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CHAPTER ONE
Dea
Christmas was officially ruined.
I was not generally known as a dramatic person, so that declaration was really saying something.
It was ruined.
"Mom, I already made all the plans!" I insisted, trying not to whine, but also make it clear that canceling last minute was inconvenient at best. At worst, it—as I said—ruined the entire holiday.
"Deavienne," my mother scolded in that voice that was not her real voice, rather a made-up imitation of Katherine Hepburn's already made-up Transatlantic accent—not actually native to anywhere in particular, but just pretentious enough to make you sound more important than you really were. "Don't you think you are perhaps being a little selfish? Of course, I would need to be with my husband on Christmas. Of all days."
One would think a mother needed to be with their only child on Christmas. Of all days.
But this was my mother we were talking about here. She had about all the maternal instincts of a harp seal—very dedicated to the task for the span of twelve days before abandoning the baby that is not yet capable of caring for itself to go and find a new mate.
Yep.
That was my mother.
The eternal mate-chaser.
Five husbands down.
And, to be perfectly candid, I didn't think this was the one that was going to stick, either.
When your husband's original plan was to abandon you entirely and go spend the holiday with his buddies up in Aspen, yeah, you kinda knew exactly how (un)important you were to him in the grand scheme of things.
In my mother's defense, she was raised by a woman much like herself—perpetually seeking external validation in the form of a man's appreciation of her outward attributes as well as her willingness to hop into bed quickly.
My grandmother had been the one to sign the waiver to allow my mother to marry off to a much older man at the age of sixteen. Likely, I would think, so she herself could hit the dating pool once again without a young, pretty daughter around reminding the men what other kind of options there were out there.
That marriage had lasted all of eight months, leaving my mother on the market again at seventeen.
I was a product of a fling between her first and second husbands. I comforted myself sometimes with the knowledge that at least my mother had actually liked my father, even for the span of just a long weekend, rather than simply attached herself to him as a meal ticket and source of compliments to feed her very fragile ego.
Being the unplanned baby at the ripe old age of eighteen meant that I was simply in her way a lot of the time. And, of course, in the way of every man in her life as well.
What was less sexy than a screaming crying kid when you were trying to snag a new lover?
My childhood saving grace came in the form of an elderly neighbor my mother had when she'd first brought me home. Utterly clueless and having not a stitch of maternal instincts, she found herself strapped with a colicky newborn who did nothing but test out her lungs, something that eventually drew the pitying attention of the neighbor who had birthed nine children of her own, all long grown and gone.
Tilly was soft in all ways that word can be used. Kind-hearted, even-tempered, patient, and the owner of this reassuringly squishy midsection that made the hugs all the more satisfying.
Even as my mom moved from place to place—and man to man—Tilly was an ever-present part of my childhood. Picking me up from school. Coming to my talent shows. Helping me with homework. Consoling me on hard days with baked goods. Which never ceased to drive my very image-conscious mother insane. You're going to make her fat, Tilly. How is she ever going to get anywhere in life if she's always stuffing her face?
Luckily, I inherited my mother's quick metabolism but also Tilly's love of comfort food, making me perfectly average. Not supermodel thin, no, but able to buy a bathing suit without weeping.
Unluckily, I lost Tilly when I was twelve.
Which, in retrospect, with her age and constant issues with diabetes and blood pressure, it really was a miracle I got to have her that long. A part of me liked to think that she held on so long because she loved me just as much as I loved her, and she didn't want to leave me—for all intents and purposes—alone in the world.
Alone is exactly what I was, too.
I always had a room and food, but that was about all there was. No more hugs. No one to pick me up after school. No comfort on hard days.
Despite all of this, which must say a hell of a lot about parent-child innate bonds based on nothing but blood, I loved my mother.
