’s tumultuous relationship. In it, a father works hard to provide the necessities for his son but misses out on quality time. The boy grows up to be just like his father, living in a fast-paced world without making time for his own family. It serves as a warning about putting one’s career before family. Chapin’s wife actually wrote the poem that inspired the song. Some people like to say behind every great man is a great woman. But that’s bull hockey. A great man acknowledges the great woman standing right next to him.

  Anyway, I always thought my relationship with my parents would play out like that. They’d realize their mistakes and regret the time they missed with me, then spend the rest of their lives making up for it. But that wasn’t how it would be. Because my parents’, or at least my mother’s, deepest regret was me. Real sad shit. My shoulders slumped, withered by a lifetime of my mother’s indifference. “What about Dad?” I asked. “He feel the same?”

  I didn’t expect the surprise on her face. “Lilliana, Paul isn’t your real father. I thought you knew.” To say I felt poleaxed would be like saying a hurricane is a light breeze. My whole body went into shock. She continued, “Paul agreed to raise you with me.”

  “You cheated on him?” I stared uselessly at the coffee table.

  “Not exactly. We had an agreement. We saw other people…” she trailed off. I didn’t need the details of my mother and father’s… no, not father, my mother and her partner’s, sexual relationship.

  My brain stalled, went into protective mode. Do not break down here. Do not break down here. Find somewhere quiet and safe, maybe in another country. I focused on another, much smaller problem, because if I focused on the real problem—that I’d essentially just been orphaned—I might spontaneously combust right on the spot. “Let’s circle back around to my original question,” I said. “When did you know about the conference? When did they ask you to be a keynote speaker?”

  “I don’t know how—”

  “Answer the fucking question, Susanna.”

  “January,” she said.

  It didn’t take me long to calculate. “You knew about the conference when you planned your visit. You knew you’d have to cancel.”

  “It wasn’t confirmed,” she said. “But yes, we knew there was a high likelihood we’d have to cancel.”

  Time to go. “Okay,” I said, wiping my face. Dammit, the tears had already started. I didn’t want to see my mother again, but fucking hell, my gaze landed on her. She appeared embarrassed, uncomfortable, like she’d give anything to blink and have me gone. I started walking, barreling past her on my way to the door. I may or may not have slammed my purse into her shoulder, or knocked down a lamp on my way out. All accidental, I assure you. Hasty exits were a bitch on balance and precision.

  I paused at the door, hand on the knob, and addressed her. “You know I can kind of understand your struggles with motherhood. I get it. I really do. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t cut me deep. You made some bad choices, and they really fucked with my head.” I couldn’t even tell Ash I loved him. “Someday I’ll get over it. I’ll realize that I don’t need you in my life. That I can be fulfilled without you. But you knew you might have to cancel on me. You knew I was looking forward to your visit like some sad puppy waiting for its owner to come home. You knew, and you didn’t care.” I pointed at her. “And that just makes you a shitty person.”

  I had the grim pleasure of seeing my mother look startled. Was that a glimmer of shame in her eyes? I didn’t stay to examine it more. The heavy hotel room door slammed behind me. I counted my steps to the elevator to keep my thoughts occupied. One, two, three, four, five…

  “Lilliana.” I almost didn’t recognize the voice. Wasn’t like I’d heard it a whole lot in my childhood. Paul stood in the hallway. He wore a tweed suit, the epitome of the nerdy professor. Not your father, you don’t owe him any explanations.

  I punched the elevator down button. Then I punched it over and over again. Maybe the elevator would read my urgency and hop to it. My mental health was at stake. Paul got it together, started to walk toward me.

  Maybe I’d draft a letter to the Grand Hotel, something like Hello, your lobby is stunning, but your elevators suck. Thank goodness, the elevator doors sprang open. I boarded, did some more button punching, and was off. The elderly couple I’d seen earlier and smiled so wildly at were back on. I kind of slumped in the corner, hugged my bag to my chest, right over my beating heart.

  “Mår du bra?” the woman asked. Are you okay? Her look was sweet, grandmotherly and warm. I bet she had a daughter or son who she loved the shit out of.

  “Ja,” I promised. Her eyes stayed on my face, concerned and searching. I turned, presenting my back to them. My body and mind felt weary. I tapped out a text to Ash. I wasn’t suitable for company, wouldn’t be for a long time.

  Me: Sorry. I can’t make it for our date. Something’s come up.

  I turned off my phone knowing he would text back, press me for details. I walked along the water back to the hotel. Wind blew, drying the tears on my face. I thought maybe I was all cried out when
I got back to the hotel. Turns out I wasn’t. Warren was still out with Addy. I had the suite to myself. I closed myself up in my room and turned off all the lights. Then I curled into a tight little ball and let my sadness take me away.

  Now

  A soft knock. “Lily?” It was Addy. The clock on my bedside table read five. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it registered that I’d been lying in bed for hours, staring into nothing. But it wasn’t a cause for concern. This is how it feels to hit rock bottom. My heart was too torn up to care.

  A few hours later, another knock. “Lily?” Addy again. “I’m worried now.” The door handle jiggled. “I’m getting security up here to open the door if you don’t answer in ten seconds.” She counted. I didn’t move. It hurt too much.

  Silence then. I presumed she’d wandered off to make good on her threat. I drifted off to sleep.

  “I think you should give her some space, Ash.” This was my wake-up call, voices behind the door.

  “Addy, all due respect but fuck off,” Ash said, voice distinctly pissed.

  “That’s enough,” Warren snapped. “Don’t talk to my wife like that.”

  “It’s okay,” this from Addy, her tone placating. “Ash, I don’t know what happened. If you two had a fight or—”

  “We didn’t fight. We haven’t fought in weeks. We were supposed to go out and she sends me some bullshit text about canceling. I’ve been calling her ever since.”

  “Well, security is on their way up. They’ll be able to open the door,” said Addy.

  “No. Something is wrong. I want security up here now.”

  “They’re on their way,” Addy promised.

  Silence commenced. Then crashing.

  Boom! As if a bomb had detonated.

  I rose from the bed. No, not quite a bomb, but Asher smashing the door open.

  He marched over to me. “Lily.” He stared down at me, seeming ten feet tall.

  “Ash.”I swallowed, eyes wide. If I had any sense, I’d be frightened. Too bad all my nerve receptors had been fried. “You’re going to have to pay for that.”