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She pinched the spot between her closed eyes. “Can’t you see that Henry is just using you to punish me? That painting is a slap in the face. My face.”
I scoffed. How typical that she would try to make his painting of me about them, as if our relationship were merely an offshoot of something they’d started. “You weren’t even supposed to see it.”
“Paige, wake up. Of course I’m supposed to see it. Everyone is going to see it! Shining a light on things that should be kept private is what Henry does.”
I needed to stand, to remind myself that I wasn’t as trapped as I felt and that I still had a choice. To believe her or not. To remain here or not. Though, after what my father said earlier about me living on campus, it was possible he’d already made that decision for me.
“You won’t understand,” my mother said. “Not until you have children of your own. Not until you have to look into the face of the man you love and wonder if he’s really a monster.”
I stared her down.
“My dad is not a monster. He loves me. You’re wrong about him now, just like you were wrong about him back then.”
She leaned forward, as if gazing into her murky brown eyes might help me see things clearly. “For your sake, I hope I’m wrong. Because if I’m not, if he shows that painting to everyone, it will haunt you the rest of your life. You’ll forever be known as the girl whose father presented her cunt to the world. And your own work, all that potential, will sink into obscurity.”
Her bottom lip trembled. It occurred to me that I had never seen my mother cry more than a few solitary tears before tonight. Now it was as though the floodgates had opened, allowing a rare glimpse at the multitudes inside this person I’d spent my whole life struggling to know. I saw the defenseless child and the hardened, distrustful teen, burnt by the past and terrified of the future. She stood before me adamant and exposed, as she must have the night she told her own mother what her father had done.
The night her mother had chosen to feed the monster rather than fight him.
She shouldered her purse, took one last plaintive look at me, and then crossed the room to linger in front of the door.
“I had hoped to bring you home with me tonight, but now I see that was never an option. If it’s not too late, if he hasn’t already fucked you, please, save yourself the humiliation. Because once you’ve crossed that line, there’s no going back. And after he’s sucked every drop of inspiration from you, the shame is all you’ll have left.”
Chapter Eighteen
I watched my mother leave and then went to sit on the futon with my head in my hands and my heart in my throat. I felt immense pity for my mother, pity for what she had gone through, and for the havoc her later decisions had wrought upon the lives of those closest to her.
My father hadn’t wanted to leave me. It was my mother who’d pushed him out.
Of all the potential reasons behind his abandonment, I had never considered anything like this. I wanted to fold myself around him and let the strength of his body support me. I wanted to press my ear to his chest and listen to his heart. The slow, dependable throb I’d come to rely on to lull me to sleep. Yet the question, why had he refused to tell me himself, was still unanswered. Perhaps, now that my mother had broken her silence, he would be willing to open up about his reasoning—assuming he wasn’t still angry with me for inviting Maddox.
Maddox. The scent of his cologne floated in the air around the futon. My skin prickled. Part of me wanted to dip my lower body in bleach, while the rest of me hummed with gratitude for his having quieted my mind. He’d left fingerprints on my body, even in places his hands hadn’t touched.
I nearly tore my dress in the process of taking it off.
I couldn’t go to my father smelling like Maddox, not because I was trying to hide something—he’d certainly seen the worst of it—but because it felt disrespectful. I slid out of my panties and into the blue robe my father kept in the supply closet. By the time I felt ready to face him again, I was a little older, a little wiser, and surprisingly sober considering how much I’d had to drink.
The elevator bell pinged as I entered the hall. Maddox stepped inside, then turned to face the open doors. His shirt and suit jacket reminding me of a Jackson Pollack painting, had Jackson Pollack ever painted with blood. The skin around his eyes appeared blueish and swollen, and he held a wad of paper towels over his nose.
“Jesus,” I said. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing a little ice and a lot of bourbon won’t take care of.” His voice sounded pinched. “Henry was just defending his territory. Pissing on hydrants, that sort of thing.”
“I assume I'm the hydrant in this scenario.” I made sure the rope around my waist was knotted tight. “Where's Kristin?”
“I sent her home with some asshole in a fedora. She loves it when I loan her out. Your daddy used to like having her over here, though he didn’t seem too keen on the idea when I suggested we swap bedmates.”
“Was that before or after he broke your nose?”
Maddox chuckled as best he could in his current condition. He pressed a button on the inside panel. Battered and bruised, he still managed to wink at me in the seconds before the steel doors came together.
I let myself into the apartment. All the guests had gone, as if teleported elsewhere by a mysterious force. Empty glasses and wine bottles littered the living room and kitchen. My father stood at the sink with his hand beneath the faucet. I moved toward him and then stopped when I noticed the drops of crimson on the floor.
“Maddox is deeply sorry for his behavior this evening.” He cut the water and then proceeded to wrap his right hand in a dish towel. Two distinct splotches of red appeared among the blue fibers. “He regrets that he couldn’t stick around to apologize to you in person. I assured him I would extend the courtesy.”
Maddox hadn’t seemed all that sorry to me, but I suspected he would change his tune as soon as he saw his reflection. Stepping around the blood, I fetched another towel and wetted it at the sink, then knelt to clean the drops from the floor.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, but I did. I had invited a fox into our metaphorical hen house. It was only fair that I cleaned up after myself.
